Cold Princess And Her Loyal Guard Dogs

by iamthesin

Summary:

After waking up from a two-year coma, Suho’s biggest problem isn’t lost time. It’s that they’re in college now, & Yeon Sieun is stupidly popular, constantly admired; still completely unaware that Suho’s been in love with him since forever.

But what makes it even worse is the gang — a group of loud, chaotic friends who may mock Suho’s jealousy, fuel Sieun’s fanclub, and record emotional meltdowns for fun, but will absolutely throw hands if anyone dares mess with their princess.

Somewhere between the teasing, tension, sleep-deprived nights; quiet moments that almost mean more, something real is unfolding. It’s romantic, painful, and soft in all the wrong places.

A Cold Princess. His loyal guard dogs. And absolutely zero emotional stability.

Chapter 1: Even His Rejections Bloom

It started like every other Tuesday.

Yeon Sieun, with his usual neutral expression, walked across the central courtyard of Hwayang University — glasses on, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands, a worn-out law book tucked under his arm. The winter air bit at the edges of his sleeves, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was in his own world — again.

Until someone blocked his path.

A bouquet of roses — wrapped neatly, red and white — appeared in front of him.

Sieun stopped. Blinked once. Then raised his gaze, slowly, to the boy holding it.

The freshman looked like he was about to pass out. “S-Sunbae! I-I really like you! Please… would you go on a date with me?”

Suho — watching from the bench across the field with Baku, Gotak, and Juntae — immediately stood up.

“Again? Already?” Suho hissed, eyes narrowing. “That’s the third this month!”

Baku clapped his hands once. “Let’s see how he breaks this one.”

Sieun tilted his head slightly, then looked down at the bouquet.

“I don’t date,” he said plainly. His tone wasn’t cold — just factual, like stating the weather. “Sorry.”

The boy blinked. “O-oh. That’s okay! I just— You’re really amazing, and—”

Sieun nodded once. “You should give the flowers to someone who wants them.”

Then, without another word, he sidestepped the flustered admirer and walked toward the law building, leaving the boy looking dazed.

He didn’t offer false hope. He didn’t pretend. But he also didn’t tear the boy down.

And somehow, that soft-spoken, distant rejection only made things worse — or better, depending on how you looked at it. Because the confessor?

He just stared, utterly lovestruck.

Like Sieun had just walked out of a dream.

The bouquet was still in his hands, but now it looked more like a memento than an offering.

“…You’re even cooler than I imagined,” he whispered under his breath before walking away — dazed, red-eared, but oddly satisfied.

“BRUTAL,” Baku whispered.

“Honestly,” Juntae adjusted his specs, “that was polite... for him.”

Gotak laughed. “It’s the eye contact. Deadpan and direct. They fall harder.”

But Suho… Suho wasn’t laughing.

He slumped back onto the bench, muttering, “Even his rejections make people fall for him.”

His eyes stayed locked on Sieun’s retreating back. The oversized hoodie, the wind in his hair, the way his glasses slid down a little — and how he never fixed them. Suho didn’t even realize he was frowning until Juntae offered him a granola bar like a peace offering.

“I’m fine,” Suho muttered, pushing it away.

“You’re pouting,” Baku pointed out.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” all three of them said in unison.

Suho crossed his arms and glared at the now-empty courtyard.

Yeon Sieun. Known on campus as the “Cold Princess” of the Law Department — not just because of his looks, but because of how detached he seemed from everything around him. Unbothered. Focused. Impossible to read. Somehow effortlessly magnetic.

People confessed to him weekly.

And Suho? Well, Suho was just his best friend. His very jealous, hopelessly gone, cowardly best friend who would rather implode than admit he’d been in love with Sieun since high school.

 

---

 

Later that afternoon, they were all huddled in the campus café — cramped into one corner booth like always, drinks half-finished, bags dumped on the chairs, and Suho doing an absolutely terrible job of pretending he wasn’t fuming.

Sieun, as usual, sat by the window with his law book open, sipping his americano like it hadn’t come with a front-row ticket to a romantic tragedy earlier that day.

He was wearing his reading glasses again.

Suho looked at him.

Then looked away.

Then looked again.

God, even the way Sieun pushed his bangs up without noticing made Suho’s chest feel like it was going to cave in.

“Do you think he even remembers their names?” Suho muttered to no one in particular.

Gotak, chewing on a fry, grinned. “Probably not. But I remember that last guy — he was hot.”

Suho nearly choked on his drink.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Juntae said with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “Shieun-ah only smiles at you like that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Suho said quickly.

“You mean the smile he gave you when you brought him that highlighter set last week?” Baku asked innocently.

“That was just— a normal smile.”

“Oh no, that was a thank-you-for-existing smile,” Gotak grinned. “Totally unfair.”

Suho groaned and dropped his head against the table. “Please shut up before I pass away from humiliation.”

“Just confess already,” Juntae said, nudging him. “You’re practically his emotional support golden retriever.”

Suho mumbled into the table, “He doesn’t see me that way…”

But his ears were turning red.

And his eyes kept drifting back to Sieun — who hadn’t said a word in ten minutes, still calmly highlighting in his book, headphones in, eyes half-lidded with focus.

God. He was so pretty when he studied.

“See?” Gotak whispered. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at him like he hung the moon.”

Baku leaned in. “Honestly, it’s kind of poetic at this point. You, the loud golden retriever who punches walls when he’s mad. Him, the quiet cat who ignores feelings until they disappear. Perfect match.”

“Tragic match,” Suho corrected.

Sieun looked up just then, blinking slowly, as if sensing the stares.

Suho straightened so fast he hit his knee on the table. “Ow—”

“You okay?” Sieun asked, pulling out one earbud.

“Fine!” Suho said too fast. “Totally! Just… banged my leg. That’s all.”

Sieun nodded. “Mm.”

Then went back to reading.

Suho stared at him like a kicked puppy.

God, he was doomed.

Chapter 2: The Head Pats of Doom

It had barely been two days since the last confession.

TWO DAYS.

And there they were again — standing outside the Law Department building. Another hopeful soul, holding another oversized bouquet (this time with lilies and baby’s breath), trying their luck with Yeon Sieun: Heartbreaker in Hoodie Form.

It was drizzling. Soft rain. Romantic, stupid weather.

Sieun stood there with his umbrella half-open, glasses slightly fogged, staring at the person like they’d just interrupted a murder trial.

“I saw you at the debate last week,” the girl stammered, cheeks flushed. “You were so smart and— and cool and— I know you don’t really talk much but I wanted to tell you that I think you’re amazing. And I’d really like to get to know you more.”

Sieun looked down at the bouquet.

Then at her.

Then softly said, “I don’t have time.”

Which… wasn’t a no. But it was also not even close to a yes.

The girl blinked. “Oh. That’s okay. I just wanted to say it.”

Sieun gave her the tiniest nod — barely a movement — before walking off, hoodie slightly damp, umbrella tilted, utterly untouched by the chaos he’d left behind.

And Suho?

Suho had watched the whole thing from behind a vending machine.

He emerged storming.

“I’M GOING TO SET A RULE,” he announced, absolutely done with the universe. “ANYONE WHO CONFESSES TO HIM SHOULD HAVE TO FIGHT ME FIRST.”

Baku, munching on a candy bar, smirked. “Bro, you’d lose.”
Suho whipped around. “EXCUSE ME?”

“Okay, fine,” Baku shrugged. “You’d win the fight. But not the emotional damage.”

“Exactly,” Juntae chimed in, adjusting his specs. “You’d beat them up, then cry about it behind the gym.”

“IT’S CALLED HAVING FEELINGS!”

Gotak snorted. “It’s called being whipped.”
“AND WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?!”

“The side of love,” Gotak grinned.

Suho dramatically slumped onto a bench. “I’m never going to be able to confess. Not at this rate. What if someone actually makes it past Level 1 and he agrees?”

“Level 1?” Baku blinked.

“Yeah,” Suho muttered. “Level 1 is surviving his stare. Level 2 is getting him to say more than one sentence. Level 3 is… God, I don’t know. Making him laugh?”

“You’ve done all three,” Juntae pointed out.

“I’m different. I’m grandfathered in.”

Just then, Sieun walked past the group, holding a half-damp book and shaking the rain off his sleeves.

He paused next to Suho.

“Why are you wet?” he asked, gaze flicking to Suho’s hair.

“I— I was just out… getting vending machine tea,” Suho mumbled, holding up a can he hadn’t even opened.

Sieun blinked once. Then reached into his bag, pulled out a towel, and without asking, began patting Suho’s head.

Suho forgot how to breathe.

“I told you not to skip your umbrella,” Sieun muttered, more to himself.

And then just like that — as if he hadn’t nearly killed Suho with soft domesticity — he walked away again.

Suho sat frozen.

Baku started a slow clap. “Congratulations, you’ve unlocked Level 4: Head Pats of Doom.”

Suho’s face was nuclear red.

He wanted to die.

But also?

He wanted it to happen again.

Chapter 3: Campus Royalty And The Cold Orbit

“You’re still thinking about it, huh?” Juntae asked, not even glancing up from his tablet as he typed.

Suho was lying flat on a bench now, arms crossed over his face like the world had betrayed him. “Why do they keep confessing to him like that? Roses? Really?”
“He is pretty,” Gotak said, deadpan.

“He’s not just pretty. He’s… he’s Sieun,” Suho groaned.

Baku, crouching beside the bench and peeling an orange he probably stole from the dorm cafeteria, chuckled.

“Let’s be honest, if there was a fan club ranking, Sieun’s #1, but you’re probably #2.”

Suho peeked out from under his arms. “What?”

“Dude,” Baku said, tossing him a slice of orange.

“You’re that guy in Marketing. The one with the face, the brains, the pitch-perfect marketing decks. People ask you to explain consumer behavior and then swoon when you use the word psychographics.”

“Okay, first of all, I do know what that means,” Suho muttered, chewing the orange slice. “And second, why would I care what anyone else thinks?”

“Oh right,” Juntae said flatly. “You only care what Sieun thinks.”

“Which,” Gotak added with zero mercy, “he never says.”

“Ever,” Baku said with a dramatic sigh.

“Not once,” Juntae confirmed, pushing up his glasses.

Suho threw the peel at all three of them. “You guys are useless.”

But the truth was, they were all wildly admired in their own ways. If Sieun was the untouchable law prince, then Suho was the golden boy of Marketing — always top of his class, always speaking with confidence in presentations, and always leaving a trail of admirers behind him. It didn’t help that he was constantly glancing at his phone between classes, texting someone none of them ever saw.

Spoiler: it was always Sieun.

Juntae was known as the coding wizard in Computer Science — the boy who could fix a broken backend in ten minutes but forgot to eat lunch doing it. Some even tried flirting with him by asking for help on Java assignments. He once replied, “I don’t date people who don’t indent their code.” The rumors only made him more desirable.

Baku was the guy with abs and chaos — constantly in the gym, usually surrounded by teammates, once seen doing shirtless push-ups as a dare and accidentally gaining 500 followers overnight.

Gotak had an eerie fan following of his own — the quiet, mysterious guy from the Criminal Psychology department. People either thought he was brooding or just incredibly deep. Really, he was just zoning out thinking about snacks most of the time.

And yet, despite all of them being campus royalty in their own strange ways… they still orbited around the quiet gravity that was Yeon Sieun.

“He wore his glasses today,” Suho mumbled suddenly.
Juntae blinked. “...And?”
“They kept sliding down,” Suho said softly. “He looked… cute.”

Baku looked up like he was in physical pain. “You’re so far gone.”

“Yeah,” Gotak said, popping a peanut into his mouth. “He’s the princess. And you’re the guard dog.”

Juntae smirked. “A very loyal one.”

Suho didn’t argue.
He didn’t have to.
Because later that day, when Sieun passed by them again — hoodie on, glasses slipping, clutching a fresh stack of case law printouts — Suho didn’t even hide the way he stared.

The others exchanged knowing looks.
Sieun didn’t notice.
Of course he didn’t.
Because that was the tragedy of Yeon Sieun:

He was adored by everyone.

And oblivious to all of it.

Chapter 4: The Economics Of Jealousy

Notes:

This story is becoming one of my favorites too

It was Friday.

The Law Department building was buzzing with activity. Final project deadlines were approaching, and midterm presentations were being scheduled like ticking time bombs. But none of that mattered to Suho.

Because someone from the Economics Department had just touched Sieun’s arm.

Touched. His. Arm.

In public.

Sieun didn’t even flinch, probably didn’t notice. But Suho did. From across the student lounge. Through a crowd. While holding a paper cup of vending machine coffee that now tasted like betrayal.

“That’s it,” Suho muttered darkly. “I’m transferring to Law.”

“Dude, you can’t even read contracts without getting a nosebleed,” Baku said without looking up from his phone.

“You cried when the Wi-Fi policy said ‘subject to change,’” Gotak added helpfully.

“I WAS EMOTIONALLY VULNERABLE THAT DAY.”

“Okay, Romeo,” Juntae sighed. “What happened now?”

Suho pointed. Dramatically. Across the room. “Economics guy. Beige coat. The audacity.”

They all turned.

“...Oh. He’s kinda hot,” Baku said.

Suho looked betrayed. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, statistically,” Juntae added with a smirk, “if you don’t confess soon, someone hotter will.”

“He’s not hotter than me,” Suho hissed.

“He’s got money,” Gotak said.

“I HAVE CHARISMA.”

“You also have crippling romantic fear,” Gotak pointed out.

Suho groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate this.”

And as if summoned by fate, the moment Suho looked up again. Sieun glanced over from the vending machine corner. He was adjusting his glasses, law notes in one hand, the usual soft, spaced-out look in his eyes.

He caught Suho’s stare.

Paused.

And blinked.

And for a moment... a short, shimmery, terrible moment... Suho thought maybe he was going to walk over.

He didn’t.

He went back to reading.

And Suho melted in place.

“I swear I’d rather get punched again than keep feeling like this,” he muttered.

“Good news,” Baku said, cracking his knuckles. “We can arrange that.”

 

Later that evening, after Suho had calmed down (read, eaten three dumplings and a matcha donut), he wandered into the common room only to freeze in the doorway.

Sieun was asleep.

Head resting against the side of the couch. His law book had slipped to his lap, and his glasses were slightly askew. The sleeves of his hoodie were pulled over his hands, and his legs were curled up like a cat in the sun.

He looked peaceful.

Suho’s heart did something weird. A twist and a squeeze.

He stepped in quietly and removed his jacket. Walked over.

Paused.

And without thinking too hard, draped it gently over Sieun’s shoulders.

The boy didn’t stir.

Suho crouched down next to him, resting his arms on the edge of the couch, chin on his hands.

“Why do you make it so hard to breathe sometimes?” he whispered.

Sieun shifted slightly, but didn’t wake.

Suho stared.

And whispered one more thing.

“I hope you never fall for someone else.”

Then he stood up, backed away, and left the room like a criminal.

Notes:

If there is something you guys want to see in this fic, do let me know!!!

Chapter 5: Dream Logic And Juice Boxes

Notes:

Suho dreamed about Sieun.

Suho stood frozen in the university courtyard, watching the scene unfold in front of him like a train wreck he couldn’t look away from.

The boy .... tall, stylish, unfairly handsome; was holding a sleek little gift box and a single lily. “I don’t need you to talk to me,” he was saying gently. “You can ignore me. I won’t disturb you during exams. I’ll even sit through your law rants about judicial precedents with a smile. I’ll just… be there. Quietly. If you’ll let me.”

Sieun blinked, as he always did. Expression unreadable.

Then slowly — he nodded.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Suho felt his soul leave his body.

The boy smiled. Smiled. And held out his hand.

And Sieun actually took it.

Just like that — he was walking away. With someone else. Leaving Suho behind.

“No,” Suho whispered. “No, no, no—”

He surged forward, heart racing, hand outstretched — “SIEUN!”

And then—

He woke up.

On the common room couch.

Shouting.

Everyone in the room turned.

Sieun blinked from across the table, startled, holding a water bottle mid-air. Juntae nearly dropped his tablet. Gotak paused mid-bite. Baku straight up fell off the beanbag.

Suho blinked. Then rubbed his face and groaned, “Oh my god…”

Silence.

He sat upright on the common room couch, chest heaving, shirt askew, hair a mess. His heart was pounding like he’d just run a marathon barefoot — through traffic — during finals.

The entire room stared at him.

Juntae blinked from his laptop. “What.”

Gotak paused mid-chew. “Did you just—?”

Baku, who’d been scrolling on his phone from the beanbag, let out a wheeze. “Oh no. Was it another Sieun dream?”

Across the table, Sieun — holding a water bottle — looked vaguely startled. “You okay?”

Suho’s eyes darted around wildly.

He was back. In the common room. Afternoon light. Normal air. No flowers. No beautiful confessor whispering promises of law lectures and devotion.

And most importantly:
Sieun was still single.

He groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “I hate everything.”

Baku was already laughing.

“What did you dream?” Juntae asked, voice far too eager. “Tell us. Spill.”

“No.”

“Tell us,” Gotak grinned. “Was it the lily guy again?”

“I SAID NO.”

Sieun, still a little confused, stood up quietly. “I’m going to grab snacks. Do you want anything?”

Suho just waved him off, face still buried in hoodie shame. “I don’t deserve snacks.”

Sieun blinked. “Okay...”

Once the door clicked shut, the room erupted.

“What happened?!” Baku demanded.

“I’m begging you,” Suho muttered into the couch, “let me die in peace.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Juntae grinned. “Tell us everything.”

“You shouted his name, bro,” Gotak added. “Like, romantic drama shout.”

Suho peeked out, red-eared and defensive. “It was just a stupid dream, okay?!”

“About him confessing to you?” Juntae guessed.

“No!”

The silence was so loud you could hear the vending machine hum.

Suho sighed. “...It was the opposite.”

Everyone gasped.

“No!” Baku clutched his chest. “Don’t tell me—”

“Yes!” Suho groaned. “Some random guy — tall, charming, emotionally available — shows up out of nowhere. Says he’ll listen to his law rants and never text him during exam week. And then—”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Sieun says yes.”

A beat of silence.

And then the entire group broke into screaming laughter.

Juntae almost fell out of his chair. Gotak choked on his snack. Baku rolled on the floor like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“I— I can’t—” Juntae gasped. “You got dream-dumped?!”

“It was a confession with lilies!” Suho wailed. “And he SAID YES.”

Gotak wiped tears from his eyes. “To a guy who wanted to listen to his law rants? That’s your biggest fear?”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Baku wheezed. “You’re competing with a hallucinated boyfriend!”

Suho flopped back against the cushions. “I’m losing my mind.”

“You already did,” Juntae said sweetly. “Back in high school. When you first looked at him like he was a solar eclipse.”

Just then, the door opened again.

Sieun walked in, holding a small carton of strawberry milk and a banana bread muffin. He paused at the sight of Suho curled in shame and the rest of the gang crying with laughter.

“What… happened?”

“Nothing,” Suho said instantly. “Nothing at all.”

Sieun frowned slightly, but walked over and handed Suho the muffin. “You said you didn’t deserve snacks. I disagreed.”

Suho melted on the spot.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, barely making eye contact.

Baku whispered, “Level 5 unlocked: Muffin Mercy.”

Suho threw a napkin at him.

 

---

 

Next Day

 

It was just supposed to be a chill lunch break.

The gang had claimed a sunny corner of the courtyard, snacks spread across the table, Sieun quietly reading as usual. Suho had finally stopped internally combusting. He was even almost relaxed.

And then it happened.

A voice — smooth, confident — floated through the air from just behind them.

“I don’t need anything from you. You don’t have to talk, or explain. I’ll just be there. Quietly. If you’ll let me.”

Suho’s body tensed like someone had just activated fight-or-flight. His eyes snapped toward the voice — a very real, very tall senior who was currently smiling directly at Sieun.

It was verbatim.

The same lines from the dream.

The same soft gaze. The same gentle smile.

Sieun blinked, as he always did, expression unreadable.

And Suho?

Suho snapped.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

The table shook as Suho stood up so fast he knocked his drink over. Juice splashed everywhere. Gotak yelped. Juntae’s fries went flying. Baku dropped his phone.

The entire courtyard went silent.

“YOU CAN’T JUST—JUST—SAY STUFF LIKE THAT!” Suho shouted, pointing dramatically at the confessor. “THAT’S EMOTIONAL TERRORISM!”

Everyone stared.

The senior blinked. “...What?”

Suho took a furious step forward—tripped on his chair leg—and fell spectacularly to the ground.

“SUHO!” the gang gasped.

Suho hit the ground with a dramatic thud and a strangled “ow.”

“I think I broke my soul,” Suho groaned, face down on the grass.

The entire courtyard gasped — except for one boy seated calmly in the middle of it all, blinking like nothing happened.

Yeon Sieun.

He didn’t gasp. He didn’t frown. He just stood up, walked to Suho’s side, and crouched down beside him with the same expression one might use to inspect a dropped pen.

“Are you okay?”

“I think I sprained my dignity,” Suho mumbled, not lifting his face from the grass.

“You’re bleeding.”

Suho blinked. “What?”

Sieun gently took Suho’s hand, flipping it over — a scrape across the palm, still fresh.

“Idiot,” he muttered.

And then — to the shock of everyone — Sieun pulled a tissue from his coat pocket and began pressing it gently against the wound.

The courtyard gasped again.

Not because Suho was hurt.

But because Yeon Sieun — Cold Princess Supreme — was kneeling beside a flustered boy, dabbing his scraped hand like a k-drama lead in soft focus.

Meanwhile, the source of the chaos — the poor senior who had unknowingly spoken the same lines Suho had dream-panicked over — was standing off to the side looking like he might call campus security on himself.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he said awkwardly. “I just… like him. A lot.”

“Get in line,” Baku muttered under his breath, chewing a stolen granola bar.

Juntae was already texting someone. Possibly the university gossip page.

Gotak took a photo. “This is for documentation purposes only.”

Suho sat up groggily, trying not to cry from pain or emotional overload. “Did I actually yell that out loud…?”

“Yes,” all three said in unison.

Sieun didn’t say anything. He simply helped Suho to his feet, dusted him off like a cat tending to a slightly damaged mouse, and handed him a juice box from his bag. A fresh one.

Suho blinked at it. “When did you pack this?”

“You never bring your own,” Sieun said.

Baku fake-swooned in the background.

As they settled back down on the bench, Suho groaned again. “I literally dreamed those exact lines. Why did that guy use my dream script?!”

“Fate,” Juntae offered.

“Cursed fate,” Suho corrected.

“I think you need a helmet,” Gotak added.

Sieun looked over. “What dream?”

Everyone turned.

Suho turned red.

“I— uh— nothing. Just a dumb thing. You, someone confessing, lilies… whatever.”

Sieun blinked once.

Then… took a long sip of his drink and looked away.

But not before Suho caught something strange — a twitch of his mouth. Like amusement.

“Wait,” Suho leaned closer. “Are you smiling?”

“No.”

“You are! You find this funny?!”

Sieun didn’t answer.

But Juntae grinned and whispered, “That’s Level 6, by the way.”

“Level 6?” Suho asked.

“Yeah,” Baku said. “Smiling. Because of you.”

Gotak leaned in. “Only took seven breakdowns and one scraped hand.”

Suho groaned again.

Sieun didn’t comment.

But later, when Suho went to pick up his bag, he found a second juice box tucked into the side pocket.

It had a sticky note on it.

“In case you dream again. Don’t scream this time.”

Notes:

The only dream of Suho coming to be true.

Chapter 6: I Dreamt This Disaster

The apartment was quiet when they got back — the kind of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just... still. The city lights blinked outside the open window, casting a soft golden hue across the living room floor. A breeze drifted in lazily, fluttering the edges of the curtains. The room felt warm. Gentle. Safe.

Sieun padded in first, kicking off his shoes without a word. Suho followed behind, slower, still sore from the minor chaos earlier. His elbow was bandaged, thanks to Sieun’s oddly efficient first aid skills — which had included a glare when Suho said “it’s fine” one too many times.

Now, he was seated on the floor by the window, legs stretched out, head lightly resting against the wall. The city buzzed below — cars, footsteps, laughter. But inside the apartment, it was just the two of them.

And Sieun — wearing one of Suho’s oversized black t-shirts, hair slightly tousled, his bangs falling just shy of his lashes — looked like something Suho might’ve dreamed up on one of his better nights.

He walked over silently and handed Suho a drink, then sat down beside him, pulling his knees up and resting his chin there. His sleeves slid down past his fingers again, the fabric swallowing his wrists.

“Suho-ya,” he said, voice low and steady.

That voice. That soft, unreadable voice that always hit Suho like a slow heartbeat.

“…Yeah?” Suho replied, eyes flicking over to him.

Sieun didn’t look away from the skyline.

“You’ve been… worried lately,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Suho stared at him, at the curve of his lashes, the calm in his face, the way he seemed to glow under the yellow lamplight like something precious. His fingers curled tight around the drink.

“I just—” he swallowed. “I’m scared.”

Sieun turned his head, finally meeting his eyes.

“Scared of what?”

Suho tried to breathe evenly. “That I’ll lose you.”

He expected a reaction. A laugh. A shrug. A raised brow.

He got none.

Sieun just blinked once. Slowly. And then leaned his head against Suho’s shoulder.

That was it.

That was all he did.

But it was enough to make Suho forget how to speak.

Sieun stayed there, quiet, barely breathing. And when Suho glanced down, he realized Sieun’s eyes were closed.

Asleep.

Fast asleep. Just like that.

“…Seriously?” Suho whispered.

No reply.

Sieun’s breath was soft against his shirt, one hand curled near his own collarbone like a sleeping cat. The oversized t-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder. His hair brushed Suho’s jaw. The city lights blinked beyond the glass, casting moving shadows around the room.

Suho’s heart tried to break out of his chest.

He leaned forward, hesitated — and then, very gently, pressed a kiss to Sieun’s forehead.

“Sleep well,” he whispered. “You adorable menace.”

And then he stayed there — not daring to move — with his Cold Princess tucked into his side like something he never wanted to wake up from.

 

Suho woke up sore.

Not emotionally (for once), but physically — because he’d spent the entire night leaning against a wall, refusing to move even an inch in fear of disturbing the boy asleep on his shoulder.

Sieun was still curled beside him, quiet and unmoving, wrapped in Suho’s shirt like it was the only thing in the world keeping him warm.

The golden light of morning was just beginning to creep through the windows.

Suho barely breathed as he shifted.

He looked at Sieun’s face — peaceful, unfazed, a little puffy from sleep. His bangs were messy again, slightly damp from the night’s breeze.

God. He was still adorable.

Suho reached out and gently pushed the strands back from his forehead.

And maybe — just maybe — this was enough. Just being beside him like this.

Just…

The moment shattered with a ping.

Suho’s phone buzzed — and Sieun stirred. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again. Then he sat up without a word, rubbed his eyes, and stood like nothing ever happened.

“I’ll get ready,” he mumbled, already heading toward his room.

“Right. Yeah. Sure,” Suho replied, stunned at how fast his soft little dream dissolved into daily routine.

Sieun paused at the hallway. “You should take your meds.”

Then he was gone.

Suho groaned. “Still no hug. Just medicine reminders.”

—

They left for campus twenty minutes later.

And the universe?

Well. It hated Suho.

Because as they entered the main quad, it happened again.

A stranger — a pretty boy this time, tall, soft-spoken, with silver earrings and perfect posture — stepped directly into their path, holding a paper-wrapped flower stem.

Suho froze.

And then he heard the words.

“I know you’re probably not interested, but… I just want you to know I won’t bother you. You don’t even need to answer. I’ll listen to everything you say about law, even the boring parts. Just… let me like you.”

Suho blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His soul left his body.

Because those were the exact words from his dream.

And then — as if to complete the horror — Sieun actually tilted his head thoughtfully.

Suho didn’t wait for the outcome.

“OH HELL NO!” he shouted, loud enough for half the courtyard to turn.

Everyone stared.

Sieun turned slowly, startled. “What—?”

Suho pointed, flailing. “He’s doing it again! This is a simulation! A repeat! I dreamt this and now it’s real and I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THIS TIMELINE.”

The confessor blinked in horror.

Sieun blinked in confusion.

Gotak, from nearby, burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” Juntae wheezed. “It happened. It actually happened.”

Suho, in his panic, tripped over the flower planter behind him and fell straight on his ass.

Sieun rushed forward immediately. “Suho—!”

Suho waved him off, mortified. “I’m fine. I’m just— emotionally unstable.”

Sieun crouched beside him, brushing the dirt off his sleeve. “You got scraped. Come on.”

He helped Suho up, carefully inspecting the minor wound.

Suho’s face burned.

And behind them, the rest of the gang?

Absolutely useless.

They were doubled over, recording everything, narrating it like a wildlife documentary.

“Watch as the golden retriever spirals into chaos,” Baku whispered dramatically. “All because the princess received a flower.”

“Nature is cruel,” Juntae added solemnly.

Suho groaned into his hands. “Someone please delete me.”

But Sieun — still holding onto his wrist like he didn’t care who was watching — simply said, “Ignore them.”

And somehow, that made Suho stand a little taller.

Even if his heart was still recovering from that fake confession turning real.

Chapter 7: The Night He Almost Said It

Notes:

Look who is here...

The dorm lounge was packed that night.

Someone brought drinks.

Someone else brought snacks.

Baku brought energy, Gotak brought bad ideas, and Juntae brought his “I’m only here to observe” face — which meant he was absolutely going to cause problems later.

Suho brought himself. Which was already a disaster in motion.

And Sieun?

He was tucked into the corner of the couch, hoodie off, in one of Suho’s oversized sweatshirts — the neckline stretched just enough to show his collarbone.

It was unfair.

It was illegal.

Suho was not okay.

They were mid-round of Never Have I Ever, and someone had just yelled:

“Never have I ever… been confessed to more than five times this semester.”

Half the room groaned and took a sip.

Sieun? Calmly drank like he was sipping justice.

“Wait— more than five?” someone asked in disbelief. “How many are we talking?”

Sieun blinked. “...Twelve?”

Suho choked on his drink.

“Twelve?!” the girl next to him squeaked.

“It’s midterm season,” Sieun added like it was a weather report.

Juntae grinned. “He’s humble about his fan club.”

“Fan army,” Gotak corrected.

Suho? Already entering Crisis Mode™.

And then it got worse.

Because Seognje hyung showed up.

Senior. Final year. Tall. Smooth-talking. From the Arts Department. Known flirt.

And clearly harboring a massive crush on Yeon Sieun.

“Oh?” Seongje said, sliding in next to Sieun with a charming smile. “Didn’t know you drank.”

“I usually don’t,” Sieun replied, cheeks slightly flushed already.

“Well,” Seongje chuckled, pouring him another shot, “I’m honored to witness it.”

Suho twitched.

Sieun took the shot.

Suho twitched harder.

“Never have I ever… had a crush on someone from the Law Department,” someone shouted.

Everyone turned to Suho.

Suho turned red. “What? No! I didn’t drink!”

Juntae: “You thought about it.”

Baku: “You wrote poetry about it.”

Gotak: “You named your laptop after him.”

“I did NOT—” Suho stopped. “Okay, that was ONE TIME and the name was temporary.”

Meanwhile, Seongje had leaned in closer to Sieun.

“You’re really cute when you’re tipsy,” he murmured.

Sieun blinked up at him, visibly blushing now.

Suho? Internal screaming intensifies

“Did you always plan to become a lawyer, or were you just born intimidating?” Seongje teased.

Sieun looked away, smiling faintly — which was Sieun’s version of giggling.

Suho looked like he was about to faint.

The rest of the gang?

No. Help. At. All.

“Suho’s going to snap,” Juntae whispered, delighted.

“He’s vibrating,” Baku noted.

“His aura changed colors,” Gotak added, nodding solemnly.

Seongje leaned even closer, voice low: “If you ever want someone to quiz you on law stuff — or just listen to you rant about Supreme Court cases — I’m always around.”

Suho finally stood up.

“I HAVE A QUIZ TOO!” he yelled.

Everyone paused.

“What?” Seongje blinked.

“I mean—” Suho scrambled. “I can also quiz. About… marketing. Consumer behavior! Let’s talk about psychographics!”

“Suho,” Juntae said gently, “sit down.”

“No. I’m a great listener too! I’ll listen to him talk about criminal codes and tort laws and— and I’ll even agree with everything he says!”

“Suho,” Baku snorted, “breathe.”

Sieun was just staring at him now — flushed, tipsy, mildly amused.

“You’re loud,” he murmured.

“You’re BLUSHING,” Suho shot back.

Sieun blinked. “Am I?”

Gotak: “This is the best night of my life.”

Sieun leaned against the couch again, eyes lidded. “Suho-ya... your ears are red.”

Suho promptly sat back down and hid behind a pillow. “I hate this game.”

Seongje tried to hand Sieun another drink, but Sieun shook his head.

“I think I’ll stop here,” he said softly.

“Want me to walk you back?” Seongje asked.

But before Sieun could answer—

“I’LL DO IT!” Suho shot up again. “He’s my roommate. I mean friend. I mean— I got it. Thanks.”

Seongje raised an eyebrow, chuckled, and gave Suho a little wink. “Jealousy looks good on you.”

Suho muttered curses under his breath the entire way out, practically shielding Sieun from the cold night air with his body.

Sieun, now fully tipsy and leaning slightly on Suho’s shoulder, murmured, “You’re warm.”

Suho nearly exploded.

And the others?

Still back in the lounge. Still laughing.

Still taking bets on when Suho would finally confess.

Spoiler: Not any time soon.

But until then?

The chaos was very, very alive.

The door clicked shut behind them with a soft thud.

Suho kicked off his shoes, steadying Sieun against the wall before he could wobble again. The law student was flushed, dazed, and had been swaying slightly ever since they left the party. His hair was slightly messy, glasses askew, sweatshirt collar slipping off his shoulder.

It was criminal.

“You good?” Suho asked, guiding him inside with an arm around his waist.

“Mmm,” Sieun hummed. “You smell like orange soda.”

“That’s because Baku spilled one on me.”

Sieun giggled. Giggle. Yeon Sieun giggled. Suho nearly dropped him.

After a bit of clumsy stumbling, they made it to Sieun’s room. The yellow lamp on the desk cast a soft glow across the walls, wrapping everything in this sleepy kind of warmth. The windows were cracked just slightly, letting in the city’s lights like glittering stars smeared in motion.

Suho sat him down on the bed and began taking off Sieun’s socks, mumbling, “You’re hopeless when you’re tipsy.”

“You’re loud when you’re jealous,” Sieun mumbled back.

Suho’s hands froze.

“What?”

Sieun blinked at him — slow and lazy — then flopped onto the bed, half-buried in the pillow. “I said… you’re cute when you get mad.”

Suho’s brain. Blue screen error.

“Get under the blanket,” he managed, dragging the comforter over Sieun.

But just as he stood to leave, Sieun’s hand shot out — wrapped around his wrist.

“Don’t go.”

“I— I was just gonna grab water.”

“You always say that,” Sieun slurred, tugging him down. “You leave.”

“I… I don’t.”

Sieun looked up at him with eyes too big, too glassy, too dangerous. “Stay. Lie down.”

Suho hesitated — then gave in.

He lay beside him, heart jackhammering. There was no space between them, just tangled blankets and dangerous heat and the scent of vanilla body soap and way too much restraint.

Sieun, still curled beside him, spoke again, voice quieter now.

“Suho-ya…”

“…Yeah?”

“You should get a girlfriend.”

Suho choked. “What?!”

“You’re cute,” Sieun whispered. “Smart. Loyal. Hot-tempered but soft inside. Someone should love you.”

Suho’s heart did a backflip. “I— I don’t want one.”

Sieun blinked slowly, then said, “Then maybe… boyfriend?”

“…I—”

Sieun smiled sleepily. “Your lover would be lucky… to have you.”

Suho felt like he might combust.

But then Sieun whispered, almost childishly, “But I’ll be sad…”

His voice cracked. “You’ll be busy. Not there for me. You won’t make me coffee or fix my notes or yell at Baku when he eats my lunch.”

“…Sieun.”

“You won’t… take care of me anymore.”

Suho couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe.

Sieun shifted closer, mumbling, “So stay with me, okay? Just a little more.”

Suho’s hand hovered — before gently stroking Sieun’s bangs from his face. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

The silence returned. But it was louder this time — thick, syrupy silence, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

Sieun leaned in. Pressed his forehead to Suho’s chest.

And Suho…

Suho kissed the crown of his head.

Just once.

Soft.

Frightened.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

Sieun didn’t reply. Just curled into him tighter, fingers bunching into Suho’s t-shirt like a promise.

Suho stayed awake for hours.

Listening to Sieun breathe. Heart screaming.

They didn’t say anything else that night.

But their bodies spoke volumes.

Tangled legs. Warm chests. Silent comfort.

A slow-burning kind of love — the kind that both of them were drowning in without even realizing how deep they’d fallen.

Chapter 8: Sniff Me Next, I Dare You

Notes:

Not Suho doing THAT in Sieun's bed.

Suho woke to quiet — a stillness that felt too heavy to be peaceful.

The room was dim, the curtains pulled together in a way that let the morning light only whisper through. A soft yellow glow clung to the corners of the room, gold bleeding into the shadows. It was warm. Safe. Thoughtful.

Sieun had done that — closed the curtains before leaving.

So the sun wouldn’t wake him.

Suho exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into the mattress, only then realizing what his arms were wrapped around.

A sweatshirt.

The one Sieun had worn last night.

He pulled it closer to his face, pressing his nose against the collar — and the scent hit him like memory.

Vanilla.

Warmth.

The soft sweetness of skin after sleep and something faintly powdery, like clean cotton folded into quiet hours.

It was so Sieun.

His breath hitched.

The kind of scent that didn’t just remind you of someone — it ached. It wrapped itself around your spine and whispered, you miss him, don’t you?

“Sieunah…”

He whispered it into the fabric like a secret. Or a prayer.

His heart was loud. His thoughts were louder.

Sieun had said the night before that his lover would be lucky.

That he’d be sad if Suho was taken.

That he didn’t want him to stop being there.

That he wanted him close.

And now he was gone — not forever, just for the morning, probably to class, maybe to get coffee.

But the ache in Suho’s chest didn’t care for reason.

He held the shirt tighter, curled up in the lingering heat of where Sieun had slept, and let the want soak through him.

His mind painted images it shouldn’t — flushed cheeks, lazy smiles, sleepy eyes behind glasses. That soft voice saying Suho-ya. That soft body curled against his. That soft everything that made Suho want to ruin and protect him in the same breath.

“Sieunah…” he whispered again, his voice raw.
Suho couldn’t tell how long he stayed like that — wrapped in that shirt, buried in scent, memory, and feeling.

It wasn’t just about the touch anymore. Or the things left unsaid. It was this unbearable silence Sieun left behind that filled the room louder than any confession ever could.

He should get up. Should wash his face. Should pretend this morning wasn’t swallowing him whole.

Instead, he curled tighter into the bed, one leg tangling in the blanket where Sieun had been hours ago, chest tightening with the memory of Sieun’s head on his shoulder, his voice soft and real and impossibly near.

You’re warm…

He could still feel it.

And in that half-sleep haze, fingers clenched around the fabric, Suho’s body moved on instinct — slow, shallow breaths, thighs pressing closer, a kind of tremble rising in him he didn’t want to name. His whole body pulsed with heat.

He wasn't thinking.

He was remembering.

Sieun’s flushed cheeks under warm light.

The way he’d giggled once when tipsy.

How he said Suho’s name.

How he’d look in this moment if he were here — bare-faced, sleepy-eyed, glasses slipping, voice rough with sleep as he mumbled “Suho-ya…” like a song only meant for him.

The sound escaped Suho’s throat before he could stop it — soft, breathless, desperate.

“Sieunah…”

He whispered it again.

“My Sieun…”

His hips shifted without thinking, body shivering as he pressed further into the warmth, burying his face deeper into the fabric like he could drown in it. His breath caught. His lashes fluttered.

He Released.

And then he stilled — flushed, trembling, skin damp, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.

He turned onto his side, breath shaky, lips parted, still clinging to that stupid shirt like it held his soul.

This was madness.

This was love.

And it was going to eat him alive.

Suho lay there, breath slowly evening out, his pulse still thudding somewhere behind his ears.

And then it hit him.

The realization — cold, sudden, and mortifying.

He was in Sieun’s bed.

Still wrapped in Sieun’s sheets.

Still clutching Sieun’s sweatshirt to his chest like a lifeline.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, face burning so hot he half-considered burying himself beneath the mattress.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He groaned, flopping onto his back and covering his face with both hands.

This wasn’t his room. This wasn’t some dream.

This was real.

He had just… done that.

In Sieun’s bed.

Under Sieun’s roof.

Surrounded by Sieun’s scent.

His heart gave another traitorous flutter at the thought, but the shame hit harder.

He rolled over, gripping the edge of the blanket like it might save his soul.

“I’m a monster,” he muttered into the pillow. “A very warm, soft, lovesick monster.”

Somewhere in the kitchen, the door creaked open.

Suho froze.

Dead. He was so dead.

Suho didn’t even have time to wipe the guilt off his face before the door creaked open.

 

Suho sat bolt upright in bed — blanket tangled around his legs, hair a mess, face flushed from too many things at once.

He looked like he’d been hit by a truck.

Or love.

Or both.

Sieun stepped in, hoodie sleeves too long, bangs slightly damp from the walk. In one hand, he held a takeout cup. In the other, a small paper bag of Suho’s favorite pastry.

“Why are you up already?” Sieun asked, tilting his head.

Suho stared.

“You closed the curtains,” he blurted.

Sieun blinked. “...Yeah?”

“So I could sleep.”

Sieun frowned, confused. “Should I not have?”

“No, I— I mean, thank you. That was… really nice of you.”

Sieun shrugged a little, placing the coffee on the nightstand. “You need more sleep lately. You’ve been tense.”

Tense was an understatement.

And it didn’t help that when he leaned in to set the cup down, Sieun’s hair brushed against Suho’s cheek — soft, still carrying the faintest scent of vanilla and warmth from last night.

Suho didn’t mean to do it.

He didn’t mean to inhale.

But he did.

A shaky, involuntary breath.

And there it was again — him.

That scent.

That comfort.

That danger.

He blinked rapidly, trying to play it off, but Sieun had already noticed something.

“You okay?” he asked softly, eyes searching.

Suho cleared his throat. “Y-yeah. Just… overwhelmed by how nice you are.”

Sieun rolled his eyes, turning to grab his own drink. “You’re dramatic.”

But Suho? He was dying.

Because the bed still smelled like Sieun.

And now he did too.

And Suho had no idea how he was going to survive the next ten minutes — let alone the rest of the day.
Suho had never felt so awkward holding a coffee cup in his life.

The heat from the drink was nothing compared to the heat on his face — or the warmth lingering in the sheets, in the hoodie he’d worn to sleep, in the way Sieun had stood by the bed like nothing was out of place while Suho sat there practically smoldering with guilt and... something else.

Sieun had handed him the pastry like he always did, the same quiet routine — no teasing, no comments, just care.

Suho had thanked him with a voice two octaves higher than usual.

Now, the shower was his escape. His moment of reprieve. His sanctuary.

Or so he thought.

Steam curled around him as he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a shaky exhale. The hot water ran down his spine in rivulets, calming the physical tension, but doing absolutely nothing for the chaos in his chest.

He rested his forehead against the cool tile. Tried to breathe. Tried to forget the weight of the morning.

Tried to forget how soft Sieun had looked, standing in that oversized shirt, sleepy-eyed and kind like he hadn’t completely unraveled Suho’s insides just by existing.

You’re okay. It was just a night. Just a scent. Just a—

And then his gaze dropped to the small shelf near the sink.

Sieun’s shirt from yesterday — rumpled, folded on top of a clean towel.

Still damp from sleep. Still carrying that scent.

Vanilla, skin-warm, something gentle and slow like memory.

Suho reached out without thinking.

He pressed it to his face.

And the world tilted.

His breath stilled.

The water kept falling, but it felt far away now — muffled by the rush of blood in his ears, the tightness in his chest, the ridiculous pain of missing someone who hadn’t even left.

“Sieunah…” he whispered into the fabric.

It slipped out like a plea.

He leaned against the shower wall, knuckles white around the cloth.

Every part of him felt raw — skin too sensitive, heart too full. It was dizzying, this feeling. Like drowning in softness that only existed because Sieun kept leaving it behind — like breadcrumbs Suho wasn’t supposed to follow.

He hated himself for it.

And he wanted more.

More moments.

More scent.

More of Sieun, close and real and never leaving again.

He stayed under the water longer than he needed to — because going back into the room, facing Sieun again, breathing the same air, looking into those unreadable eyes...

It would ruin him.

And Suho?

He was already halfway ruined.

--

 

Suho stepped out of the shower, towel draped around his neck, hair still damp and dripping down his temples. The room was dimly lit — soft yellow lamps and the faint hum of space heater warmth. His feet padded across the wooden floor just as Sieun looked up from the couch, a book still open on his lap.

“Sit.”

Suho blinked. “What?”

Sieun didn’t even lift his head. “Hair. Still wet.”

Before Suho could protest, Sieun set his book aside and reached for the hairdryer already plugged in near the side table.

Suho hesitated, then lowered himself onto the small floor cushion in front of the couch — cross-legged, tense, deeply aware that his best friend was about to do something that would end him emotionally.

A soft whirr filled the room as the dryer turned on. Then Sieun’s fingers were in his hair.

Warm air. Careful hands. Vanilla-scented skin so close Suho could feel it radiating against the back of his neck. Every gentle tug of fingers through his hair was another silent attack on Suho’s will to behave like a normal person.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Sieun murmured over the hum.

Suho wanted to scream. “I’m fine,” he said. (He was absolutely not fine.)

Sieun shifted to dry the front. His hand gently brushed Suho’s forehead, pushing his damp bangs away with the kind of casual intimacy that made Suho feel dizzy. He leaned in, utterly unfazed, focused like he was solving a puzzle.

Suho’s throat went dry. His whole body flushed.

And then it happened.

The scent.

That soft vanilla and sleep-warm scent that lived in Sieun’s hoodies, his pillow, and now… his skin.

Suho inhaled without thinking. God.

He leaned forward a little — too fast — just to get space, just to not completely melt.

That’s when the front door clicked.

The chaos arrived.

“Yooooo we brought snacks!” Baku’s voice boomed from the hallway. “And the cutest mugs I stole from the dorm kitchen!”

Suho froze.

Juntae peeked in and immediately paused. “...Oh.”

Baku came in behind him and blinked. “Ohhh.”

Gotak followed with a bag of chips and promptly dropped it.

Sieun, still calmly drying Suho’s hair, looked up. “You’re early.”

“No no, don’t let us interrupt,” Baku grinned. “Just watching our favorite married couple being domestic.”

Suho made a sound between a cough and a whimper.

“You’re so red,” Gotak said helpfully.

Juntae pulled out his phone. “Smile.”

“I will end all of you—”

He was absolutely combusting.

The gang? Howling.

 

Suho was already hanging on by a thread.

Between Sieun blow-drying his hair like it was normal, the soft scent of vanilla still ghosting through his senses, and his gang whisper-laughing behind him like a Greek chorus of doom — he was barely functioning.

And then someone knocked.

Sieun padded to the door, sleeves still too long, hair slightly tousled. When he opened it, standing there was one of the juniors — a girl from the floor above, holding a reusable shopping bag and smiling politely.

“Hey Sunbae,” she said. “You left this in the laundry room yesterday.”

Sieun blinked. “Oh. Thank you.”

Then it happened.

She stepped closer — one step too many.

She leaned in.

Sniff.

“Oh, wow… You smell really good.”

Suho’s head jerked up like a dog hearing thunder.

Sniff. “Is that vanilla? It’s such a nice scent.”

Sniff. “Seriously, how do you always smell this good? Do you use—”

Suho stood up so fast the stool screeched against the floor.

The gang froze.

“Bro…” Baku whispered, eyes wide. “No sudden movements.”

Suho, clenching his jaw, took one dangerous step forward.

“Hi,” he said with a smile that screamed homicide. “I live here too.”

The neighbor blinked, caught off guard.

“I mean,” Suho continued, voice way too bright, “if you’re really into sniffing people, wanna try me next? I showered recently. Very clean. Very... huggable.”

The girl looked like she just got hit by a truck made of awkward.

“I-I should really— I just remembered I have class—” she stammered, backing away.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

Then—

WHEEZE.

Gotak doubled over.

Juntae nearly dropped his tablet.

Baku fell to the floor, tears in his eyes. “SHE SNIFFED HIM THREE TIMES AND YOU CHALLENGED HER TO A SCENT DUEL—”

Sieun turned slowly to Suho. “…You’re red.”

Suho collapsed face-first into the couch. “I need to be buried.”
Suho collapsed face-first into the couch with a noise that could only be described as emotional combustion.

Baku was still cackling on the floor. “A SCENT DUEL—bro said sniff me next like it was a showdown!”

Juntae wiped his glasses, wheezing. “You challenged a civilian! A civilian, Suho!”

Gotak snorted. “Imagine being so gone for a guy, you threaten a stranger with your shampoo.”

“I blacked out,” Suho groaned into the couch. “I don’t remember anything.”

“You literally puffed your chest like a fighting rooster,” Baku added, mimicking Suho’s exact stance. “‘Wanna sniff me next?’ BRO.”

“Stop. STOP.” Suho buried himself deeper into the cushions. “I’m never leaving this apartment again.”

Then came the worst part.

Soft footsteps. A shadow.

Sieun.

Still holding the empty shopping bag the neighbor had returned.

He crouched next to Suho, blinked, and tilted his head slightly. “Are you okay?”

Suho turned just enough to peek one eye out. “Do I look okay?”

Sieun stared at him.

Then calmly said, “You smell like the citrus fabric softener I used on the towels.”

And walked away.

Silence.

Baku fell sideways again, grabbing his stomach. “OH MY GOD. He said you smell like a TOWEL.”

Gotak whispered, “My man just got demoted from vanilla romance to lemon laundry.”

Suho let out a long, tragic wheeze. “Why is he like this.”

Juntae, still recovering, added helpfully, “You know what would help you recover from this public shame?”

“What.”

“More sniffing practice. Build up scent immunity.”

“I WILL END YOU.”

Baku flailed dramatically. “End me with that citrus freshness, baby.”

“You are all horrible.”

But even through the roastfest, Suho couldn’t stop the stupid, fluttering warmth in his chest.

Because Sieun noticed his scent too.

Even if it was just fabric softener.

Notes:

Just in case you don't know...I post 2 chapters a day. So checkout the previous chapter too.

Chapter 9: Head Pat (And Other Acts of War)

Notes:

Just Sieun receiving a grand, over-the-top proposal... and still rejecting it with the same blank face. 😆

The golden hour had no right to be this dramatic.

Hwayang University’s courtyard looked like it had been stolen from a K-drama set. Petals fell from somewhere above. Real ones. Someone had queued music on a Bluetooth speaker, and students were gathered in a wide circle, murmuring, phones recording, breath held.

Right in the center of it all stood Yeon Sieun.

Hair windswept, his pale cream cardigan slightly oversized, a powder-blue turtleneck peeking out. He clutched a thick law book, sleeves covering his fingers. His black slacks were perfectly pressed. His glasses had fogged from the breeze.

He looked like a romance novel cover and didn’t even know it.

And in front of him stood someone. A tall JUNIOR; holding the largest bouquet of lilies, sunflowers, and baby’s breath anyone had ever seen.

“Sieun-sunbae,” the admirer began, voice trembling. “I know you don’t date. I know you’re focused. But I’ve admired you for over a year. You don’t even have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

Sieun blinked once. “I don’t date.”

The crowd stayed quiet.

But the confessor didn’t back off.

“I’m not asking for anything,” they said, softer. “Just let me be near you. I’ll never be a bother. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to like me back.”

Sieun’s eyes flicked down to the bouquet.

“It’s not something I can give,” he said, voice low, almost like he didn’t want it heard.

Suho, who was standing behind a tree with Baku, Gotak, and Juntae... had already started trembling.

Baku latched onto his sweatshirt sleeve. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m literally not even moving,” Suho gritted through his teeth. “I’m standing still.”

“Your fists are clenched.”

“I’m breathing like a normal human.”

“You sound like you’re preparing to sprint.”

“I’M CALM.”

Back in the courtyard, the confessor tried again.

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to.”

Sieun blinked again. There was a faint furrow in his brows now.

“I’m not someone who does well with these kinds of things.”

The confessor’s breath hitched. “I just thought… maybe… you’d say yes. Just once.”

Sieun’s voice was soft. Regretful. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

The petals kept falling.

The wind blew.

And then — the confessor crouched down, bouquet hugged to their chest, and started crying.

Real, silent, wrecking sobs.

The crowd gasped.

Some girls teared up. Someone whispered “He’s too beautiful to exist.” Someone else sniffled audibly. The dramatic instrumental swelled from the speaker.

And Suho—?

“Let me GO,” he whisper-screamed, straining against Baku and Gotak.

“No,” Gotak said, tightening his grip.

“I’m not gonna punch anyone—”

“You’re literally vibrating.”

“I JUST WANT TO TALK.”

“With fists,” Juntae added.

Meanwhile, Sieun stood frozen in place.

He looked completely unsure.

Then — awkward, hesitant, quietly — he took one step forward… and gently patted the crying confessor’s head.

One soft, lingering pat.

Nothing more.

But it shattered the courtyard.

“Oh my god,” someone whispered. “Even his pity is perfect.”

“They’re going to frame that head pat,” another girl sobbed.

Suho looked like he was about to pass out.

“He patted them,” he breathed. “He’s never patted me. I almost died from pneumonia last winter and he didn’t even pass me tissue.”

“You have tissue trauma?” Baku asked, wheezing.

Juntae was literally holding onto a bench to stay upright.

As the confessor wiped their eyes, nodded tearfully, and began to walk away — still clutching the bouquet like sacred treasure — Sieun turned and began walking back toward the boys.

Suho stiffened.

“Don’t say anything,” Gotak warned.

“I CAN’T CONTROL THE NOISES I MAKE.”

Sieun approached slowly. He looked calm as ever, but as he passed by Suho…

…he paused.

And then — with no warning — reached up and plucked a petal off Suho’s hair.

“You had something,” he murmured.

And then walked off.

Suho stood there, frozen like he had just been knighted and hit by a truck at the same time.

The petal fluttered from Sieun’s fingers and landed on the ground.

Juntae whispered, “You okay?”

Suho’s voice cracked. “He touched my hair.”

Baku clapped him on the back. “Congratulations. You’ve unlocked Level 6: Casual Grooming.”

“I’m gonna die,” Suho said, quietly.

Gotak nodded solemnly. “Not before you get that head pat, buddy.”
Sieun walked off like he hadn’t just committed emotional murder.

Like he hadn’t just patted a crying stranger and then delicately picked a flower petal off Suho’s head as if they weren’t surrounded by 100 people and enough tension to start a forest fire.

He was already halfway up the steps toward the Law Department building — calm, unreadable, probably thinking about case studies.

Suho, meanwhile, hadn’t moved.

Not one inch.

Baku crouched in front of him, clapping his hands softly in front of Suho’s face.

“Earth to golden retriever. Hello? You good?”

“I can still feel it,” Suho muttered. “His fingers. On my head.”

“You’re talking like you just got kissed.”

“That was worse than a kiss,” Suho snapped. “He’s never done that before. Never.”

“He did put a towel on your head once,” Gotak offered.

“IN PRIVATE,” Suho hissed. “This—this was public. There were petals. Petals!”

“You’re shaking again,” Juntae noted casually, already pulling out his phone.

“I swear if you’re recording—”

“I’m making a montage,” Juntae grinned. “We’re up to three pouts, four stares, two hair touches, and a one-sided umbrella scene. I’m calling it: ‘Suho: Tragedy in Soft Lighting.’”

“I hate all of you.”

Baku slung an arm over his shoulder. “No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You’d cry if we stopped feeding you.”

“...maybe.”

From a distance, a group of passing students were still whispering about the confession.

“Wasn’t that, like, the most romantic thing ever?” one said.

“He cried in front of everyone and STILL looked satisfied,” another murmured. “That head pat was lethal.”

Suho growled. “I’m going to start a petition. No one gets patted unless they survive three months of silent library sessions, five cafeteria lunches, and watching Sieun break someone’s spirit in class debate.”

“You mean like you did?” Juntae teased.

“Exactly,” Suho said without shame.

Baku nudged his ribs. “Bro, just confess. Literally everyone on campus ships you already.”

Suho stared at the steps Sieun had disappeared up.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Suho let out a soft sigh, shoulders slumping.

“Because he looks at people and doesn’t see they’re in love with him. But he looks at me like I’ve always been there. And I’m terrified that if I say something, I’ll ruin that.”

For once, the group was quiet.

Until Gotak said, “Okay. But like. You’re still gonna explode if he pats someone else, right?”

“I WILL RIOT.”

---

Back at Sieun’s apartment, the five of them had collapsed into a very chaotic heap of limbs, leftover snacks, and secondhand emotional damage.

The living room glowed with soft yellow light. The city outside blinked quietly, like it was catching its breath from all the earlier drama. The gang, however, was not even close to recovering.

“I still can’t believe he patted their head,” Suho muttered, lying face-down into a throw pillow.

“Here we go again,” Baku said, sprawled upside down on the couch, head hanging off the edge. “That’s the fifth time he’s brought it up.”

“Seventh,” Juntae corrected. “I’m keeping track.”

Suho didn’t lift his head. “Do you know what that head pat meant?”

“It meant the confessor cried,” Gotak said. “Sieun got confused. Reflex pat. Boom.”

“Reflex??” Suho snapped, lifting his head dramatically. “That was gentle! That was intentional! That was emotional CPR!”

Baku laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the couch. “Emotional CPR??”

Juntae added, “He even dusted your hair after, Suho-ya. That was bonus affection. You got your own pat moment.”

“It’s not the same!” Suho wailed. “Mine was debris removal. Theirs was... emotional intimacy.”

Gotak smirked. “You’re so jealous, it’s turning poetic.”

Suho groaned and flopped back onto the floor, arms spread like a fallen soldier. “I can’t believe I’m competing with someone who cried during a rejection and still walked away like they won.”

From the kitchen, Sieun re-entered with two glasses of barley tea and said absolutely nothing.

He handed one to Suho. The other he set beside his book.

Suho took it with a quiet, “Thanks…”

Sieun returned to his spot by the window, sitting with his legs tucked up, law textbook propped open, looking entirely unaffected by the universe.

The others watched Suho pout in real time.

“I’m telling you,” Suho mumbled into his glass, “one day I’m gonna confess and he’s gonna blink and say, ‘I don’t date.’”

“You won’t even get that,” Baku said cheerfully. “He’ll just say ‘Hmm’ and walk off.”

The room burst into laughter.

Even Suho laughed, though it was a little quieter. A little more tired.

There was a lull after that. The kind of quiet that settled when people were full and the teasing had worn out. Suho laid there, legs stretched out, gaze unfocused.

And then — softly, like something slipping past his chest without warning — he said, “I miss halmoni.”

Everyone went still.

Baku’s head tilted.

Juntae looked up from his phone.

Suho didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “She used to call every Sunday, right at 6. Just to ask if I’d eaten. Even if she knew I had.”

No one said anything.

“She hasn’t called in a while. I think she’s giving me space.” He smiled faintly. “She probably thinks I’m grown now.”

There was a pause.

And then—

Pat.

Everyone’s heads whipped around.

Sieun — still sitting on the rug, still holding his law book — had leaned in and gently, softly, patted Suho’s head.

“You’re a good grandson,” he said, voice even. “She’s not mad.”

Suho froze.

The room melted.

Juntae squeaked audibly.

Gotak put a hand over his chest like he’d been shot.

Baku made an actual sobbing sound. “Why do I feel comforted??”

Suho just blinked up at Sieun, lips parted, stunned.

“I…” he started. Then coughed. “...Thanks.”

Sieun didn’t respond. He just gave one more head pat and went back to his book like he hadn’t just saved Suho’s soul in front of everyone.

Suho stared at his tea like it might explain why his heart was going thump-thump-thump in high definition.

“I wanna go visit her,” he said after a moment. “Halmoni.”

“You should,” Sieun said simply, without looking up.

Then he paused.

“If you want,” he added, “we can go together.”

Suho blinked. “What?”

Sieun looked at him. “She’ll want to see you. And she’ll definitely ask if you’re eating enough.”

“You… You’d come?”

“She’ll worry less if she sees you’re not alone.”

“Bro,” Baku said, sitting up. “ROAD TRIP.”

“I call shotgun,” Gotak added immediately.

Juntae looked like he was already mentally packing snacks.

Suho stared at all of them — this weird, loud, chaotic group — and felt something pull tight and warm in his chest.

“You guys… really wanna meet her?”

“Obviously,” Baku said. “We need to know who to thank for raising the softest golden retriever on campus.”

“She’ll love me,” Juntae said confidently.

Gotak smirked. “I’ll bring her rice crackers.”

Suho didn’t answer at first.

Then he leaned slightly toward Sieun, just enough for their shoulders to touch.

“…You can do that again,” he whispered. “If you want.”

Sieun didn’t look at him.

But his hand lifted.

And one more head pat found its way into Suho’s hair.

Sieun’s hand lingered in Suho’s hair just a moment longer than necessary.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t meant to be. But Suho felt the weight of it all the same. Gentle. Present. Reassuring in a way that made everything else blur.

The room was still.

No one spoke.

Then—

“You okay, Suho?” Juntae asked, voice quieter this time.

Suho blinked. “Yeah. Just… surprised.”

Baku grinned. “By the head pat?”

“By the everything,” Suho muttered. “This whole… today. That dumb proposal. That crying dude. The petals. You all holding me back like I was a rabid dog.”

“Keyword: loyal guard dog,” Gotak added.

“And now… this.” Suho gestured vaguely around the cozy room. “Tea. Halmoni. Head pats. It’s like emotional whiplash in a candle-scented room.”

Sieun turned another page in his book. “You’re being dramatic.”

Suho stared at him. “You patted my head in front of witnesses.”

“You were spiraling.”

“That’s beside the point.”

Juntae smiled softly from behind his tablet. “You’re not used to being taken care of, are you?”

Suho didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “Not really.”

There was no pity in the silence that followed. Just understanding. Something soft and unspoken.

Sieun didn’t say anything either. But when he stood to refill his tea, he set his own mug down next to Suho instead and wordlessly poured for both of them.

Baku watched it happen. “Are we witnessing love?”

“Shut up,” Suho whispered, ears burning.

They sat like that for a while — warm drinks, quiet conversation, and laughter that came in bursts.

At some point, Suho leaned back against the couch, shoulder brushing Sieun’s again.

And for the first time all day, he felt still.

Not calm. Not fixed. But still. Grounded in something.

He reached for the throw blanket on the back of the couch and tugged it down, draping it over both their legs.

Sieun didn’t react.

But he didn’t pull away either.

“Hey,” Suho murmured, eyes half-lidded. “What do I even tell halmoni?”

“That you’re okay,” Sieun replied.

“I’m not really.”

Sieun looked at him.

“But you’re trying,” he said softly. “That’s enough.”

Suho’s throat closed for a second. His hands fisted in the blanket.

“Do you think she’ll like you?” he asked, a little tease in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Sieun said. “But I like her and you know it.”

“Why?”

“She raised you.”

Suho blinked fast.

Then — so quietly the others didn’t hear it — he whispered, “Thank you.”

Sieun didn’t respond with words.

But he did it again.

That hand in Suho’s hair. That quiet, grounding pat that said you’re not alone.

And Suho — proud, stubborn Suho — leaned in and closed his eyes.

Notes:

On one of the previous chapters, some one said something about Suho getting head pats. The chapter is inspired by them. I thought why don't I use it too. It will be adorable. Remaining things worked out once I had the main that main point, the 'head pat'.

Thank you so much for giving me such a beautiful idea.

Also, next chapter is boys going to Suho's halmoni. And it's so much fun I'm telling you. And this chapter was quite long so I've posted only 1 chapter.

Chapter 10

Notes:

They are finally at Halmoni's place.

The countryside rolled past in soft waves — fields blurring into patches of gold, the sky yawning into a sleepy winter blue. The hum of the road and the lull of soft music on the radio worked like a sedative.

Suho leaned back, trying not to focus too much on the fact that Sieun was still leaning against his shoulder.

At first, it was casual — a light brush, a moment of rest. But now…

Now Sieun had completely drooped, his entire weight slumped against Suho, sweatshirt bunched up at his neck, face tilted toward Suho’s collarbone. His breath was steady. Warm. Calm.

And Suho?

He was dying.

Like, actually dying.

Because Sieun’s hand had fallen into his lap — not grasping, not holding, just resting there — and his head was nestled into the crook of Suho’s neck like it belonged there.

Like it had always belonged there.

Juntae glanced back from the front passenger seat and nearly squealed. “He’s out.”

Baku turned the music volume down just a little. “Dead asleep.”

Suho whispered, “Shut up. He’ll hear you.”

Gotak smirked. “He’s gone, bro. Look at him. That’s REM sleep. You’re his human pillow now.”

Suho wanted to say something — anything witty, sarcastic, normal — but all he could do was stare at Sieun’s lashes, the way they brushed his cheeks, soft and long and unfairly pretty.

And then… Sieun made a tiny sleepy noise. A sigh, almost. And curled in a little closer.

Right against Suho’s chest.

Suho’s soul briefly left his body.

He didn’t dare move. Didn’t breathe too hard. Just closed his eyes for a moment, trying to etch the feeling into his memory.

Soft oversized t-shirt.

Warm breath.

The weight of trust, right there against him.

And for once — despite all the confessions, all the teasing, all the unspoken what-ifs — Suho didn’t feel jealous or lost or panicked.

He just felt… full.

Full of quiet. Full of Sieun.

Full of something that felt an awful lot like home.
Halmoni stood just outside the gate as the car pulled in — her cardigan tugged close to her body, grey hair pinned back in its usual bun. Her eyes weren’t on the car.

They were on the quiet boy in the passenger seat.

And Sieun… he saw her too.

He stepped out before the others had even unbuckled, straightening up despite the sleepy weight in his limbs. His t-shirt sleeves were still too long like always, and his eyes were hazy from the nap, but when he bowed to her — it was deep. Like he meant it.

Like his body remembered this place.

“Halmoni,” he said softly.

She didn’t move right away.

Just stared at him.

And then — slowly, carefully — she walked forward and cupped his face in both hands.

“You grew,” she whispered, voice breaking at the edges. “And your eyes… still the same.”

Sieun didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t planned this part. He’d just… wanted to see her again. Like before.

But then Halmoni’s fingers brushed gently across his cheeks. “Two years,” she murmured. “You never missed a week.”

Behind them, Suho was frozen.

“What…?” he breathed.

Baku paused mid-sunglasses push. Gotak looked up from the trunk. Juntae, already halfway to the porch, turned back.

“Two years,” Halmoni repeated. “He came to see me. Every week. Sometimes twice. Always quiet. Sat on the porch, read while I folded laundry, drank barley tea even though he didn’t like it.”

Sieun lowered his eyes.

“He never talked much,” she said. “But he always asked about you. He always said he’d wait.”

Suho felt something collapse inside him.

A slow, silent crumbling in his chest.

They already met.
Of course they met.
Sieun and Halmoni already met before.
When Suho was in coma.
How the hell did he forget that!

He stepped forward, unsure. “Sieun… you never told me.”

Sieun didn’t lift his gaze. “It didn’t matter. I just didn’t want her to be alone.”

Halmoni looked between the two boys — one visibly breaking, the other visibly trying not to show that he already had.

“I knew back then,” she said softly, “when he sat outside your room with that stupid broken umbrella, waiting for visiting hours. I knew he was your person before you did.”

She let her hand fall from Sieun’s face and patted his arm. “Thank you for not giving up on him.”

Sieun nodded — tight, short.

And Suho?

Suho looked like he wanted to cry.

He took another step forward. Then paused. “Can I—?”

But Halmoni had already turned and opened her arms wide.

He stepped into them without hesitation, hiding his face in her shoulder.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t know he… all this time—”

“I did,” she said. “And that was enough.”

Behind them, the gang gave the two their space — for once, no teasing, no smirks. Just a warm kind of silence.

Baku sniffled and tried to cover it with a yawn.

Juntae rubbed his sleeve across his nose and muttered, “Not crying. Just seasonal allergies.”

Gotak sighed and muttered, “Let’s unpack later.”

And inside, as Sieun stepped through the door he hadn’t entered since Suho woke up, Halmoni looked back and smiled.

“Welcome home, boys.”

---

Later that evening, after unpacking and a dinner that felt more like healing than a meal, Halmoni insisted on cleaning up alone.

“You’re guests,” she said firmly. “Let me have my moment.”

So Suho and the others ended up scattered around the house — Juntae tinkering with the radio, Baku and Gotak in the yard pretending they knew how to chop wood, and Suho… sitting on the porch steps.

Until he heard her voice float in from the back garden.

“Sieun-ah, can you help me hang the blankets?”

He turned.

And there he was — Yeon Sieun, stepping into the fading gold light of sunset, sleeves rolled up, hair ruffled from the wind, a thick quilt slung over his arm.

He was smiling — not much, just a little — but it was real. The kind of smile he never gave at school. The kind Suho had only seen when it was just the two of them… or now, here, with Halmoni.

And Suho could barely breathe.

Then he heard it.

A voice that did not belong to any of them.

“Oh… wow.”

He turned.

There stood a girl — maybe a year older than them, in comfy lounge pants and slippers, holding a paper bag of herbs. A neighbor, probably. She looked stunned.

“I didn’t know Halmoni had such handsome guests,” she said, wide-eyed. “Who’s that?”

Suho’s stomach dropped. “That’s Sieun.”

She blinked. “Oh. He’s… beautiful.”

Suho’s eye twitched. “He’s busy.”

“I just moved back here,” she said brightly, already walking closer. “Do you think he’d mind if I introduced myself?”

“I would,” Suho snapped.

But she didn’t hear him. Or pretended not to.

She approached the back fence and waved. “Hi!”

Sieun turned, blinked, then bowed politely. “Hello.”

“I’m Jisoo — I just moved into the yellow house on the corner. You’re helping Halmoni?”

He nodded.

“You look good with blankets,” she giggled.

Suho growled.

Gotak whispered from behind him, “You’re gonna pop a vein.”

“I’m holding it together.”

“Your eye is literally twitching.”

Out in the garden, Jisoo tried again. “You’re really good at folding. Are you visiting for the weekend?”

Sieun, still perfectly polite, said, “Yes.”

“Would you maybe want to walk around the village tomorrow? I could show you the market—”

Before she could finish, Suho was standing behind Sieun like a thundercloud with teeth.

“He’s busy,” he said flatly.

Sieun blinked up at him. “I am?”

“Yes. With me.” Suho forced a smile at the girl. “Sorry. Full itinerary. Tight schedule. Boy’s booked.”

The girl stared between them. “Oh… um… are you two—”

“Yes,” Suho said instantly.

“No,” Sieun said at the same time.

Suho choked.

Jisoo giggled. “Okay, well… maybe I’ll see you around?”

Sieun gave the softest nod.

She left.

Suho stood stiffly at his side, face pink, ears red, arms crossed.

“Jealous?” Sieun asked blandly, folding the last blanket.

“I’m not— I mean— she was literally flirting.”

“She was just being nice.”

“You don’t know what flirting looks like.”

“You don’t know what boundaries look like.”

“…Touché.”

Sieun gave him a side glance. “Do you want to help me fold the last one?”

Suho exhaled hard, cheeks still burning. “Only if you stop accepting confessions from strangers with fresh herbs.”

“I didn’t accept.”

“You smiled. That’s practically marriage.”

Sieun didn’t reply — but he did pat Suho’s head once, gently, before handing him the last quilt.

And Suho?

Yeah. He folded like a damn origami crane.

---

That night, Halmoni insisted they all sleep in the large spare room upstairs — futons lined up wall-to-wall, warm blankets folded neatly, the windows open just enough to let in the crisp countryside air.

Sieun, now changed into night clothes, curled up near the middle, book open, glasses perched on his nose, his loose t-shirt sleeves half-swallowing his hands.

Suho was next to him. Obviously.

Gotak and Juntae had claimed the corners. Baku sprawled at the edge like a human starfish.

Halmoni, sipping barley tea on the porch, peeked in and chuckled softly. “You all look like kindergarteners at a sleep camp.”

Baku grinned. “You love it, Halmoni.”

“I do,” she admitted.

Then — as if it was the most natural thing in the world — she added, “Sieun-ah’s always been like this.”

Suho sat up. “Like what?”

“Magnetic,” she said. “Even as a high schooler, when he came to visit… the girls from the next street over would ‘coincidentally’ walk by just to stare at him.”

Sieun blinked. “I didn’t notice that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Suho muttered.

Halmoni smiled knowingly and sipped her tea. “One of them even asked me if he had a girlfriend.”

“Did you say yes?” Baku asked dramatically.

“I said he had someone important to him,” Halmoni said, looking at Suho. “She didn’t ask more after that.”

Suho made a sound between a cough and a scream.

Gotak laughed. “So this has been happening for years?”

“It’s the vibe,” Juntae said, pushing up his glasses. “Unbothered, unreadable, gorgeous. People project entire novels onto him.”

“His rejection style makes it worse,” Baku said, stretching. “Like, he’s not even mean. He just politely destroys you.”

“I’m not trying to,” Sieun mumbled.

“You don’t have to,” Suho muttered.

“He once told a guy, ‘I hope you meet someone who deserves your flowers,’” Baku said.

“And that guy framed the rejection note,” Gotak added.

Halmoni chuckled again. “He has no idea how pretty he is, does he?”

Sieun blinked. “I’m right here.”

“We know, sweetheart,” Halmoni said, lovingly.

Suho dramatically flopped back on his pillow. “This is torture. I live in hell.”

Baku nudged him with his foot. “You chose this.”

“I did not choose to be in love with a human god who has no awareness of how many people want to kiss his face.” He whispered to himself.

Sieun turned a page in his book.

“Good night,” Suho mumbled, blushing so hard he could’ve lit a lantern.

“Good night, darlings,” Halmoni called softly as she walked down the stairs. “And Suho…”

He turned his head toward the door. “Y-Yeah?”

“Don’t take too long to tell him.”

The room exploded into chaos.

Baku: “HALMONI SAID GET HIS MAN!”

Gotak: “That’s it. You have no excuses left.”

Juntae: “Suho, blink twice if you need help confessing.”

Suho screamed into his pillow.

Sieun… quietly reached over and tugged Suho’s blanket higher over his shoulders.

Then he turned off the lamp.

And whispered, “Sleep well.”

Suho didn’t.

Because how was he supposed to sleep when Sieun was right there, warm and soft and just an arm’s reach away?

Notes:

Halmoni has officially joined the squad to tease Suho.

Chapter 11: My Sieunah

Notes:

Subo is too gone for Sieun. And yeah it's a double update.

Suho woke up to the smell of barley tea and wood smoke, the muffled clink of bowls downstairs, and the weight of something warm draped across his chest.

He blinked.

And blinked again.

Yeon Sieun.
Still asleep. Still in his oversized t-shirt. Still on top of Suho’s arm. One hand curled into Suho’s blanket like he owned it. His cheek pressed close, lips parted slightly.

Suho stared at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

I’m going to die here. This is how I go.

He slowly, painfully turned his head to see Baku Gotak still snoring in the corner futons. Juntae was on his tablet already, typing away like a morning nerd.

Suho moved to shift his arm — and that’s when Sieun stirred, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.

“Mm… Suho-ya,” he mumbled.

Suho froze.

Heart? Gone.

Dignity? Never existed.

Before he could even respond, Sieun turned away and curled tighter into the blanket like nothing happened.

Just then, Juntae looked up and grinned. “Morning.”

Suho glared. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Juntae shrugged. “I wasn’t going to. But I do have a photo.”

“WHAT?!”

Downstairs, Halmoni yelled, “BREAKFAST!”

Suho scrambled out of the futon, somehow both flustered and tangled in two blankets. He hissed at the chill air, tugged his t-shirt over his head, and tried to pretend he hadn’t just spent the night wrapped around the boy he’d been in love with since high school.

By the time he made it out to the porch, Sieun was already sipping tea with Halmoni, bangs falling into his eyes, hoodie sleeves dangling over the rim of his mug.

And that’s when it happened.

Again.

“Is that him?” a voice whispered behind the fence.

Suho turned.

Another admirer.

Different person. Same moony eyes.

“Who’s that?” she whispered to her friend. “He’s… wow. He looks even softer in the morning.”

Suho clenched his jaw. Not again.

“She’s coming,” Baku stage-whispered from the stairs.

“I’ll block the stairs,” Gotak muttered.

“No, no,” Juntae grinned. “Let’s just observe. Scientifically.”

The girl walked up to the fence. “Hi! Um… are you guys staying with Halmoni?”

Suho stepped forward. “Yes. And no, he’s not interested.”

“I didn’t even ask yet.”

“Didn’t have to. He’s not interested.”

Sieun looked up with a blink. “Suho?”

“She’s trying to flirt with you again,” Suho snapped.

The girl blinked, clearly confused. “I just came to bring some tangerines…”

Sieun stood, brushing his sleeves back. “Thank you,” he said simply, accepting the bag with a bow.

And then — because he was polite — he added, “Have a good morning.”

The girl turned red. “Y-You too!”

Suho growled, but didn’t move.

She walked away clutching the tangerine bag like a holy relic.

“I hate this,” Suho muttered.

“He just said have a good morning,” Juntae laughed.

“I know what I saw. She almost proposed.”

Baku collapsed against the porch wall. “You’re insane.”

Gotak deadpanned, “You’re in love.”

And Sieun?
He just tilted his head at Suho like why are you like this?

Suho sighed and sat down beside him, pulling the blanket around his legs like a grumpy cat.

“Want a tangerine?” Sieun asked.

“No. I want peace.”

Sieun peeled one anyway and handed him a slice. “You’re always weird in the morning.”

Suho took the slice and mumbled, “You make me weird.”

Sieun blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.”

---

The air was crisp. The path was quiet. Halmoni was a few steps ahead with a cane and a mission.¹

Behind her, the boys trudged along — all bundled in scarves and layers — but none of them were more unfairly cute than Yeon Sieun.

He was wearing a light grey wool beanie that covered his ears, oversized cream coat, and his wire-frame glasses. The sleeves of his coat were a bit too long, and his hands were stuffed in the pockets as he walked a little behind the group, quiet as always.

He looked like he walked out of a soft winter romance movie.

Suho was not okay.

“Why does he look like a Pinterest board,” Suho mumbled.

“You’re literally growling,” Juntae said.

“I am not.”

“You are,” Baku confirmed.

“Shhh!” Gotak whispered. “We have company.”

That’s when she appeared — a girl walking her dog, stylish puffer jacket, clearly not from around here. The kind of girl who does pilates and drinks expensive tea.

She spotted Sieun and stopped walking.

“Oh,” she said out loud. “Oh my God.”

Suho narrowed his eyes. “No.”

She approached. “Hi! Sorry, I was just— you look familiar. Are you from around here?”

Sieun blinked. “No.”

“I’m staying at the inn. Just for the weekend. Do you mind if I walk with you guys for a bit?”

Before Suho could explode—

“Of course!” Halmoni said brightly. “The more the merrier!”

Suho visibly malfunctioned.

The girl, clearly thrilled, stepped closer to Sieun and matched his pace.

And Suho watched as she asked him what he studied, if he liked the countryside, and what book he had tucked under his arm (it was a law casebook — of course).

Sieun answered politely, expression unreadable.

Suho was dying.

He speed-walked until he was beside them.

“Hey,” he said to the girl. “You didn’t ask me anything.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m staying at the inn too,” he lied.

“Oh.”

Juntae, behind them, whispered, “This is a slow-motion car crash.”

Suho tried to take Sieun’s book. “Let me carry that.”

“I’m fine,” Sieun said.

“No, you’re not. Your hands are cold.”

“Then give me gloves.”

Suho pulled one of his gloves off and tried to shove it onto Sieun’s hand mid-walk.

Sieun blinked down at him. “Suho.”

“What?”

“…You’re being weird again.”

The girl giggled. “You guys are funny.”

Suho deadpanned, “We’re not.”

Sieun finally sighed and accepted one glove.

One.

Suho wore the other.

They walked the rest of the way like that — side by side, mismatched gloves, Suho fuming quietly while everyone else tried not to laugh.

Even Halmoni whispered to Gotak, “He’s in deep.”

Gotak nodded solemnly. “Like Mariana Trench deep.”

---

The countryside trail twisted around a small field, golden in the winter sun. They stopped near an old bench overlooking the distant hills. Halmoni sat down, sipping warm barley tea from a thermos Suho had brought earlier — the one Sieun had packed, of course.

Sieun stood beside her, cheeks pink from the wind, hair slightly tousled beneath his beanie.

Suho wanted to combust.

The visiting girl was still hovering nearby, sneaking glances at Sieun every few seconds — and Suho counted every one of them like tally marks on his grave.

Then she said it.

“You have a really calming presence,” she told Sieun. “People must feel safe around you.”

Suho’s eye twitched so hard, Baku physically held his face still.

“Breathe,” Baku whispered.

“I am breathing,” Suho growled.

“You’re breathing like you’re gonna lunge.”

“Because I might.”

Juntae leaned over. “How are you still not dead from pining? Like. Physically. How are your organs okay?”

“I drink tea,” Suho snapped. “Mind your business.”

Sieun tilted his head slightly at the girl’s compliment and nodded like he wasn’t currently making Suho want to bite a tree in frustration. “That’s kind of you.”

“I mean it,” she smiled. “People must adore you.”

And that’s when Suho snapped.

He stepped between them. “He’s got enough fans.”

“Suho,” Sieun said, warningly.

“No, no, I’m just saying.” Suho smiled, strained. “You’ve had three confessions in two weeks. One guy tried to write poetry in legalese. You don’t need a countryside fan club.”

The girl laughed awkwardly. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“He’s taken,” Suho said quickly.

“I’m not,” Sieun said flatly.

Suho’s soul left his body.

There was a beat of silence.

And then—

PLOP.

A petal — a bright pink one, probably from a late-blooming wildflower nearby — floated down and landed square on Suho’s head.

Sieun reached out wordlessly, fingers brushing through Suho’s hair to pluck it off.

Suho stopped breathing.

“There,” Sieun said. “You had something.”

“Thanks,” Suho croaked.

Behind them, the others died.

“Dead,” Gotak whispered.

“Buried,” Baku nodded.

“Someone get him CPR,” Juntae muttered.

The girl, still flustered, looked between them and gave a small smile. “I think I’ll head back. Thanks for the walk.”

Halmoni waved. “Take care, dear!”

As she disappeared down the road, Suho collapsed onto the bench beside Sieun and buried his face in his hands.

“I hate this place,” he muttered.

“You were fine five seconds ago,” Sieun said, sipping his tea.

“I was pretending.”

“Again?”

Suho groaned.

Halmoni chuckled. “You’re lucky he still puts up with you.”

“I know,” Suho mumbled into his scarf.

---

Later that night, after dinner, after the gang settled into the big room again and started arguing over which side of the futon was warmer, Suho found himself making tea — quietly, almost robotically — until he realized Sieun was watching him.

“Suho,” he said softly.

Suho turned. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Suho blinked. “For what?”

Sieun hesitated. Then simply said, “For being here.”

And just like that, he reached out — not dramatically, not even thinking about it — and gently patted Suho’s head.

Once. Twice.

A small smile tugged at his lips. “You’re getting better at not burning the water.”

Suho nearly passed out.

Everyone else paused mid-pillow fight to stare.

Gotak: “He’s gonna scream.”

Juntae: “He’s gonna cry.”

Baku: “Both.”

But Suho… just froze.

And then — very quietly — leaned into the touch.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered.

Sieun blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Suho blurted. “Sleep! It’s sleep time!”

He flopped onto the futon and pulled the blanket over his face, muffling a soft, choked, “I’m gonna die.”

Sieun sat beside him, totally unfazed, opening his book.

But Suho’s heart?

It was doing backflips under the blanket.

---

The lights were dim. The room was warm with soft yellow glow from the heater lamp Halmoni insisted on setting up herself. The futons were all laid out — extra thick, extra fluffy — and the boys had already fought over who gets which side.

Halmoni had declared, “No boys sleeping by the window! You’ll catch a cold!” which led to chaos, obviously.

Baku tried to steal Gotak’s pillow. Juntae was setting up a charging station with his portable battery, muttering about “low battery anxiety.” And Suho?

Suho was laying out Sieun’s blanket. Smoothly. Carefully. Like it was a ritual.

“You’re not his maid,” Baku whispered as he passed.

“I’m making sure he’s comfortable,” Suho hissed.

“Sure. That’s what we’re calling it.”

Sieun finally stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in a soft ivory t-shirt and navy sleep pants, towel-drying his hair.

Suho forgot how to breathe.

“You good?” Sieun asked, blinking at Suho standing frozen with his blanket still in hand.

“Yeah!” Suho said too quickly. “Just... making your bed. Not like weirdly. Like... normally.”

Sieun tilted his head. “You’re weird again.”

Suho made a pained noise.

Later, after Halmoni kissed them all goodnight like they were twelve, and after the lights were off and the room hummed with quiet, the group slowly started settling into sleep.

But Suho and Sieun?

They lay next to each other, staring at the ceiling.

Neither moved.

“I like your Halmoni,” Sieun said quietly.

“She really likes you,” Suho whispered back. “She knows how long you waited. How you never gave up.”

Silence.

Then, soft and unsure: “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Suho turned his head slightly. “Still... thank you.”

A pause.

“I like being here,” Sieun said. “It’s... warm. Safe.”

Suho’s heart skipped.

“Then stay,” he whispered.

“I am,” Sieun replied simply, closing his eyes.

Suho couldn’t stop smiling in the dark.

They talked a little more. About nothing. About how Gotak snores like a dying engine. About how Juntae talks in his sleep (“Optimize the API, optimize—!”). About how Baku hogs the blankets even though he always ends up half naked somehow.

Eventually, they drifted.

And slowly — without meaning to — Suho rolled over in his sleep. His arm found Sieun. Then the other. His head tucked into the crook of his neck like it belonged there.

Sieun stirred, once.

But didn’t move away.

Not even when Suho whispered something in his sleep.

“Don’t leave.”

---

The soft crackle of early sunlight filtered through the countryside window. The room was still except for the faint sound of birds and the occasional sleepy stretch.

Everyone had woken up — everyone except Suho.

Which wouldn’t have been a problem, if he wasn’t…

currently wrapped around Yeon Sieun like a human octopus.

His head was tucked deep into the crook of Sieun’s neck, nose pressed to the skin just beneath his jaw, his arms pulled tight around Sieun’s waist like a second blanket. And his legs — oh, his legs — were tangled shamelessly.

Suho, very much asleep, inhaled.

Like a man starved.

Sniff.

Sieun froze.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

He had woken up five minutes ago to find himself spooned tight against Suho, with no indication that Suho had any intention of letting go.

And every time he shifted?

Suho’s arms tightened.

Even now — as he moved slightly — Suho let out a sleepy groan and burrowed deeper, murmuring something like “...so warm...stay… Sieun-ah…”

Sieun-ah.

The tips of Sieun’s ears turned pink.

Across the room, Baku had one hand over his mouth, eyes watering from holding in laughter.

Juntae had given up and was openly filming from under his blanket, whispering commentary like a wildlife documentary. “Here we see the feral guard dog, latched to his emotionally oblivious prey…”

Gotak was sipping tea and calmly scrolling on his phone.

And Halmoni?

She peeked in with a tray of breakfast and froze. Then she smiled.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Look at that.”

Baku grinned. “I think Suho might be drooling a little.”

Juntae squinted. “Nope, just sniffing.”

Another sniff.

Sieun, still expressionless, whispered, “Should I wake him?”

“No,” Halmoni said. “Let him finish his cuddling. He looks peaceful.”

“But I can’t move.”

“He’s dreaming about you,” Baku whispered dramatically. “Don’t you dare ruin it.”

Gotak smirked. “You move, you die.”

Sieun stared at the ceiling.

Another sleepy mumble escaped Suho’s lips: “My Sieunah…”

Dead.
Everyone. Dead. On the spot.

Sieun blinked slowly.

Then, without saying a word, he just laid back down again. Arms at his sides. Face unreadable. But his ears? Bright red.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Eventually, Suho stirred, blinking slowly, nuzzling Sieun’s neck once more before—

FREEZE.

Realization hit like a baseball bat.

Suho slowly lifted his head.

His eyes locked with six others in the room.

Sieun, still lying there, blinked back at him calmly.

Suho slowly sat up.

Everyone was watching.

He swallowed. “...Good morning?”

No one said a word.

Then Juntae:

“I hope your dream was nice.”

Then Halmoni:

“Would you like me to add your names to a wedding invitation list now or later?”

Suho let out a strangled noise and faceplanted into the nearest pillow.

“DECEASED,” Baku yelled.

Sieun sat up slowly. “You were very… affectionate in your sleep.”

“I’M SO SORRY,” Suho muffled into the blanket. “I WAS UNCONSCIOUSLY DESPERATE.”

Juntae patted his back. “If it helps, you looked very in love.”

“It doesn’t!”

Sieun blinked. “You said my name.”

Suho screamed into the mattress again.

But under all that shame, somewhere deep in his chest…

Suho was secretly the happiest disaster alive

Notes:

Sieun didn’t know Suho was in love with him.

He believed that Suho’s jealousy — the sharp glares, the tight silences, the possessiveness — came from their friendship. That Suho simply got insecure whenever someone else got too close. It never once occurred to him that there might be something deeper behind it.

Because that was what he felt too.

Sieun had always struggled with emotions — not because he didn’t have them, but because he didn’t know what to do with them. He had been alone with his thoughts for so long that everything inside him became muted, confusing. Subtle changes in tone or warmth, gestures that others understood instinctively — they passed him by. So instead of analyzing Suho’s feelings, he projected his own. Assumed Suho was just like him.
Yet Suho is real clingy in friendship, possessive in silence, afraid of being left behind.

But the truth was, Sieun was also in love with Suho.

Completely. Quietly. Unconsciously.

He just didn’t know it yet.

His heart had already decided, but his mind hadn’t caught up. He thought Suho was being dramatic, overly protective, even irrational — not realizing that it was love. Just as he didn’t recognize the ache in his own chest, the way his hands always remembered Suho’s warmth, the way his eyes searched for him first in every room.

Our baby — emotionally distant, quietly bruised, and too logical for his own good — didn’t understand

Chapter 12: Petty Crimes, Shirtless Payback, and One Very Betrayed Breakfast

Notes:

Them and their petty revenge 💀

It started at breakfast.

The morning after the now-legendary cuddle incident.

Where Suho, in a state of deep sleep (and deeper emotional desperation), had wrapped himself around Yeon Sieun like a human burrito and refused to let go. Whispering things. Sniffing things. Being Suho.

And everyone had witnessed it.

Including Halmoni.

Unfortunately.

Now Suho was just trying to sip his soup in peace.

And Baku?

Was already vibrating with mischief.

He leaned across the table with a grin so wide it should’ve been illegal. “Slept well, neck-warmer?”

Suho paused mid-sip. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Baku said innocently. “Should I say it like last night? ‘Mmm... my Sieunah... stay close forever...’” He dragged it out like a bad K-drama actor.

Gotak choked on his barley tea.

Juntae dropped his spoon with a snort. “You definitely said that.”

“I WAS ASLEEP!” Suho cried, bright red.

“Right, because unconscious cuddling and whispering someone’s name like a love spell is totally normal behaviour.”

“You were gripping him like a drowning man clings to a life raft,” Gotak added helpfully.

Halmoni walked past, humming. “So sweet. He held on tight all night. True affection.”

Suho’s soul evacuated his body.

“IT WAS ONE CUDDLE.”

Juntae held up three fingers. “Three. You rolled closer thrice.”

“And sighed like a love-struck princess,” Baku cackled.

“I’M NEVER EATING BREAKFAST AGAIN.”

“You won’t,” Baku said smugly. “Because I’m about to eat your portion as well.”

But when Baku returned from getting water…

Suho was gone.

And so was his plate.

“What the hell—? Where’s my food?!”

Gotak blinked. “Didn’t you just put your bowl down?”

Juntae pointed slowly… at Suho.

Who was casually chewing Baku’s omelette.

Smiling.

Like the devil in cozy house slippers.

Baku’s eyes narrowed. “You ate my breakfast.”

Suho didn’t even blink. “Should’ve cuddled someone in your sleep, then maybe Halmoni would’ve made you extra.”

“YOU LITTLE THIEF!”

“I call it justice.”

“You’ve started a war!”

“I was born in battle.”

---

(Operation: Petty Shirtless Revenge)

Later that day, the group decided to go on a light hiking trail behind Halmoni’s place — to “digest breakfast” (Suho’s idea), though it was clearly a trap.

It was sunny. Peaceful.

Until Baku reappeared… shirtless.

His white transparent shirt tied loosely around his waist, his abs shining like the surface of a protein-enhanced moon.

“Is he glowing?” someone whispered.

“Should we call someone?” another muttered.

Suho’s entire soul shriveled.

Baku jogged up beside Sieun, who was sipping a juice box and completely unaffected.

“So,” Baku said, flexing way too intentionally, “how’s the view?”

Sieun looked once.

Then blinked. “Defined.”

Suho exploded internally.

Gotak whispered, “Sound the alarms.”

Sieun took another sip. “I know you work out.”

“Regularly,” Baku said, puffing up.

“That’s good,” Sieun nodded.

Suho threw a stick at Baku’s back.

“That’s assault,” Baku grinned over his shoulder.

“That’s restraint,” Suho growled. “Don’t tempt me further.”

 

---

 

Back at the house, Suho plotted.

As Baku stretched shirtlessly again in the hallway mirror.

And made loud comments about “core strength” while carrying a single tea mug.

So Suho did what anyone would do.

He waited until Baku was in the shower.

Snuck into the pantry.

And replaced his sacred protein powder… with flour.

 

The Next Morning:

 

The scream was instant.

“WHO PUT PANCAKE DUST IN MY SHAKER?!”

Juntae fell off the couch laughing.

Gotak casually sipped tea. “You smell like a bakery.”

Baku stormed in, white powder everywhere, waving the protein container.

Suho sipped his coffee with the elegance of a man who’d won a war.

“Something wrong?” he asked sweetly.

“You—” Baku pointed. “You think you’re funny?”

“No,” Suho said, standing up. “I think I’m victorious.”

The group was halfway through the trail behind Halmoni’s house — quiet forest path, the occasional chirp of birds, and Suho trying not to murder Baku with his eyes.

Baku was still shirtless.

Still glistening.

And now walking exactly half a step in front of Sieun. Flexing just enough to make his shoulder muscles ripple.

Sieun walked beside him, calm as always, sipping a juice box like this was just another Tuesday.

Suho trailed behind, grumbling with every step. “It’s not even hot out.”

Gotak snorted. “It’s a cool 21 degrees.”

“He said he runs hot,” Juntae whispered with a grin. “Apparently so do his biceps.”

Suho growled. “He’s gonna run straight into the ER if he keeps showing off like that.”

Up ahead, Baku stretched his arms dramatically, hands behind his head.

“So, Sieun,” he said casually, voice all sunshine and sin, “you know I’ve been hitting the gym pretty hard lately, right?”

Sieun nodded. “I know.”

Suho stumbled.

“You do?” he blurted.

Sieun looked back, blank. “He does push-ups in the common room.”

“Shirtless!” Baku added proudly.

“I’ve noticed,” Sieun replied, completely unbothered.

Suho’s ears turned red.

“Wanna touch them?” Baku said suddenly, turning slightly so his abs were on full display — like he was offering a sample at a grocery store.

Suho straight-up choked.

Gotak wheezed. Juntae backed up like he was not part of this crime.

Sieun stopped walking. Blinked once. Then… actually looked.

“Why?”

Suho’s soul fled his body.

“Y’know. Just to confirm the definition,” Baku shrugged, flexing again for effect. “You already said I’m ‘defined.’ Might as well confirm first-hand.”

Sieun tilted his head, considering it for one terrifying second.

Then said plainly, “No. I’m not curious.”

Suho blessed the heavens.

But Baku wasn’t done.

“You sure?” Baku teased. “Might be a life-changing experience. I’ve been told they feel like carved marble.”

“I prefer case law,” Sieun replied.

Juntae died.

Gotak had to lean on a tree.

Suho’s knees nearly gave out. “Thank god.”

Baku shrugged, unfazed. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Then he winked. At Suho.

Suho, red as fire, stomped ahead to catch up to Sieun. “Let’s go. Before he starts handing out abs like flyers.”

Sieun blinked. “...You’re pouting again.”

“I AM NOT—” Suho tripped over a root. “...Okay maybe a little.”

Behind them, Baku whispered to the others, “Worth it.”

Gotak smirked. “We’re gonna need popcorn for Suho’s next revenge.”

Notes:

Hey guys....
I'm sorry this chapter may look smaller one compared to others but I've planned some things for next chapters. But considering where it is going... I'm not sure anymore.
When I started this story the main plot was Yeon Sieun a pretty boy known for his cold personality, famous as law department's Cold Princess. And Ahn Suho his best friend cum coward lover or more like the cold princess' loyal guard dog who gets extremely jealous even when someone breathes the same air as Sieun. Bonus their chaotic gang.
Now as the story progresses this is becoming much more like... I'm not even sure if I should continue the way I'm writing or should I finish off this story and start a spin off story. In the upcoming chapters you will get the idea what I'm talking about.

If you guys ever feel like talking to me, you can drop a message on Instagram. 'theblpookie' is my id.

Chapter 13: Petty Revenge 2.O

Summary:

Because the last chapter was too short, I'm posting this one early. Happy reading.

The group kept walking, laughter trailing behind them like dust in sunlight.

Suho walked beside Sieun now, arms crossed, jaw tense.

Sieun sipped his juice box.

“I still don’t get why you let him say all that,” Suho muttered under his breath.

“I didn’t let him,” Sieun replied, not even looking at him. “He just said it.”

“You looked. You considered it.”

Sieun glanced at him. “Would it have made you feel better if I had touched his abs?”

Suho nearly short-circuited. “WHAT?! No—! That’s the opposite—!”

Sieun nodded once. “Then you have your answer.”

Juntae wheezed somewhere behind them.

 

---

 

Baku, now trailing with Gotak and Juntae, leaned in dramatically. “I think Suho’s gonna combust.”

“He’s like five seconds away from turning into a tragic Shakespeare character,” Juntae whispered.

“Woe is me, my beloved has beheld another man’s abs,” Gotak added in a mock Suho voice.

Suho whipped around. “I can hear you, you chaos goblins.”

“Then stop being obvious,” Baku grinned. “Your jealousy is louder than my protein shaker.”

“Was louder,” Gotak corrected.

“May it rest in powdered peace,” Juntae added solemnly.

 

---

 

Up front, Sieun finished his juice box.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “Are protein supplements supposed to taste like glue?”

Suho coughed to cover his laugh.

Baku gasped like someone had stabbed him. “You drank it?!”

“There was extra in the fridge,” Sieun said plainly.

“You— That was flour—!” Baku spluttered.

Sieun blinked. “I thought it was just low-quality.”

Gotak leaned on Juntae, wheezing.

Juntae: “No thoughts. Just flour.”
Suho grinned behind his hand. “I’m so proud of us.”

Scene: Three Hours Later – Petty in Full Bloom

The living room had turned into a war zone disguised as game night.

Uno cards scattered across the floor.
Someone’s hoodie was hanging from a lamp.
Baku and Suho were not speaking — unless it was through intense eye contact and passive-aggressive gestures.

 

---

 

Suho 1 Baku 0

Suho dramatically opened the window — letting the wind rush in — just to close it right as Baku reached for a glass of water.

“What the hell was that?!” Baku yelled, hair tousled.

“Air purification,” Suho replied calmly. “You seemed... tense.”

 

---

 

Suho 0 Baku 1

Baku brought in a tray of snacks.

Labeled “for the worthy.”

He handed one plate to Sieun.
Offered another to Juntae.

And held the third just out of Suho’s reach.

Suho stared. “Give it.”

Baku leaned back. “Oh? This? But it’s for emotionally stable people.”

“I AM emotionally stable—!”

“You literally labeled my toothbrushes like an HR warning.”

Sieun bit into a cookie and mumbled, “That was fair.”

 

---

 

Suho 0 Baku 1

Suho attempted a silent revenge.

He sneakily swapped Baku’s hoodie (again) with a child-sized crop top they found in Halmoni’s storage.

Baku emerged ten minutes later, confused.

Looked down.

Then just said, “You know what? I make this work.”

Suho choked.

Sieun blinked. “He’s not wrong.”

 

---

 

Suho 0 Baku 0

Suho offered Sieun tea with a dramatic flourish. He even used his deep voice.

“Your highness,” he said, bowing slightly.

Sieun took it like it was normal.

Behind them, Baku fake-limped in.

Suho squinted. “What are you doing.”

“I’m hurt,” Baku said, dramatically holding his arm. “I was betrayed by my roommates, my blender, and this tiny-ass hoodie.”

“You’re fine,” Suho muttered.

“I could faint at any moment,” Baku sighed, leaning against the wall.

Sieun looked at him.

Then at Suho.

Then sipped his tea.

“Let him faint,” Suho muttered. “Maybe gravity will humble him.”

 

---

 

Suho 0 Baku 0 Sieun 1

The group sat on the floor in the kitchen, playing cards again.

Sieun won every round.

Suho glared at the scoreboard. “Why are you good at everything?”

“I play to win,” Sieun replied.

Baku looked over, proud. “Cold-blooded.”

Suho crossed his arms. “My heart belongs to a menace.”

Sieun looked at him. “You chose this.”

“…Unfortunately.”

 

---

 

They were laughing too hard to keep score.

Sieun was leaned against the fridge.

Suho was slouched beside him, head tipping back, breathless.

Baku had glitter in his hair.

Gotak was eating popcorn straight from the bag.

Juntae wiped tears from his eyes.

“You two are actually insane,” he wheezed. “Like, clinically.”

Baku raised his cookie. “To chaos.”

Suho clinked his tea mug against it. “To revenge.”

Sieun sipped calmly. “To never letting them near a blender again.”

Notes:

Who is the most petty human being from these 5 according to you!?

Chapter 14: Campfire, Chaos, and Confessions

Notes:

Double update because you are guys are absolutely sweetest souls. Your comments make me so happy I can't even describe the love I feel when I read them. Thank you so much giving so much love to this story.

The sun was already folding itself into the horizon, painting the sky with strokes of apricot and dusty pink. The air was warm but fading, just enough for hoodie sleeves to be pulled down and for Baku to start groaning like a dying cow.

“I swear on my non-existent abs,” he wheezed, collapsing onto the lawn, “Suho’s cursed. He’s evil. A scented demon.”

“You started it,” Suho replied calmly from the hammock, arms behind his head, still smelling like sparkling passionfruit, thanks to Baku’s prank shampoo. “That glitter you dumped in my shoes yesterday? Now that was a war crime.”

“I didn’t think you’d wear them today!”

“Yeah, well, I did. And my ankles are still twinkling.”

Sieun, who had just emerged from inside with a tray of barley tea, paused mid-step, glanced at Suho’s feet, and blinked.

“They are,” he said.

Suho turned to jelly on the spot.

Juntae was camped out on the porch swing with a laptop on his knees and headphones in, pretending to work but very clearly taking candid pictures of Baku’s suffering.

Gotak was lying face-down in the grass, his head resting on a football like it was a pillow. He hadn’t moved in ten minutes. No one was sure if he was asleep or transcending.

“Bro,” Baku groaned, rolling over, “I think I dislocated my pride.”

“You don’t have pride,” Juntae called.

“I HAD SOME.”

“There’s literally glitter in your eyebrow.”

Baku rubbed his face, glitter now spreading like a virus across his cheek. “Suho’s a menace. He needs to be stopped.”

“You replaced his shampoo with a fruit smoothie,” Gotak mumbled into the dirt.

“And I’d do it again.”

Sieun set the tray of tea down on the table like they weren’t all feral animals. He looked completely unbothered — wearing a loose cream-colored cotton t-shirt and black pajama pants with tiny crescent moons near the ankle. The fabric clung just a little at the collarbone, shifting with every breath. His hair, still slightly messy from earlier, kept falling across his forehead in soft strands. At some point, someone (probably Juntae) had clipped a small silver hairpin to the side to stop it from hitting his lashes — but it kept slipping back down anyway.

He didn’t fix it.

He just sat cross-legged in the shade of the fig tree, back relaxed, eyes half-lidded, sipping tea like he wasn’t the main character in someone’s slow-burning emotional meltdown.

 

Suho, still in the hammock, looked over at him. And just looked.

And kept looking.

And kept—

“You’re doing it again,” Juntae said without looking up.

“I’m admiring the scenery.”

“You’re drooling at a boy.”

“I’m complex and mysterious. Let me live.”

“You’re projecting sapphic energy in an anime filler episode.”

Suho threw a sandal at him. Missed. It hit the table. Halmoni looked out the window and sighed like she was raising five sons instead of one.

They settled into silence for a while after that. The sleepy kind of silence. The kind where the sky hums and the bugs start singing and everything feels too perfect, so you know someone’s going to ruin it any second.

Gotak’s foot twitched.

Juntae sipped his tea and muttered, “I give this 90 seconds before someone screams.”

“I’m done screaming,” Suho said dreamily, eyes still on Sieun. “I’m embracing peace.”

“Since when?”

“Since he gave me tea without being told.”

“You’re such a simp it’s contagious.”

Sieun, completely unaware of the internal combustion occurring across the lawn, reached up to adjust his hair tie. His fingers brushed the nape of his neck, his sleeve slipped down just slightly, and Suho audibly inhaled.

Juntae looked over. “Do you need to be sprayed with a hose?”

“I need therapy.”

“Same.”
The moment held for a while.

The light dimmed. Crickets started chirping somewhere behind the shed. The air was thick with late-evening laziness, and it was way too peaceful for this group.

“I hate this,” Suho said out loud.

Juntae, still sipping tea, didn’t even look at him. “You hate quiet now?”

“No. I hate that everyone’s calm. It’s unnatural. We just spent the entire day tormenting each other and now we’re all... vibing?”

“It’s called recovery,” Gotak said from the ground. “You should try it.”

“I don’t trust it,” Suho muttered.

“You don’t trust anything,” Baku groaned. “Just breathe. Hydrate. We’re chill.”

Suho sat up in the hammock slowly, like a prophet about to deliver a vision. “Exactly. We’re too chill. That means something stupid is about to happen. So I vote we cause it ourselves.”

Gotak cracked one eye open. “That logic is unstable.”

“That logic is Suho,” Juntae said.

“Guys,” Baku suddenly said, lifting his head dramatically. “Do we still have charcoal?”

Five heads turned toward the porch at once.

Sieun was gently swirling his tea, his bangs slightly parted now, clip clinging on for dear life. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“There’s meat in the freezer.”

Suho gasped. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t,” Juntae warned.

“We could grill.”

“NO—”

“We could barbecue.”

Gotak immediately sat up. “I call first tongs.”

“You will burn something,” Baku said.

“I will burn everything,” Gotak grinned.

Sieun took another sip. “Halmoni has a folding table and a camping grill in the shed.”

Suho stared at him like he was witnessing a miracle.

“You’re enabling this?”

“You’re impossible when bored.”

Suho beamed. “This is why you’re my favorite.”

Sieun looked at him. Calm. Blank. Hairclip gleaming.

“…We all know that’s a lie,” he said.

And Suho combusted internally.

 

 

 ---

 

 

The calm cracked the second Sieun mentioned “meat in the freezer.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even intentional. But the sheer power behind those words—delivered in his usual soft, flat tone—rippled through the group like a summoned spell.

Gotak sat up like he’d been hit with an electric jolt. “Meat? Where?”

“In the freezer,” Sieun repeated, eyes still on his tea.

“What kind of meat?” Baku demanded, suddenly alert.

“Mixed,” Sieun said. “Halmoni stocks for surprise guests.”

“Halmoni is a national treasure,” Suho whispered.

“I literally told you we needed a dinner plan,” Juntae muttered, reaching for his phone like he was about to make a shopping list and emotionally detach.

“You said soup,” Suho shot back.

“Soup is civilised.”

“Grill is chaos,” Baku grinned. “I choose chaos.”

“I choose fire,” Gotak said solemnly.

“You’re not allowed near fire,” Juntae deadpanned.

 

And suddenly everyone had a role.

Suho jumped out of the hammock with the energy of someone possessed by Food Network ambitions. “Okay. Operation: Backyard Barbecue starts now.”

“No it doesn’t,” Juntae groaned.

“Yes it does. Sieun said meat. The heavens have spoken.”

“You’re hallucinating from glitter poisoning,” Baku muttered, brushing more sparkles off his cheek.

“Listen,” Suho clapped his hands together. “Here’s the plan. Gotak and I will go find the grill in the shed—”

“I’m not going in that shed,” Gotak said. “There’s a spider in there with six eyes and an ego problem.”

“That’s the fan,” Juntae said.

“It stared at me.”

“It rotated.”

“I FELT THE JUDGMENT.”

Baku got up, stretching like a feral cat, cracked his knuckles, and said, “Let’s go. I’m not afraid of anything in that shed. I’m a man.”

“You screamed last time when the lantern fell.”

“I thought it was a raccoon!”

“It was a wind chime, Baku.”

“A very aggressive one.”

 

Meanwhile, Sieun casually stood up, dusted off his hands, and started heading inside toward the kitchen.

Suho watched him go like a romance movie protagonist watching someone walk off in slow motion.

He turned back to the group and dramatically declared, “I’ll handle the marinades. No one else is allowed near raw meat.”

“Because you care about food safety?” Gotak asked.

“No. Because I know how to make him smile.”

There was a pause.

“Are you talking about Sieun or the chicken?” Juntae asked.

“Yes,” Suho replied, and walked off without explaining.

Suho combusted internally.

Externally, he was still standing coolly, nodding, but internally he was screaming into a pillow made of stars and heartbreak.

Sieun just... casually knew his moods now?

Knew when he was bored?

Knew that enabling him was easier than resisting?

Was that affection? Was that emotional intimacy? Was that a relationship? Was this marriage?

“I’m going to the shed,” Gotak announced, already marching toward the back gate with the posture of a man going to war. “If I get bit by something, I want my funeral to have spring rolls.”

“I’ll write you a poem,” Juntae called.

“I want you to cry dramatically.”

“I can manage a tear if the wind’s in my eye.”

Baku jogged after Gotak, muttering, “I’m bringing the lighter. No one stop me.”

“Baku, no!” Suho shouted. “You still owe the garden an apology!”

“I was taming it.”

“You set it on fire!”

“It was OVERGROWN!”

 

Backyard movement exploded.

Gotak and Baku disappeared into the shed, screaming about spiders and freedom. Juntae sighed like a single father watching his kids run into traffic, then pulled out a notebook and started sketching out a rough ingredient layout for grilling sauces “because otherwise you idiots will poison yourselves.”

And Sieun?

Sieun had disappeared into the house. Quietly. Smoothly. Like a ghost in cozy sleepwear.

Suho stared at the open door like it had swallowed his last brain cell.

He walked in exactly four seconds later.

The kitchen smelled like spices and possibility.

Soft yellow light spilled across the counters, casting shadows on the freshly washed tiles. Somewhere in the distance, a cat meowed at the chaos outside, but in here — for now — it was quiet.

Until Suho entered.

He slowed immediately when he spotted Sieun standing by the counter. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows now — no hoodie, no clip, just soft fabric and soft hair. A few strands had fallen across his forehead again, and he made no move to push them away. His hands moved easily, efficiently, coating slices of meat with marinade like he’d done this a hundred times.

Suho forgot what breathing was.

He walked in casually — too casually — picked up a spoon, then put it back down because it didn’t feel casual enough.

Sieun looked at him once. “What?”

“Nothing. Just… watching you be competent.”

Sieun raised an eyebrow.

Suho cleared his throat. “Need help?”

“No.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool. I’ll just… stand here. Like moral support.”

“You’re leaning on the fridge.”

“It’s supporting me emotionally.”

Sieun didn’t smile — but something in the corner of his mouth twitched. Just slightly.

Suho nearly passed out.

 

Meanwhile, outside, the war had begun.

“THAT’S NOT HOW YOU LIGHT COALS,” Juntae shouted from the porch.

Baku held a lighter in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. “It’s called flavor, bro.”

“You’re literally going to vaporize us.”

“It’s smoky barbecue!”

“It’s chemical warfare!”

Gotak, crouched beside the grill, was dramatically chanting something that sounded like a cooking spell. He had a headband on now. No one knew where it came from.

“I will summon the flames of Valhalla,” he said solemnly.

“You will summon a lawsuit.”

“Don’t insult the ritual.”

 

Back inside, Suho had successfully opened a container of chopped veggies without dropping it.

He felt accomplished.

Sieun glanced at the clean workspace Suho was hovering over and said, “You can start skewering those.”

Suho looked at the veggies. Then at the skewers. Then at Sieun.

“Permission to make heart shapes.”

“No.”

“Star patterns?”

“No.”

“One mushroom smiley face?”

“...Just one.”

Suho beamed like he’d been knighted. “You spoil me.”

Sieun didn’t respond. He was busy plating the marinated meat — but Suho didn’t miss the faintest trace of a smirk playing on his lips.

 

By the time they stepped outside again, the backyard was—

Glowing.

Not with fire (yet), but with fairy lights, cushions, and the unmistakable scent of burnt-but-not-quite-doomed meat in the air.

Juntae had hung a string of lights across the fig tree and dragged out a speaker playing soft background music. Gotak was fanning the coals dramatically with a towel. Baku was standing nearby like he was about to duel the grill.

“Suho!” Baku yelled. “Sieun won’t let me flambé the skewers!”

“Correct decision,” Suho said immediately.

“He’s holding me back!”

“You need to be held back.”

“I’m a visionary!”

“You’re a walking fire hazard!”

 

Sieun silently handed the skewers to Gotak.

Gotak nodded solemnly like he’d been trusted with a sacred mission and took his post behind the grill.

Juntae handed everyone drinks like a tired bartender on his last shift before retirement.

Halmoni peeked out the door once, saw the chaos unfolding, and went back inside, muttering something about “boys and fire and karma.”

 

The night had officially begun.

And Suho?

He was already spiraling.

Because Sieun, under the warm fairy lights, with soft hair and warm food in his hands, surrounded by laughter and half-burnt marshmallows, looked exactly like home.
By the time the last batch of skewers was devoured, the group had abandoned the grill in favor of the old stone-lined fire pit in the corner of Halmoni’s backyard.

It wasn’t perfect — the ground dipped slightly on one side, and the wood kept hissing like it was arguing with the fire — but when the first flames rose up, golden and soft and crackling like mischief, the mood shifted instantly.

Someone had dragged out pillows and folding chairs, and Baku brought out a bag of marshmallows like he’d been waiting all his life for this moment.

“DO NOT THROW THEM INTO THE FIRE,” Juntae warned immediately.

“Define ‘throw,’” Baku said, suspiciously already holding a skewer like a javelin.

Gotak was kneeling near the flame like a camp counselor summoning spirits. “We give thanks to the fire gods.”

“You’re banned from rituals,” Juntae muttered.

“Shut up and pass the lighter.”

 

Suho sat with his legs tucked under him, leaning slightly toward the fire. The flames threw a soft orange glow across everyone’s faces — painting warm shadows, highlighting sleepy eyes and wind-flushed cheeks.

But Suho wasn’t watching the fire.

He was watching Sieun, who sat to his right — legs crossed neatly, a cup of soda in his hand, hair fully fallen across his eyes now that the clip had finally given up.

The firelight made his features look gentler than usual. His skin glowed, lashes casting long shadows across his cheekbones. His entire posture screamed “I’m not trying to look this kissable,” which somehow made it worse.

Suho exhaled softly, pretending to warm his hands, and tried not to implode.

 

Then came the moment.

Gotak clapped once. “Now that we’ve eaten and successfully avoided setting Baku on fire—”

“I was aiming for style,” Baku muttered.

“—it’s time for the best part of the night.”

“Oh no,” Juntae groaned.

“Oh yes.” Gotak grinned. “MOST EMBARRASSING THING YOU’VE EVER WATCHED. AND. HOW YOU REACTED. Go.”

“I want to leave,” Suho muttered.

“Alphabetical order,” Gotak said with evil joy. “Which means—”

“NO,” Juntae said.

“YES,” Gotak nodded.

 

Juntae went first, dramatically pushing up his glasses. “Fine. I once watched an anime about sentient musical instruments.”

“What,” Suho said.

“The violin had feelings. And dreams. And a sad arc.”

“You cried,” Baku guessed.

“I bawled. He got abandoned. In a THRIFT SHOP.”

Gotak wiped a fake tear. “The tragedy.”

Baku, laughing: “You cried over a violin.”

“He just wanted to be played one more time!” Juntae snapped.

“You’re disgusting,” Suho whispered. “Next.”

 

Suho’s turn. He hesitated.

“…It was a drama,” he muttered. “Forbidden love. They— he— died. In the second episode.”

“AND YOU KEPT WATCHING?” Baku yelped.

“Twice.”

“I bet you cried,” Gotak smirked.

“I blacked out,” Suho replied.

“Romantic loser,” Juntae whispered.

“I’m delicate,” Suho defended.

 

And then…

Sieun.

Everyone turned.

Sieun sipped from his cup. “I’m not playing.”

“Too bad,” Baku said, mouth full of roasted marshmallow. “You’re the main event.”

“You don’t get to be mysterious and excluded,” Juntae added.

“Tell them about the guy who wrote you the rap,” Gotak grinned.

Suho blinked. “Wait—what.”

“It happened in first year,” Baku said. “He stood outside the library with a Bluetooth mic.”

“It was a rap,” Gotak added, “about justice and how Sieun was the law and also his heart.”

“He gave him a gavel-shaped chocolate,” Juntae added.

“AND HE BOWED,” Baku yelled.

Suho stared at Sieun like he’d just learned his crush was a secret K-pop idol.

Sieun just leaned back, gaze fixed on the fire, entirely unbothered. “It wasn’t very good.”

“You’re such a heartbreaker,” Juntae sighed.

Suho quietly reached for another marshmallow, half to distract himself and half because he felt like he needed something to hold while internally screaming.

There was a pause after Sieun’s deadpan delivery.

The kind of pause that comes when the entire group collectively realizes they're in the presence of a legend who simply refuses to acknowledge his own myth status.

“You got RAP-SERENADED,” Juntae repeated.

“He rhymed ‘legal code’ with ‘explode,’” Gotak added helpfully.

Baku was laughing so hard he nearly choked on his marshmallow. “AND YOU NEVER TOLD US?!”

“I forgot,” Sieun replied, sipping soda like he hadn’t just blown up Suho’s brain.

“You forgot someone rapped you a love confession while handing you legal-themed chocolate?” Suho squeaked.

Sieun turned to look at him. Directly. Calmly.

“I was focused on exams.”

Suho short-circuited.

 

Baku clutched his stomach. “I want to die. I want to become reincarnated as one of Sieun’s admirers just so I can be rejected with style.”

Gotak waved his roasting stick dramatically. “Your honor, I rest my case—IN PIECES.”

Sieun, still terrifyingly neutral: “He bowed twice.”

“He bowed TWICE?” Juntae shrieked. “Oh my GOD—how did you keep a straight face?!”

“I didn't,” Sieun admitted. “I left before he finished the second verse.”

Suho made a noise that could only be described as a breathy gasp-choke-laugh combo.

 

The chaos only got louder.

Gotak was now using his marshmallow stick like a wand, waving it dramatically at people who looked too smug. “Reveal your shame or be banished by fire,” he declared, voice booming, completely ignoring the fact that his own turn had conveniently been skipped.

“Alright,” Juntae said, narrowing his eyes. “Your turn.”

“I already went.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I am the game master. I’m exempt.”

“Not a thing.”

Gotak gasped. “You dare question the marshmallow mage?”

“Tell us your embarrassing watch history or I’m throwing you in the bush,” Juntae said flatly.

“Fine,” Gotak said, dramatically tossing his skewer to the ground. “It was a documentary.”

“Okay...?” Suho said, confused.

“On crocodiles.”

“…That’s not embarrassing,” Baku said.

“It made me cry.”

Everyone turned.

“There was this one croc,” Gotak said, dead serious, “who protected a duckling. And then the duckling got eaten by another croc. The betrayal. The raw pain.”

“BRO,” Baku yelled, doubling over. “THAT’S NOT EVEN YOUR STORY. THAT WAS A TWEET.”

“You said share what I watched,” Gotak said smugly. “I watched the TikTok.”

Juntae facepalmed. “You’re such a menace.”

“I’m mysterious,” Gotak corrected.

“You’re allergic to honesty,” Suho added.

“Thank you.”

 

“Baku,” Juntae snapped, turning now with laser focus. “Your turn.”

Baku held up his hands. “I decline. I refuse. I—”

“EXPOSE HIM,” Gotak screamed.

“He definitely cried over a K-pop music video,” Juntae said.

“No—” Baku began.

“He made a mood board after watching Weightlifting Fairy Bok Joo,” Gotak offered casually.

Suho gasped. “You did NOT.”

“It was a fitness inspiration board—”

“WITH QUOTES IN PINK FONT?” Juntae howled.

“I WANTED TO FEEL STRONG.”

“You cried when she gave him her tracksuit!” Gotak added.

“THAT WAS AN EMOTIONAL SCENE.”

 

Sieun didn’t say anything, but he took a slow sip of his soda and looked away. But not before Suho saw it.

That tiny smile again.

That faint, amused glint in his eyes like he was watching all of them from a throne of judgment and warm soda.

Suho’s brain short-circuited.

He needed help. A time machine. A cold shower. A muzzle. Something.

 

“Okay, okay, next game,” Baku shouted, clearly trying to regain control of the narrative. “Who here would survive in a zombie apocalypse?”

“Sieun,” everyone said in unison.

“WHAT—why?!”

“He would calmly outwalk them,” Suho said.

“He’d just blend into the background,” Juntae added.

“Zombies would sense the emotional cold and avoid him out of respect,” Gotak muttered.

“He’d survive,” Suho said dramatically, “and I would die trying to protect him.”

Sieun turned to him slowly. “Why would you do that?”

“…You don’t have to say it like that,” Suho mumbled.

“Say what?”

“Like it’s dumb.”

“It is dumb.”

Suho turned to Juntae. “He called me dumb.”

Juntae patted his shoulder. “And yet, you’re still in love with him. Amazing.”

 

They descended into full-on nonsense after that.

Baku tried to throw a marshmallow into Suho’s mouth and hit him in the forehead instead.

Gotak somehow caught one in his shirt and yelled “I’M ON FIRE” even though it wasn’t even hot.

Juntae started ranking everyone’s potential heartbreak songs.

Suho kept stealing glances at Sieun and pretending to fix his hair every time their eyes met.

Sieun continued existing like he wasn’t the reason Suho had stopped watching dramas altogether because none of them could compete.

 

And then—

Somewhere between laughter and flame crackles, between “you snore louder than the kettle” and “you literally sleep-talk about taxes,” between Suho accidentally roasting his marshmallow to a crisp and Sieun silently handing him another one without a word.

A pause settled in.

The kind of quiet that only comes after a perfect storm of chaos. The kind that says we’re full, we’re happy, we’re safe, and we don’t want this to end.

And that’s when Juntae, eyes half-closed, said softly—

 

“I don’t wanna go back tomorrow.”

 

The bonfire had burned down to a quiet, flickering glow.
Ash curled like smoke from an old memory. Someone’s marshmallow stick lay abandoned in the grass. Baku was half-asleep with a burnt crust stuck to his lip. Gotak was poking the embers lazily, humming a dramatic fantasy soundtrack under his breath.

 

Suho was still beside Sieun, and he hadn’t moved in a while.

He didn’t want to.

Not while the warmth of the fire lit Sieun’s cheek in soft gold. Not while their shoulders were almost touching. Not while Sieun kept staring into the flame like he was afraid of what would happen if he looked away.

And then again—

Juntae spoke. Quiet. Simple. Like an echo.

 

“I don’t wanna go back tomorrow.”

 

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It just hung in the air.

Gotak stopped poking the fire.

Baku blinked slowly, sitting up.

No one said anything for a few seconds.

Then softly, from somewhere in the shadows:

 

“Me neither,” Gotak admitted.

 

“Yeah,” Baku muttered. “It’s... too nice here. Can’t we just—like, not return?”

 

“Miss class?” Juntae scoffed. “How rebellious of you.”

 

“I’m serious,” Baku whined. “I wanna stay. I like it here. We didn’t even do everything yet.”

“True,” Gotak nodded. “No picnic. No hill trail. No ghost stories.”

“No prank war,” Baku added.

“ABSOLUTELY no prank war,” Suho snapped.

 

And then—as if summoned by the universe—Halmoni’s voice floated through the kitchen window:

“You all could stay one more day. Go out again tomorrow. I’ll catch up later.”

 

Everyone froze.

“…Did she just,” Baku blinked.

“Did Halmoni just bless us?” Juntae whispered reverently.

“I think,” Gotak said slowly, “we’ve been given a gift.”

They all turned—to Sieun.

The final boss.

The person whose opinion actually decided whether this plan would live or die.

Sieun was still watching the fire.

His expression didn’t change. But the air around him did.

“I have class tomorrow,” he said flatly.

And instantly—

“BOOOOO,” Baku yelled.

 

“BETRAYAL,” Gotak shouted.

 

“OH COME ON,” Juntae added. “You don’t even like people.”

 

“We’ll write your notes for you,” Suho offered. “I’ll forge your attendance!”

 

Sieun gave him a side glance. “That’s illegal.”

Suho smiled sweetly. “So was your face today and no one complained.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Let us have one more day,” Suho said softly.

Sieun shook his head. “You guys stay. I’ll head back.”

 

But they weren’t letting him go that easy.

“Oh no,” Baku said. “If you leave, the whole vibe collapses. You’re the stabilizer.”

“The anchor,” Gotak added.

“You’re literally our mascot,” Juntae said.

Sieun: “I’m going to walk into the ocean.”

 

Then, Halmoni’s voice came again — calm, amused:

“Let him be grumpy. I’ll talk to him.”

 

Sieun froze.

The group turned slowly.

“Halmoni,” Suho said, eyes wide. “Please use your powers wisely.”

 

“I’ll be reasonable,” she said. “I’ll just remind him of how hard he studied all year. How rare moments like this are. How one class isn’t going to destroy his dreams—”

“Halmoni,” Sieun warned.

“—and how if he goes back now, I’ll replace him with that nice boy from the bakery.”

 

Everyone: “OOOOOOOOOH—”

“Fine,” Sieun muttered. “Fine. One more day.”

 

Cheers. Actual cheers.

Juntae flung a cushion into the air like it was graduation. Gotak fell dramatically into the grass. Baku rolled into Sieun’s lap and declared him a national treasure.

Suho didn’t say anything.

He just looked at Sieun — really looked — eyes soft, heart full.

“Thanks for staying,” he whispered.

 

Sieun met his eyes for just a second longer than usual.

“...It’s not the same without you,” Suho added, so quiet no one else heard.

 

Sieun didn’t answer.

But his hand — just barely — bumped into Suho’s as they sat side by side. And this time, he didn’t move it away.

 

---

 

The next morning arrived too gently for how chaotic the night had been.

Sunlight filtered through the thin cotton curtains of Halmoni’s guest room. The scent of warm tea and toasted bread drifted down the hallway, along with the faint clatter of pans and Halmoni humming a trot song under her breath.

Suho rolled over on the mattress, blanket tangled around one leg, hair a mess, and face smushed into the pillow.

He blinked once.

Then again.

And then sat up very slowly, realizing:

1. His legs hurt from running after Baku last night (who stole a marshmallow and screamed “FOR JUSTICE” before tripping over a chair).

 

2. His throat was sore from laughing.

 

3. Sieun was nowhere in sight.

 

He panicked. Briefly. Quietly.

Then heard voices from the backyard.

 

Everyone was already up.

Gotak was wearing sunglasses indoors.

Baku was brushing his teeth with half his face still asleep.

Juntae was on his third cup of tea, muttering about “processing emotional vulnerability.”

And then—Suho saw him.

Sieun.

Standing near the fig tree again, dressed in a loose white t-shirt and grey drawstring pants, sleeves pushed up just enough to show pale wrists, hair unstyled and messy in a way that could only be described as “art school heartbreaker at 8am.”

The sunlight hit him like it wasn’t even trying to be fair — catching in his lashes, making his skin glow like he’d been Photoshopped by angels. He had a slice of toast in one hand and was sipping barley tea with the kind of peaceful expression people only get after making their entire friend group cry without trying.

Suho stood in the doorway, stared, and thought:

“If I look at him for two more seconds, I’m going to ask him to marry me with jam breath and bed hair.”

 

“Morning,” Sieun said, eyes flicking to him for barely a second.

Suho made a sound that might’ve been “good morning” or “god help me.”

“You missed Halmoni’s first breakfast round,” Juntae called from the porch swing. “But she’s heating more up for the late riser society.”

Baku added, foam still on his lip, “That’s just you.”

“I was emotionally recovering,” Suho mumbled, still staring at Sieun like he was watching a wildlife documentary on graceful creatures.

 

They all gathered around the garden table again, plates filling, tea being poured, the warmth settling back in like it had never left.

“Any thoughts on what we’re doing today?” Gotak asked between sips.

“Beach?” Juntae suggested.

“It’s chilly,” Sieun said immediately.

“But we don’t have to go in the water,” Baku whined.

“You always say that,” Gotak muttered.

“Because I mean it until I get there and change my mind!”

Suho, quiet: “He holds the whip.”

Everyone turned.

“What?” Juntae asked.

Suho looked at Sieun, then calmly repeated, “He holds the whip.”

Sieun blinked. “I have what now.”

“Power,” Suho clarified, sipping his tea like he hadn’t just dropped the most unhinged sentence of the morning.

 

And then—like clockwork—the planning began.

Picnic?

Hilltop view?

Wander through town?

Rent bikes?

Visit the old bookstore where Gotak swears a ghost lives?

 

The group argued in circles, gentle and loud, ideas bouncing like ping pong balls in a soft, sunny dream.

But Suho wasn’t really listening.

He was too busy watching Sieun.

The way he nodded along quietly, the way he stole bits of food off Baku’s plate without blinking, the way his eyes looked softer in the light.

“One more day,” Suho thought,
“and I’ll still never be done loving him.”

Notes:

I think you guys would now get what I was saying yesterday. When I said I'm feeling the story is going in some other direction...I meant it. Like I really enjoy what I'm writing and doing with this story. But I also wonder if it fits this or should I just make a spin off story.
There are chapters already written in my drafts and whatever I've prepared till now I can say with 100% you guys gonna love it. Just let me know what should I actually do...

Chapter 15: Bicycles, Breeze, and The Boy Who Pedaled Ahead

They left after breakfast.

The town was small enough that you could rent bikes just by giving your name and promising to return them before sundown. The shop owner had recognized Halmoni’s name instantly, smiled, and said, “Tell her the red one’s finally fixed.”

They picked their bikes like they were choosing Pokémon. Baku grabbed the one with gear handles he didn’t understand. Gotak chose one with a basket and immediately put two juice boxes inside. Juntae selected a silver hybrid and made it known he refused to go off-trail.

Suho was adjusting his helmet.

And then he looked up—and stopped functioning.

Sieun was in black jeans, a soft beige t-shirt tucked in, and the wind kept tugging at the loose ends of his hair.
He got on the red bike—Halmoni’s favorite—and pushed off gently like he wasn’t even trying.

And Suho, still holding his handlebars, just whispered:

“Oh no. He bikes like he’s in a coming-of-age movie.”

 

The riverside trail was quiet and golden.

They rode mostly in a wobbly line. Suho was near the back because he kept turning to check if Baku was about to run off the path again. Gotak was weaving on purpose. Juntae looked like he was commuting to a business meeting. And Sieun?

Sieun was always ahead. Not too far, but just enough to be impossible to ignore.

His shirt fluttered with the breeze. His posture was so casual. One hand on the handlebars, the other in his pocket sometimes.
He didn’t pedal like he was going fast — he pedaled like the world would follow him no matter where he went.

“I am so down bad it’s illegal,” Suho muttered.

 

About halfway down the trail, they stopped near a riverside café, where vines curled up the walls and the tables were painted in mismatched colors. The wind carried the smell of freshly baked bread and sugar.

Baku ordered four pastries for himself.
Gotak tried to trade a juice box for a muffin.
Juntae sat down and immediately opened a book.
Sieun was standing by the railing, watching the water, back turned to the table.

Suho walked up beside him, quietly.

They stood in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder.

The breeze was cool. The water glittered. A couple of ducks floated past like they were in love.

And Suho, trying not to ruin everything, said—

“You bike like you know where you’re going.”

 

Sieun blinked. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Both.”

Sieun looked at him for a moment.

Suho looked back.

And Sieun, softly, simply said, “I wait for you. You know.”

 

Suho’s heart stopped.

“What?”

“Even when I’m ahead. I’m not that far.”

And then he turned away, as if he hadn’t just shattered Suho’s entire nervous system.

 

They stayed for a while.

Drank cold drinks.

Watched the wind ruffle the water.

Took a group selfie (Suho’s hand brushed Sieun’s shoulder).

The group had finished their drinks, stretched, and laughed about nothing for a while. Baku was balancing a pastry bag on his head. Gotak was debating whether birds could smell fear. Juntae had wandered off toward a nearby used book shack with a mumbled “I’ll be back in five.”

Sieun followed without a word, hands in his pockets, distracted by a faded sign outside the shop that read “Stories You Forgot You Needed.”

The others didn’t notice.

Not immediately.

It wasn’t until they were back on the trail, picking up speed, sunlight spilling gold over the path, that Suho turned around — and realized.

No red bike.

No quiet presence behind him.

No Sieun.

 

His heart stopped for a second.
Baku was in front, singing terribly.

Gotak was behind, filming himself dramatically riding with one hand.

Juntae?

Sieun?

Not here.

Where is he?” Suho’s voice sharpened. “Where’s JUNTAE?”

They were supposed to stick together.

That was the unspoken rule. That had always been the rule.

Suho blinked. “Where are they?”

 

“Didn’t they leave before us?” Baku called.

 

“No,” Suho said slowly. “They… they went to that bookshop.”

 

Gotak squinted. “I thought they were behind us.”

 

Juntae was never behind them.

 

And Sieun never let himself be lost.

 

Suho froze.

 

“They’re still there.”

 

No one noticed.
Of course no one noticed.
Because Sieun is always quiet. Always still. Always left to follow on his own.
What if he thinks we left him again?
What if he thinks I did?

His chest twisted.

Suho whipped his bike around too fast, tires skidding against the gravel.

 

His balance shifted.

 

And he fell.

 

Hard.

 

Pain shot through his knee and palms. The impact wasn’t huge—but the fear inside him was. His bike clattered across the trail. His breath stuck in his throat.

“SUHO!” Baku yelled, skidding to a stop.

“Are you okay?!” Gotak jumped off his bike.

Suho stood fast. “I’m fine—I’m going back.”

“Let us come with—”

“I’ll meet you there!”

 

He pedaled back like something was chasing him.

Maybe it was fear.
Maybe it was regret.
Or maybe it was just the memory of Sieun waiting too many times for people who didn’t look back.

 I noticed. I always notice you. Please—please still be there.

 

The bookstore appeared again just past the curve in the trail.

The sign still swayed gently in the breeze.

Inside, Juntae was sitting cross-legged, flipping through an ancient book titled “Civil Disputes of the 1800s.”

And on the bench outside—

Sieun sat quietly.

Phone resting on his lap. Head tilted back slightly. Eyes soft, unfocused.

Waiting.

Just waiting.

 

Suho stumbled off the bike, breathless.

His jeans were torn at the knee. His hands scraped. The ache in his chest stronger than the one in his body.

Sieun looked up.

Immediately took in the damage.

“You fell,” he said quietly.

Suho nodded once, too winded to explain.

The door to the bookstore creaked open.

The shop owner — an old man with thick glasses and a wool vest — stepped out, blinking at Suho’s injuries.

“Oh dear—are you alright, son?”

“I—yeah, I—”

“He needs a bandage,” Sieun interrupted.

The man nodded. “Inside. Wait here.”

 

Suho sat down on the bench shakily.

Sieun followed the owner inside. A few minutes later, he returned with a small tin box and a bottle of water.

“From the shopkeeper,” he said.

He knelt wordlessly in front of Suho.

And started cleaning the scrapes.

Suho blinked. “You don’t have to—”

Sieun was already cleaning the scrape.

“I know.”

 

He worked in silence.
Gentle. Efficient.
Suho stared at him — at the frown tugging at his brow, the way he turned Suho’s wrist slightly to check the swelling, the light brush of fingers against skin.

You’re always here.
Even when I leave you behind, you don’t leave me.

 

What would I do if one day… you did?

 

That’s when Baku and Gotak caught up.

Baku’s eyes widened. “Holy—dude, are you okay?!”

“We saw you fall but—damn,” Gotak added. “You were gone like a tornado.”

Sieun didn’t look up. “Hold still.”

Suho flinched as antiseptic hit his palm, but didn’t pull away.
He just stared at the top of Sieun’s head, at the way the light touched his hair.

The bookstore owner peeked out. “That was quite a tumble. These trails hide tricky corners. Be more careful, son.”

“I will,” Suho whispered and gave a weak nod. “Thank you.”

Sieun stood, returned the kit, then came back to where Suho sat.

“Double seat?” he asked casually, nudging his bike with his foot.

Suho stared.

“…Seriously?”

“You can’t pedal like that.”

Suho blinked once. Then nodded.

Got up. Climbed on behind him.

 

And when they started riding—

 

Suho held on. Tight.

 

His cheek pressed against the back of Sieun’s shoulder. The breeze caught in his hair. His knees ached. His palms throbbed.

 

But none of that mattered.

 

Because all he could think was:

 

“I can’t lose him.”

“I can’t go back to a world where he’s not riding just a little ahead of me.”

“What if he leaves? What if he moves on? What if I never find this again?”

They rode back like that. Quiet. Close. Steady.

Suho felt everything hit at once.

 

He’s here now.

But what if one day he’s not?

 

What if someone else gets to ride behind him like this?

 

What if I never tell him?

Suho’s grip tightened around Sieun’s waist.

 

And Sieun didn’t say anything.

 

But he leaned slightly back.

 

Just enough that their bodies pressed closer.

 

And Suho, behind him, made a silent promise:

 

“One more day. One more touch. One more smile. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything he gives me. As long as it’s him.”

 

Hands gently gripping the fabric of Sieun’s shirt. Arms wrapped lightly around his middle. Chin almost brushing his shoulder.

And in the wind, Suho thought:

I don’t want to go back.
I don’t want to forget this feeling.
And I don’t ever want to live in a world where you’re not waiting for me when I turn around.

 

He didn’t say it.

But he didn’t let go either.

 

---

 

When they reached the square again, the others had already stopped. To take a small break.
Suho look a little pale.
Too quite.
And a little....clingy.

That’s when the music started.

Soft and sweet at first.

The group turned, the chaos momentarily forgotten.

Carnival lights blinked to life across the square.
Stalls popped up like magic.
Children racing past with balloons and music flooding the air.
A banner waved gently above the main street: “Welcome to the Spring Lights Festival.”

“I—” Baku blinked. “What the…”

“Did we accidentally walk into a webtoon?” Gotak whispered.

“Did we—did we just ride into a carnival?” Baku said, jaw dropping.

Suho got off slowly, still holding his arm where the scrape throbbed faintly.

 

Sieun parked the bike and looked at the scene.

 

Juntae holding his books like a proud parent. “Oh. This wasn’t here before.”

 

Gotak gasped. “WE’RE IN A K-DRAMA SCENE.”

 

“Do you think they have fried mochi?” Juntae asked, completely unfazed.

But none of them moved forward yet.

All five of them circled back to Suho.

“Are you okay now?” Gotak asked.

“Need ice?” Baku added.

Juntae quietly passed him a bottle of water. “You were too quiet on that ride back.”

We don’t have to go,” Baku added quickly, surprisingly soft. “Like—we can just sit. Or head back.”

Juntae tilted his head. “You kinda look like someone’s heart broke and reassembled weirdly.”

Suho blinked.

And then he looked at Sieun, who was just standing beside him, as calm and unreadable as ever—but not far.
Never far.

Suho just looked at everyone .

He looked at Sieun.

And smiled.

“…I’m okay now,” he said softly.
They moved as a unit.

Laughing.
Pushing each other.
Dragging Gotak to a face painting booth (“No, I’m allergic to glitter!”).
Trying to convince Juntae to eat from a food cart (“I don’t trust meat on wheels.”).
Baku screamed in betrayal when a six-year-old beat him at a ring toss.

And in between all the noise—

Juntae took photos.

 

Lots of them.

 

He caught Baku with mustard on his cheek.
Gotak mid-sneeze.
Sieun looking at a candy stall with the faintest curl in his lip.

But most of all—

Suho and Sieun.

He caught them when:

Sieun looked away and Suho didn’t.

Suho leaned close to say something, lips almost brushing Sieun’s ear.

They laughed at something no one else heard.

Suho tied Sieun’s shoelace before he could bend down.

Sieun casually wiped sugar off the corner of Suho’s mouth.

 

And in one photo—

Suho was just staring.
Backlit by festival lights.
Looking at Sieun like he didn’t know how to stop.

Gotak looked at Suho again. “Seriously though, you’re sure you’re fine?”

“I’m good,” Suho said softly.

Baku frowned. “No dramatic flashbacks? No ghostly echo of your fall haunting the wind?”

Suho rolled his eyes. “I have a fox plush now. I’ve evolved.”

The Spring Lights Festival was alive around them now — lights pulsing gently between trees, music curling through the air like a ribbon. There was joy in every corner: in the way kids tugged their parents toward glowing booths, in the scent of cinnamon sugar and fried mochi, in the rising chatter of people laughing too loud, not caring at all.

Still, no one in the group moved until Gotak broke the silence.

“You sure, Suho?” he asked again. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“I’m fine,” Suho said with a small smile, voice a little steadier this time. “Really.”

He glanced at Sieun.

And that was enough for everyone to start moving toward the rides.

 

---

 

Their first mistake was the teacups.

“Faster! FASTER!” Baku yelled, spinning the wheel like he was summoning a demon. Juntae, clinging to the side, looked seconds away from legal action. Gotak screamed once and never again.

Suho sat between them all, gripping the edge, mildly dizzy, but Sieun was beside him—calm, unreadable, one hand steady on the center wheel. Suho’s shoulder bumped his once. He didn’t move away.

The ride ended with Baku swearing vengeance, Gotak half-wheezing, and Juntae declaring teacups “a crime against equilibrium.”

They staggered into the next ride without thinking.

The pirate ship.

Baku’s yelling returned. “IF I DIE, BURY ME WITH CHILI FRIES!”

The swing made Suho’s stomach twist, but it wasn’t the height.

It was how Sieun sat beside him, completely still, the wind pushing his hair back, his expression so unaffected while Suho could barely hear himself think.

Every time the ship dropped, Suho’s hand curled instinctively toward the seat between them—and Sieun let it rest there.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t flinch.

Just sat, quiet and real, like he belonged there.

 

The group wandered into the haunted house next, still high from the adrenaline.

Baku screamed before they even entered.
Gotak tripped over a fog machine.
Juntae loudly criticized every prop.
And Suho? He startled at every corner.

But somewhere halfway through the track, his fingers brushed Sieun’s again in the dark.

And Sieun—without a word—held on for just a second longer than necessary.

 

They collapsed outside the exit like survivors of war.

“You okay?” Juntae panted, clutching a light stick someone handed him.

“No,” Gotak wheezed.

“Yes,” Baku said proudly. “This is living.”

Suho just laughed—genuine, light, the kind that slipped out before he could hide it.

Sieun sat on the bench beside him, sipping soda through a straw like nothing happened.

 

They drifted toward the game stalls next, scattered but orbiting each other like planets that never strayed too far.

Suho tried the shooting gallery and missed every shot.

Sieun stepped up behind him, asked for one round, and without breaking stride, hit all three targets with lazy precision.

Then he held out a tiny glass heart keychain.

“For your dramatic recovery,” he said.

Suho took it with both hands.

And held it the entire night.

 

Juntae had his phone out from the moment the sun dipped lower.

He took a picture when Baku tripped into a popcorn stand.

When Gotak won a plastic crown and wore it like royalty.

When Suho leaned too close to Sieun and whispered something that made Sieun blink twice.

When Sieun wiped powdered sugar off Suho’s cheek.

When Suho tied Sieun’s shoelace without saying a word.

And one, taken from a quiet distance, where Sieun was looking down at something in his hands…
And Suho was looking only at him.

 

It was Baku who spotted the Sky Wheel first.

“Endgame,” he declared. “This is it. We’re doing this.”

Gotak groaned. “You’re going to cry.”

Juntae was already dragging them into line. “Come on, we’re doing two per cabin.”

Suho felt the shift.

Felt it when everyone naturally paired up.

Felt it when Sieun turned to him, said nothing, and just waited.

And Suho stepped forward.

No hesitation this time.

The group split apart in motion, like pieces that knew where they belonged.

And as the Sky Wheel doors clicked shut behind him and Sieun, the world below blinked into a blur of warm lights and music.

 

The cabin door clicked shut behind them.

It rocked gently as the wheel lifted them slowly, higher and higher, leaving the buzz of the carnival behind like a fading memory.

Below them, lights blurred into golden dots. Music softened to a distant hum. The scent of sugar and smoke drifted up faintly with the breeze.

Inside the cabin, it was quiet.

Still.

 

Suho sat beside Sieun, not across from him.

He hadn’t said anything since stepping inside, and Sieun hadn’t asked.

But now, halfway to the top, Sieun glanced sideways.

“You’re quiet again.”

Suho smiled faintly. “I’ve had a long day.”

Sieun looked down at the bandage still wrapped around Suho’s hand. “You fell. Pretty hard.”

Suho nodded. “Yeah.”

“…Because of me?”

His voice wasn’t cold. Just calm. Barely above a whisper.

Suho blinked. “No.”

Sieun didn’t press.

But Suho did.

“Because I thought I lost you.”

 

Sieun turned his head, slow, eyes unreadable.

Suho kept going, softer now.

“I looked around and you weren’t there. And I panicked. I thought maybe you got left behind. Maybe… you didn’t want to come back.”

 

Sieun didn’t speak.

So Suho kept unraveling.

“You’re always the one waiting. Always walking behind or ahead. Always quiet. And I just—what if one day I turn around and you’re not there?”

 

He swallowed hard.

“What if you decide you’re tired of waiting for people to notice you?”

 

The cabin creaked slightly as the wheel paused at the very top.

Below them, the town looked unreal. Like a painting.

And above them—stars, flickering into view, soft and slow.

 

Sieun shifted then.

Not much.

But enough that their shoulders brushed.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, he said, quietly:

“I didn’t wait for everyone.”

 

Suho blinked. “What?”

Sieun turned to him, eyes steady now.

“I waited for you.”

 

Silence fell again—but it wasn’t heavy.

It was warm. Gentle. Full of everything Suho wanted to say but couldn’t.

So instead—

He leaned a little closer.

Their legs touched now. Barely.

His arm brushed Sieun’s.

Still no one moved.

Suho stared out the window, breath fogging the glass.

And softly, like a truth too fragile to speak louder, he said:

“If you ever leave...
Please take me with you.”

 

He didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t need one.

Because Sieun’s hand found his, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage.

And then—

He held it.

Quietly. Simply.

Like he meant it.

 

The wheel began to turn again, slow and smooth.

The cabin dipped toward the ground, bringing them back to the noise and light.

But neither of them let go.

Not even when the door opened again.
The world felt different when they stepped off the Sky Wheel.

Not louder — not quieter either.

Just... softer.

The music was still there, but it had faded into something calmer. The lights overhead blinked gently now instead of dancing. And somewhere in the air, the warmth of the night lingered like a secret shared only between them.

Suho stepped out first, the cool night brushing against his cheeks.

Sieun followed, fingers brushing against Suho’s one last time before they both let go.

 

Baku was the first to spot them.

“HEY! They return!” he shouted, waving like a lost child. “Did you guys kiss up there or what?”

Suho blinked. “What—NO—”

“I bet they did the forehead touch thing,” Gotak added. “The one from all the posters.”

“They probably stared at each other in cinematic lighting,” Juntae deadpanned, sipping juice from a cup he definitely didn’t pay for.

Sieun said nothing.

But he didn’t deny it either.
And that made Suho pink in the ears for the rest of the night.

 

The five of them walked home together — slowly, like none of them really wanted the day to end.

Baku spun the empty cotton candy stick in his hand and hummed some off-key romantic song.

Gotak tried to catch fireflies and nearly walked into a lamp post.

Juntae took another group photo while pretending he wasn’t smiling the entire time.

And Suho?

He walked beside Sieun the whole way.

Shoulders brushing now and then.

Hands almost touching again, but never quite.

Suho didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to.

Because every time he looked to the side—

Sieun was still there.

 

When they reached Halmoni’s house, the gate creaked open softly. The porch light was glowing warm, casting a soft yellow across the steps.

The air smelled like soap and quiet things.

Gotak let out a sigh like he’d just finished a marathon. “My legs are gone. Please bury me here.”

Baku dropped dramatically onto the porch. “No more spinning rides. I saw my ancestors.”

Juntae slid off his shoes and said, “I’ve decided I’m never returning to reality.”

 

Inside, they all collapsed into their respective corners of the house like falling stars.

Laughter echoed through the hallway — sleepy, muffled, sweet.

Someone threw a pillow.

Someone else caught it and used it as a hat.

Halmoni popped her head out once, gave them a fond warning not to break anything, and disappeared again like the guardian of peace.

 

In the corner of the living room, Suho sat quietly with his fox plush still tucked under one arm.

He wasn’t talking.

He didn’t need to.

Sieun was beside him, scrolling through his phone but not really looking.

Their shoulders touched now.

No almost.

Just… steady.

 

At some point, the others drifted off one by one.

Gotak mumbled something about marshmallow ghosts.

Juntae turned off the hallway light like a responsible mom.

And Baku fell asleep on the floor hugging a half-eaten candy apple.

Only Suho and Sieun stayed awake a little longer.

In the dim light.

In the hush that only came after everyone else had stopped pretending.

 

Suho leaned his head against the back of the couch and whispered, “Thank you… for not letting go earlier.”

Sieun looked over.

Didn’t say anything.

But he nudged Suho’s knee with his own.

Soft.

Steady.

Still here.

 

And Suho smiled.

The kind that didn’t need to be seen.
The kind that didn’t need to be loud.

Just real.

Chapter 16: Just This Once

Notes:

Double update today too. Because you guys are so good to me.

The morning was supposed to start early.

That was the plan.

Everyone had agreed — pack up by six, leave by seven, back to the dorms by ten.

But the sun was already high when soft golden light crept across the floorboards and the only thing anyone could hear…
Was snoring.

 

Suho was curled up on the futon, face half-buried in his fox plush, his night dress sleeves bunched up to his fingers.

Baku had somehow rolled in the far left corner with a throw blanket and a candy wrapper stuck to his cheek.

Gotak was upside down on the rug like a fallen statue.

Juntae was in a deep slumber, lips slightly apart, a book open on his chest and his glasses still on, hanging at a very dangerous angle.

And Sieun?

Sieun stood in the kitchen doorway, holding his phone, blinking at the screen.

The lockscreen still read 10:00 AM.

The alarm?

Off.

No snooze. No missed ring. Just… off.

He narrowed his eyes.

His phone never betrayed him like this.

 

A sound behind him.

Juntae.

Stretching. Yawning.

Noticing the look on Sieun’s face.

“Oh,” he said too casually. “Did we forget to wake you?”

Sieun blinked.

“You turned off my alarm.”

“…Maybe.”

“You all agreed to leave early.”

Juntae looked around.

At the boy pile in the living room.

At the sunlight streaming in like a warm apology.

At Suho, sleeping like someone who’d only just stopped thinking.

Then he shrugged.

“We all needed a little more time.”

 

Sieun sighed.

But it wasn’t annoyed.

Not really.

He looked down at his phone again.

Flicked the alarm toggle back on.

Then turned it off again.

Just this once.

 

By the time Suho stirred, the house smelled like toast and something sweet — probably the cereal Baku was sneakily pouring into his mouth from a mug.

“Morning, sleepy prince,” Gotak grinned.

Suho rubbed his eyes. “We’re still here?”

“Change of plans,” Juntae said, flipping a pancake like he did this professionally. “We leave after lunch.”

“Why?”

Everyone pointed to Sieun.

Suho turned, squinting.

Sieun stood by the window, arms crossed, head tilted.

He met Suho’s gaze and said, with zero emotion:

“They turned off my alarm.”

 

Suho blinked. “You didn’t kill them?”

Sieun shrugged. “I was outvoted.”

 

No one said it.

But everyone knew—

This was the last soft breath before the world started again.

So they lingered.

They poured extra syrup.

They took turns in the shower with bad singing.

They packed slowly.

They let the house hum with music and leftover laughter.

And when Suho passed by Sieun in the hallway, brushed hands, and said softly—

“Thanks for not waking me…”

 

Sieun just replied:

“You looked like you needed it.”

 

---

 

The house buzzed gently with the sounds of departure.

Bags half-zipped.
Toothbrushes forgotten and retrieved.
Baku’s hoodie going missing and reappearing on Gotak’s head.
Laughter echoing low and slow, like everyone was trying to delay the inevitable.

Suho stood near the window, watching the light hit the trees in that soft, golden way that always made things feel like an ending.

Behind him, Sieun was helping fold the extra blankets, sleeves pushed up, face soft in the morning light.

Suho tried not to stare.

And failed.

He looks... peaceful.

 

Juntae came in from the backyard, holding his phone.

“There’s a local café just five minutes down the trail,” he said. “Halmoni said it’s owned by her friend’s daughter. They have cold drinks and shady benches. We’ve got time, right?”

“YES,” Baku said instantly. “One last snack moment. I vote it’s a farewell party.”

Suho looked at Sieun.

Sieun was already nodding.

So they went.

 

---

 

The café was quaint — mismatched tables, plants crawling over the railing, windchimes whispering softly above the door. The sign outside read “Tiny Sips & Stories.”

There were only a few other guests.

And one of them—unfortunately—was the barista.

A boy.
A very friendly boy.
One of those types who smiled too easily.
And smiled too long at Sieun.

 

“Welcome!” he said brightly. “Oh! Halmoni’s guests, right? She called ahead.”

His eyes found Sieun. “You must be her grandson. She mentioned someone quiet and good-looking.”

Suho blinked.

Wait.

What.

 

Sieun blinked too. “I’m not her grandson.”

“Oh. Still fits,” the boy said, flashing another smile. “Anyway, your drinks are on the house.”

He handed the menu straight to Sieun.

Only to Sieun.

Juntae raised a brow.

Baku whispered, “This feels like a webtoon rival introduction.”

Suho didn’t speak.

 

The group sat down after ordering. Cold drinks arrived in mismatched glasses. Someone found sparklers in a bucket on the counter. Gotak asked if he could light one before noon (he was denied).

But Suho?

He couldn’t focus.

Because the barista kept glancing over.

Kept smiling.

At Sieun.

And Sieun, in typical Sieun fashion, didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

But Suho noticed.

Every second.

Every sip.

Every time that boy’s hand lingered near Sieun’s glass or complimented his “calm energy.”

What is calm energy?

 

What is that even supposed to mean?

 

Why is he smiling so hard?!

 

Why does this feel like something that happened ten feet away from a confession scene in a K-drama?!

 

Suho sat there.

Silent.

Barely sipping his drink.

Watching.

Realizing.

He didn’t like it.

 

He didn’t like it at all.

 

And what shocked him most wasn’t the jealousy.

It was the depth of it.

How it crept under his skin, sharp and unshakable.
How it wasn’t just “I like him.”
It was “he’s mine.”
Even if he’d never said it.
Even if no one knew.

 

At one point, the barista came to clear a glass and said, “Let me know if you need anything, Sieun.”

Suho, calm but just a little too fast, said:

“He’s good. We’re good.”

 

Everyone blinked.

Even Sieun tilted his head slightly.

But the boy just smiled again and nodded before walking away.

 

Later, as they left, Juntae walked beside Suho.

“You were... quiet back there.”

Suho grunted. “I had a lot of ice in my drink.”

“Mmm. Sure.”

A beat.

Then Juntae added, too casually:

“You should probably confess before someone who owns an espresso machine does.”

 

Suho looked away.

“I’m working on it.”

They returned from the cafe slowly — not because the road was long, but because none of them really wanted to walk fast.

The sun had started to dip again, casting long shadows across the trail.

Back at Halmoni’s house, the porch light was already on.

Inside, bags were reluctantly zipped.
Shoes were paired up with dramatic sighs.
Baku tried to pack a pillow he didn’t own.
Gotak gave the refrigerator a solemn goodbye.

Juntae folded a blanket with a reverence usually reserved for national flags.

And Suho?

He stood in the middle of the living room, eyes scanning every corner like the memory might vanish if he blinked.

 

“Everyone ready?” Sieun asked from the hallway, backpack slung effortlessly over one shoulder.

“Emotionally? No,” Baku replied.

“Spiritually? Never,” Gotak added.

“I will be once I get WiFi again,” Juntae mumbled, lifting his bag.

They stepped outside.

 

The gate creaked open.

Juntae helped load the bags in the car.
Gotak complained about leg space.
Baku made dramatic noises while getting in the driver’s seat.

But Suho?

He lingered.
Neither of them said anything at first.

The others were too distracted to notice.
Which was good.
Because Suho didn’t want an audience.

 

“I liked it here,” Suho said quietly.

Sieun nodded.

“It was quiet.”

“And full of sugar,” Suho added.

Sieun actually smiled. Just a little. “You complained about the carnival music.”

“You bandaged my hand.”

“You fell dramatically.”

“I panicked.”

“I know.”

Suho looked down.

Then back up.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “On the Sky Wheel.”

Sieun blinked.

Suho continued, voice softer now—

“If you ever go...
Just take me with you.”

 

Sieun was quiet for a beat too long.

Then he looked straight at Suho and said—

“You never have to ask.”

 

And with that—

Suho stepped back.

Sieun turned.

Halmoni stepped onto the porch — hands folded, warm eyes watching all five of them with that quiet fondness only grandmothers carried.

“You boys didn’t break my house,” she said, teasing.

Baku gasped. “Not for lack of trying.”

“We did leave a dent in the tea kettle,” Gotak whispered.

“I’ll miss your food,” Juntae said, bowing deeply.

Sieun walked up first, holding her hand for a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Halmoni smiled. “Next time, bring them all again.”

Then she turned to Suho.

“Did you rest well?” she asked gently.

Suho nodded. “Better than I have in... a long time.”

She reached up, fixed his hair like he was still ten years old.

“You looked tired when you arrived,” she murmured.
“You don’t now.”

 

Suho swallowed. Smiled faintly.

“I think I just needed... here.”

She patted his cheek.

“And him,” she added softly.

 

Suho blinked.

Halmoni winked.

 

Then the five of them climbed into the car.

The engine hummed to life.

The gate clicked shut.

And Halmoni waved until they were out of sight.

Chapter 17: The Distance You Didn’t Explain

Notes:

I was so so excited for this. After completion of this chapter I thought maybe the story is going somewhere else. So I really want to know what you guys think. Happy reading. ❤️

Returning to the dorms after their warm, laughter-filled stay at Halmoni’s place felt like stepping out of a dream. The cold, dusty corridor of the university dorm building didn’t exactly welcome them — it just existed, like it always had. Familiar but impersonal.

Suho tugged his duffel bag over his shoulder with a soft sigh. He was already missing the cozy glow of Halmoni’s house, her sweet tea, her gentle teasing, and most of all, the warmth of waking up with Sieun curled beside him, tangled in one oversized blanket like they belonged to each other.

Baku was the first to break the sleepy silence as they entered the hallway.

“Bro, my back is SCREAMING. I’m never sleeping on the floor again, I swear.”

“You literally volunteered to sleep there,” Gotak deadpanned, balancing his bag in one hand and a half-eaten energy bar in the other.

“Because I wanted to impress Halmoni!”

 

“Then stop whining about things you chose to do just to feed your own selfish little agenda.”

 

Juntae, trailing behind with his tablet tucked under his arm, rolled his eyes. “Can you both shut up before we get reported again?”

Suho didn’t speak. He was half-listening, half-drifting. But the moment they reached the door to his and Sieun’s shared dorm, he stopped short.

There were notes.

Three of them. Neatly stuck onto the doorframe.

One heart-shaped. One glittering. One shaped like a bunny’s head with floppy ears.

Baku leaned forward and read aloud with a grin, “‘For Sieun-sunbae… You looked so handsome yesterday. If you ever want to study Constitutional Law with me, I’ll bring the coffee and compliments.’” He snorted and turned to Suho. “Yikes. Rough welcome.”

Suho slowly peeled the notes off the door like they were poisonous mushrooms. “I’m going to burn these.”

“I’ll bring the lighter,” Gotak added helpfully.

Inside their shared room, the situation only worsened. A handful of letters had been slid under the door during their absence. One of them was coated in glitter. Glitter. In 2025.

Suho groaned and tossed his bag onto the bed. “I’m living with a walking campus crush.”

Sieun, who had just stepped in and begun unpacking, didn’t even blink. He picked up the letters with mild disinterest, read one line from the top note, and dropped them all straight into the trash can.

“Trash day,” he said plainly, adjusting his hoodie sleeves and yawning.

Suho stared at him. “That’s it? You’re not even going to read them properly?”

“I don’t know them.”

“That’s not the point!”

Sieun blinked. “Then what is?”

Suho let out a strangled sound and face-planted into the nearest pillow.

Later that evening, in Baku and Gotak’s dorm room; same building, two doors down- Suho slumped on their beanbag and sighed for the fiftieth time.

“Is it always going to be like this?” he moaned. “Love notes? Admiring stares? Random strangers asking him to review case laws with them?”

“You say that like it’s new,” Juntae replied without looking up from his tablet.

Baku was half-lying across Gotak’s bed, munching on dry cereal straight from the box. “Honestly, I’m impressed you lasted this long without combusting.”

Suho rolled onto his back. “They leave sticky notes with bunny ears now.”

Gotak grinned. “It’s the evolution of thirst.”

“And the worst part?” Suho threw a hand dramatically into the air. “He doesn’t even notice! He just shrugs and throws them away like they’re used tissues!”

“Well,” Baku mused, tossing a puff of cereal into his mouth, “you gotta win him over with something bigger.”

“Like what?! A proposal with a marching band?! I already make his tea exactly how he likes it. I wake him up gently. I bought him those stupid gel highlighters!”

“You’re basically married,” Gotak said.

Juntae smirked. “But not officially. And that’s what’s killing you.”

Suho groaned into his hands. “I’m going to die. This is how I die. I’ll just dissolve into jealousy.”

They all looked toward the open window, the faint breeze from outside rustling the edge of the curtain.

The moonlight spilled in faint and cold. And somewhere, in the other room, Sieun was probably sitting cross-legged on the floor, glasses on, flipping through another heavy book — completely unaware of the war Suho’s heart was waging.

 

---

 

It had only been a day since they got back.

 

Just one day.

 

And still — another note.

 

This one was taped to Sieun’s locker in the dorm hallway. Not subtle. In fact, it was decorated with glitter gel pen hearts and smelt vaguely like strawberry perfume.

 

Suho stopped mid-step. He stared at it.

 

So did Sieun.

 

Sieun peeled it off like it was lint, eyes scanning the words briefly. He didn’t react — not a frown, not a twitch. Just folded it, tucked it into his pocket, and kept walking.

 

Suho didn’t.

 

He stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. His foot tapped once. Then again. He glanced around and muttered, “Is there, like, a secret club handing out these things like flyers?”

 

Sieun glanced back at him, then blinked.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked plainly.

 

“I’m great,” Suho replied with a tight smile that could cut metal. “Loving the fanmail parade.”

 

Sieun stared at him for a second longer. “You look tired.”

 

“I am tired,” Suho snapped, voice a little louder than intended. “I’m tired of people sneaking around our dorm just to get a glimpse of you, I’m tired of peeling off heart-shaped notes from the door like I’m your secretary, and I’m really tired of—” he stopped himself.

 

He wasn’t mad at Sieun. Not really. But god, it was exhausting.

 

Sieun didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted the strap of his bag and asked quietly, “Did something happen today?”

 

Suho rubbed his face. “No. Just... nothing. It’s fine.”

 

They walked together toward their room, the silence stretched between them like string pulled taut.

 

When they settled into their usual evening routine — each on their own bed, books open but long forgotten — Suho let out a sigh so heavy it felt like it cracked the air.

 

Sieun wasn’t reading.

 

Not really.

 

His book was open, sure — the spine curved neatly in his lap — but his eyes weren’t moving across the text.

 

They were fixed on Suho.

 

Quiet. Steady. Studying him like he was watching something unfold.

 

Suho lay on his back, arm draped over his forehead like a drama character mid-breakdown, breathing like he was trying not to say something.

 

Sieun didn’t ask.

 

He just waited.

 

Until Suho finally sat up, ran both hands through his hair, and snapped:

 

“How are you so calm about this?”

 

Sieun blinked once. “About what?”

 

“Everything.” Suho motioned vaguely at the door. “The notes. The stalkers. The mailbox shrine you’ve apparently collected.”

 

“Why are you so bothered?” Sieun asked, as if they were discussing mild weather. “.”

Sieun tilted his head. “Are you the one getting the notes?”

 

Suho made a noise somewhere between a growl and a scream. Clearly offended.

“Technically, yes! Because they end up in our mailbox. On our door. While I’m the one peeling glitter off my hands!”

Sieun didn’t say anything immediately.

 

He just stared for a moment, studying Suho.

 

Not glaring. Not cold. Just watching — like trying to figure out which page of Suho’s day he had missed.

 

“You don’t have to act like it doesn’t bother you,” Suho muttered eventually, flipping open a notebook.

 

“I’m not acting,” Sieun said.

 

“Exactly.”

 

Sieun tilted his head.

 

Suho finally looked up, frustration softening into something tired, something vulnerable. “I don’t get how it doesn’t affect you. All those people... always looking at you, writing things, saying things. I mean, do you even notice?”

 

Sieun was quiet for a second. Then he pulled out his own book, placed it gently on the table, and said:

 

“I do notice.”

 

Suho blinked. “What?”

 

“I notice everything.” He paused. “Especially you.”

 

And then, just like that, he opened his book and began to read, leaving Suho to sit there, stunned — unsure whether to smile or cry.

 

His heart thudded in his ears.

 

And he suddenly felt very, very warm.

It should’ve annoyed Suho — the way Sieun never pressed, never reacted the way most people would. But instead, all it did was soften something inside him. Or maybe make it ache worse.

 

Because for a second, he thought:

What if he’s acting like this because of my usual outbursts…?

 

What if the reason Sieun didn’t argue or comfort or say more… was because he still remembered everything Suho had said.

The silence between them stretched.

 

And just when Suho opened his mouth to say something else, Sieun — without looking — added:

 

“There’s tteokbokki left from earlier. You didn’t eat properly. I’ll warm it.”

 

Suho’s throat closed up. He looked at the back of Sieun’s hoodie — the way it bunched slightly when he leaned down, sleeves always a little too long — and felt his heart trip over itself.

 

Sieun wasn’t cold.

 

He just cared in quieter ways.

 

---

 

The fourth love letter in three days arrived in their mailbox.

 

Suho didn’t even open it.

 

He just stared at the envelope — pale pink with hearts drawn along the edges — then sighed, long and slow, like the weight of it was heavier than it should be.

 

He tucked it into the drawer under the kitchen counter without a word.

 

When Sieun came out of the bathroom, towel around his neck and glasses slightly fogged from the steam, he noticed Suho standing unusually still, hand still resting on the drawer knob.

 

“You okay?” Sieun asked simply.

 

Suho flinched — just a little — then nodded. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

 

Sieun didn’t respond. He walked over slowly, towel now hanging over one shoulder, and leaned lightly against the counter beside him.

 

There was silence for a few beats.

 

Then Suho let out another quiet exhale and said, “You ever get tired of it?”

 

“Of what?” Sieun asked.

 

“This,” Suho replied, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “Notes. Letters. People hovering around the dorm. Someone literally waited outside our door pretending to scroll their phone for twenty minutes yesterday.”

Sieun blinked. “I didn’t notice.”

 

“Exactly,” Suho muttered.

 

Sieun tilted his head, studying him for a long moment. Then, softly:

“Does it bother you?”

 

That question lingered longer than it should have. It felt less like casual curiosity and more like… in depth study. Like Sieun was watching Suho closely, like he already knew the answer but wanted to see how Suho would say it.

 

Suho looked away, jaw clenched. “Forget it. You’re not doing anything wrong. They’re just... exhausting.”

 

His tone wasn’t bitter. Just tired. Like a balloon slowly losing air.

 

Sieun didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, eyes flickering across Suho’s face. Observing the tension in his shoulders, the crease between his brows, the way he gripped the counter like he was grounding himself.

 

He reached out, not quite touching, but close — his fingers brushing near Suho’s wrist before retracting.

 

“You look like you didn’t sleep again,” Sieun finally said.

 

Suho didn’t respond.

 

And that silence? It said more than any complaint ever could.

 

Sieun didn’t push. He simply nodded once, the way he always did when he was filing something away to revisit later. The way he did with complex cases and difficult feelings.

 

“Okay,” he said softly. “Let me know when you want to talk.”

 

Then he turned and walked away.

 

But not before glancing back one last time — and seeing Suho staring at the floor, as if his thoughts were too loud to look away from.

 

---

 

Talk.

Suho thought they would talk.

Eventually.

 

But instead — slowly, quietly — Sieun had started pulling away.

Suho had expected that something would shift after that.

That maybe, finally, they would talk.

Really talk.

 

But instead, it was like something had started drifting between them — slowly, gently, so subtly it almost didn’t feel like distance.

 

Until it did.

It had been weeks since that quiet question —

“Does it bother you?”

 

Since Suho’s own voice came out sharper than intended.

Since that raw, exhausted line:

“I’m tired of people sneaking around our dorm just to get a glimpse of you.”

 

He hadn’t meant it like that.

Not at Sieun.

Not really.

 

But maybe… maybe Sieun took it that way.

 

He kept replaying it — that conversation — over and over.

 

How Sieun had stared for just a second too long.

How his fingers had almost, almost reached out.

 

How he’d walked away with that soft, unreadable:

“Let me know when you want to talk.”

 

But they hadn’t talked since.

 

Not really.

 

The letters never stopped coming.

But they stopped appearing.

 

Suho didn’t find them in the mailbox anymore.

Didn’t come back to glitter-coated notes on the doorknob or folded hearts wedged into the frame.

 

Sieun never mentioned them.

Not once.

But Suho could tell they still came — he’d spot a faint smudge of glitter near the trash bin, or see Sieun sorting through papers with something quietly removed before Suho could glance down.

 

It was like those notes existed in a layer of Sieun’s life Suho no longer had access to.

 

He told himself it didn’t matter.

 

But it did.

 

Maybe he was hiding them now.

 

Because of me.

 

Maybe Sieun was being careful.

 

Avoiding something.

 

Avoiding him.

 

And then there was the phone.

 

Sieun wasn’t obsessive about it. Not the type to text with a smile or post his mood online.

But it buzzed more now.

 

And every time it did, his eyes would flick toward it.

His thumbs would pause mid-scroll — not indecisive, but hesitant.

His expression would shift. Just a little.

 

And sometimes, Sieun would leave.

 

No explanation.

 

No “I’ll be back.”

Just a jacket pulled on, door clicked shut, and the low hum of distance settling in.

 

It wasn’t suspicious.

 

Not outright.

 

But Suho noticed.

 

Every time.

 

And when Sieun was gone, Suho would sit in their room — staring at the wall, textbook open but unread, thoughts spinning.

 

Is he meeting someone?

 

The question sat in his chest like static.

 

Buzzing. Irritating. Refusing to clear.

 

Sieun didn’t seem upset.

Didn’t act cold.

He still made tea sometimes. Still asked if Suho had eaten. Still handed him folded laundry when their schedules crossed.

 

But there was a softness missing from it now.

A presence that used to fill the silence between them — now gone.

 

And the worst part was?

 

Suho couldn’t tell if he was imagining it.

 

Did I hurt him?

 

The thought haunted him.

 

It was stupid.

He hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t fought. Hadn’t even said anything mean.

 

But maybe that was the problem.

 

Maybe Sieun had expected him to say more.

To explain.

To stay.

 

Maybe that silence had done more damage than he realized.

 

What if I pushed him away?

 

What if he’s mad… and I didn’t notice in time?

 

Suho wanted to ask.

 

Wanted to bring it up.

But every time he got close, Sieun’s phone would buzz.

Or he’d be halfway out the door.

Or too far away — not in distance, but in something else Suho couldn’t name.

 

Something softer than anger.

 

And harder to break through.

 

The first time Suho tried to talk, it was raining.

 

Just lightly — that soft patter against the window, the kind that made everything feel quieter than it really was.

 

Sieun had just come back from outside.

 

His hoodie was damp. His hair too. Drops clung to his sleeves. He didn’t say where he’d gone.

 

Suho was on his bed, curled forward like he was reading. But the page hadn’t turned in thirty minutes.

 

He looked up.

 

Took a breath.

 

“Hey… can we talk?”

 

Sieun paused mid-towel-dry, blinked once — and then his phone buzzed.

 

He didn’t answer immediately. Just checked the screen.

 

Then, quietly:

 

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

 

He left without saying where.

And didn’t come back until well after Suho had fallen asleep — or pretended to.

 

The second time, it was a Thursday.

 

Dinner with the gang, all of them gathered around the low table in Gotak and Baku’s room. Noise, teasing, the usual chaos.

 

Sieun sat beside Suho. Close. Normal.

 

Suho leaned toward him during a lull in conversation.

 

“You free later?”

 

Sieun glanced at him.

 

Didn’t get a chance to respond — because Baku knocked over a glass with his elbow and Juntae screamed like a cat.

 

By the time everything settled down, the moment had passed.

And later that night, Sieun was already asleep before Suho could ask again.

 

The third time, Suho didn’t even get the words out.

 

They were walking back from the library. A rare quiet hour with just the two of them.

 

Suho’s heart was loud.

 

The silence between them felt like a countdown.

 

He gathered every ounce of courage he had and opened his mouth—

 

Sieun’s phone buzzed.

 

Again.

 

His eyes flicked to the screen, and something in his expression shifted. Not in a bad way. Just… unreadable.

 

He answered quietly.

 

“Yeah… I’m still on my way. Ten more minutes?”

 

Suho closed his mouth.

 

They didn’t speak the rest of the walk home.

 

By the fourth time, it wasn’t just timing.

 

It felt like a pattern.

 

A rhythm Suho couldn’t keep up with.

 

Every step closer, something pulled Sieun away.

 

Not intentionally.

 

Not cruelly.

 

Just… constantly.

 

Later that night, Suho found himself sitting cross-legged in Gotak and Baku’s room again.

The lights were off except for a desk lamp.

Juntae was half-asleep on a beanbag.

Baku was eating cereal at 10 PM like it was a sacred ritual.

 

Suho stared into his cup of tea and said softly:

 

“Do you think I messed up?”

 

Gotak blinked. “With what?”

 

“With Sieun.”

 

The words were heavy.

 

“I don’t know. I think I said too much. Or maybe not enough. Or maybe… maybe he just got tired of me.”

 

Juntae looked over, more awake now. “Did he say anything?”

 

“No. That’s the thing.” Suho rubbed his eyes. “He hasn’t said anything. He’s just… gone. Not completely. Just enough.”

 

Baku sat up, cereal spoon paused midair.

 

“Do you want to apologize for something you didn’t do, or do you want to know what’s actually going on?”

 

Suho hesitated.

 

Then:

 

“I just want him to talk to me again. Not surface-level stuff. Not tea and notes and silence. Really talk.”

 

He let the silence settle.

 

Then added, barely above a whisper:

 

“Or if he doesn’t want me around anymore… I just want to know.”

Gotak stared at him for a long second.

Then shrugged, gently.

“You’re thinking too much.”

 

Suho huffed, almost laughed, but it came out broken.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I just…”

 

He trailed off, gripping the edge of his cup a little tighter.

“I just want everything to be like before.”

 

His voice cracked — just a little.

Not enough to make anyone look away.
But enough to make them listen.

“I’m scared, Gotak.”

 

That silenced the room.

Even Baku put down his cereal.

Suho looked up, eyes glassy but stubbornly dry.

“What if he finds someone?”

 

“What if one day I wake up and he’s just… done waiting?”

 

His breath hitched.

“He waited for me for two years.”

 

 “TWO WHOLE FUCKING YEARS. Took care of my halmoni. Sat through hospital meetings.
Gave me meds. Argued with the nurses when they got things wrong.
He helped me walk again, Gotak. Like— like a parent. He cheered me through rehab when I wanted to give up. Watched over me like…”

 

He stopped, voice shaking now.

“Like I was something fragile. Something he’d already lost once and didn’t want to lose again.”

 

He looked down at his hands, curling and uncurling.

“And now? I don’t know. Maybe I did something. Maybe I said something. Or maybe he’s just…”

 

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t need to.

 

Baku finally moved.

Crossed the room without saying a word, and plopped down right beside Suho.

He didn’t hug him — not yet.

He just leaned into him, shoulder-to-shoulder.

Voice quiet. Unusually gentle.

“If you’re scared… it means he matters.”

 

“And if he matters… you fight.”

 

Suho blinked at him.

Baku’s eyes were dead serious.

“So stop waiting to talk.”

 

“Make him listen.”

 

Then, softer:

“Or at least… let him know he’s not the only one who waited.”

 

---

 

It had been a quiet morning.

Almost suspiciously so.

Sieun hadn’t said much — which wasn’t unusual — but Suho felt it.

The silence was different now. Not soft. Not safe.

Tense.

Like something was about to give.

 

He watched from the bed as Sieun moved through the room in his usual methodical way — folding his hoodie cuffs, tucking a notebook into his bag, checking his phone.

That phone again.

Suho’s stomach twisted.

He wanted to ask — Who keeps calling? Where do you go? Why don’t you tell me anymore?

But instead, he sat still.

Because asking might break whatever fragile thread still connected them.

 

Sieun paused by the window.

Thumb hovering over his screen for just a moment too long.

Then, without looking back, he said:

“Let’s go somewhere.”

 

Just that.

Nothing more.

 

Suho blinked. “What?”

Sieun finally turned to face him.

Expression calm. Voice even.

“Get dressed. We’ll take the scooter.”

 

Suho hesitated.

“Where are we going?”

 

Sieun’s answer came as he grabbed his jacket:

“Nowhere far.”

 

“Just… hold on.”

 

That was all it took.

And Suho went.

Of course he did.

He grabbed his helmet — the new one Halmoni had given him, the one with the extra strap for the second rider — and followed him down the stairs without asking again.

 

The road was clear, but the air was sharp. The kind of cold that kissed their skin and reminded them they were alive.

Suho gripped the scooter handles tightly. Not from fear.

But from uncertainty.

Because behind him, Sieun’s arms wrapped around his waist — steady, secure — the same way they always had.

But Suho couldn’t tell if they felt the same.

 

Sieun rested his chin lightly on Suho’s shoulder.

“You’re tense.”

 

Suho let out a shaky breath. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just hold on.”

 

So Suho did.

But his mind wouldn’t stop racing.

Is he saying goodbye?

Is this the calm before it breaks?

What if he found someone else and he’s just trying to let me down gently?

What if I already lost him and didn’t notice until it was too late?

 

He swallowed hard.

What if I never got the chance to say I didn’t want to be without him again?

What if this is the moment I realize he’s no longer mine at all?

 

His chest felt too tight inside his jacket.

The helmet pressed too hard around his ears.

He blinked rapidly.

Don’t cry. You don’t even know if anything’s wrong yet. Don’t cry.

Don’t fall apart while he’s still holding you.

Behind him, Sieun hadn’t shifted once.

He hadn’t leaned closer.
Hadn’t spoken.
Hadn’t even sighed.

And that terrified Suho more than anything.

Because Sieun always noticed his moods. His tension. His fear.

What if he stopped paying attention because he stopped caring?

 

The scooter slowed.

Turned left.

Then right.

Then pulled into a quiet, shaded lane — somewhere Suho didn’t recognize.

He blinked hard, trying to calm the pounding in his chest.

The buildings were newer here.
Residential.
Too nice for casual visits.
Too polished for surprise goodbyes.

 

Sieun tapped his shoulder once.

Suho stopped the engine, kicking the stand down.

“We’re here,” Sieun said quietly, already slipping off the back.

 

Suho removed his helmet with hands that didn’t feel like they belonged to him.

Where is here?

Is this where I find out I was right all along?
Did I miss my chance to fight for him?

 

The building looked like it belonged in a movie.

 

Not some penthouse fantasy — but something warm and quiet and meant. Modern but lived-in. The windows stretched tall, kissed by the gold of the setting sun. The ocean shimmered in the far distance, and birds floated lazily across the view, as if the entire horizon had slowed down just for them.

 

“What is this place?” Suho asked, parking the scooter carefully.

 

Sieun didn’t answer. Just handed him a spare key card and walked ahead.

 

Suho followed.

 

The elevator ride was quiet, but not awkward. The kind of quiet where hearts beat a little too loud.

 

They stepped into a hallway. Bright. Quiet.

Sieun walked ahead and stopped in front of a door.

Slid a card key.

Sieun pressed the code without looking.

He knows the code.

He’s been here before. He belongs here.

 

His voice felt like it was stuck in the hollow of his throat.

 

Sieun didn’t speak.

Suho didn’t dare.

His fists stayed clenched in his sleeves.

His heart tried to climb into his mouth.

What if there’s someone waiting on the other side of that door?

 

What if this is the last time it’s just the two of us?

 

What if he says he’s happy now, and I have to pretend I’m happy for him?

 

There was a soft mechanical click.

And then — slowly, carefully — he opened it.

 

Suho braced himself.

For a person.
For a stranger.
For a reveal he wouldn’t recover from.

But there was only—

Light.

Wood floors.

Big windows.

Quiet stillness.

No voices.

No shoes by the door.

No someone else waiting for them.

 

And when they stepped into the apartment, Suho’s mouth fell open. All the worries forgotten.

There were three full bedrooms — spacious, sunlit, each with built-in shelves and wide desks. The living room was cozy, with soft flooring and enough space to host movie nights, dance-offs, and study breakdowns. There was a dining area with actual lighting that wasn’t fluorescent doom. And the balcony—

“Holy—” Suho whispered, walking straight toward it. “Is that the ocean?”

Sieun nodded behind him, taking in the way Suho gripped the balcony railing and leaned forward with wide eyes.

“It’s far,” Sieun said, “but you can still see the water. And the birds.”

Suho turned, and for a second, the sunlight hit him just right — golden and glowing. “This is… it’s like a dream, Sieun. Seriously. Who lives in places like this?”

Sieun just hummed, stepping beside him, silent as always.

They stood there together for a long moment, shoulder to shoulder, watching the horizon stretch.

Then Sieun asked quietly, “You like it?”

Suho nodded, too distracted by the view to notice the question wasn’t casual. “I do. I love it.”

Sieun studied his face carefully.

Then pulled out his phone and started typing something — a message, maybe. A note.

Suho glanced sideways. “Texting someone?”

“No,” Sieun replied without looking up. “Just making a list.”

Suho blinked but didn’t push.

“Wanna see the rooftop?” Sieun asked after a moment. “There’s a gym. A tiny library. And a garden. It’s quiet.”

Suho grinned. “Lead the way, Princess.”

Sieun didn’t smile, but something softened in his gaze.

He walked ahead again, and Suho followed, still clueless, still stunned, still in love.

 

---

 

They stepped back into the apartment as the sky outside melted into orange and soft lilac. The sun was beginning to set — casting a golden glow through the wide glass doors that led to the balcony. It painted everything warm. Too warm. Almost too peaceful.

Suho trailed in after Sieun, still lost in the dreamy haze of what they’d just seen. The terrace. The open view of the sea at a distance. The gentle breeze that had made Sieun’s hair flutter just slightly as he looked down from the railing.

It had all felt… surreal.

So when they entered the softly glowing living room, Suho couldn’t stop himself from asking — half-teasing, half-curious, all nerves:

“Whose apartment is this, by the way?”

Sieun, already checking something on his phone, didn’t look up.

Suho waited.

No answer.

He was about to ask again when the doorbell rang.

Ding-dong.

Then another.

And suddenly, voices.

“We’re heeere!” Baku’s voice sang out like a battle cry as he pushed the door open.

“Woah,” Gotak said behind him, stepping inside and immediately freezing. “What… is this?”

Juntae followed close behind, his tablet still in hand. “Is this a model flat? Did we just walk into an interior design catalog?”

Everyone slowly fanned into the space — wide eyes, shoes half-kicked off, gazes roaming over the sheer size of the place.

“Look at this couch!” Gotak flopped onto it like it was a prize. “We could host a movie night for thirty people here.”

Baku immediately claimed the hanging swing chair by the window. “I’m going to live in this spot. Right here. Put my name on it.”

Sieun was still by the wall, tapping something into his phone, quiet as ever.

And Suho… Suho was just standing near the center, watching it all.

Watching Sieun.

His fingers were cold, suddenly.

“Whose apartment is this?” Juntae asked again, looking around.

Sieun finally looked up.

“I’m buying it,” he said plainly.

Silence.

Utter silence.

Then laughter.

Baku was the first to burst. “Yeah, okay. And I’m buying the moon next week.”

Gotak snorted. “Is this a prank? Are we on one of those hidden camera shows?”

Even Juntae chuckled, “Right. Sure. Cold Princess casually buying luxury apartments on a weekday. Got it.”

Baku cackled. “Good one. Imagine Sieun owning a place like this. With space. And a swing.”

Only Suho didn’t laugh.

He was staring at Sieun — frozen, eyes wide, the words slow to reach him like they were moving underwater.

 

Sieun wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t joking.

 

He just… nodded.

 

Everything went silent.

 

Juntae straightened up. Gotak raised a brow.

 

“Wait,” Gotak said, “you’re serious?”

 

Sieun nodded again.

“You’re serious,” Juntae repeated..

Sieun nodded again.

The silence that followed was heavier this time. Like the weight of a truth finally settling across the room.

“Since when?” Gotak asked quietly.

“A few weeks,” Sieun replied.

Baku whistled under his breath.

And Suho?

 

He didn’t hear anything after that.

 

His mind was racing, but his body was still. Everyone else started talking, questions flying about price, timing, furniture, loans. But all Suho could do was sit there, the sounds blurring into nothing, heart hammering in his chest.

 

Sieun was moving out.

 

He was leaving their dorm. Their shared room. Their bubble.

 

Suho stared at the swing chair across the room, empty now. Just swaying slightly from the breeze drifting through the balcony doors.

 

His throat tightened.

 

They’d been living together since the day Suho woke up from the coma. Every day since then — it had been Sieun. Helping him walk again. Giving him his meds on time. Recharging his transportation card. Picking out his clothes. Arguing with his grandma until she let Suho stay with him. Reminding him to eat. Watching movies he didn’t even like just because Suho couldn’t sleep.

 

The only reason Suho could even walk without limping now was because Sieun had never let him give up. Never let him break.

 

And now…

 

Now, what? They’d only meet during breaks in class? Maybe bump into each other in the cafeteria?

 

They weren’t even in the same department. Suho was in Marketing. Sieun was in Law. Their schedules barely aligned. He’d barely see him.

 

Suho’s vision blurred for a second, and he blinked rapidly.

 

He couldn’t breathe.

 

How could he ask Sieun to stay? He had no right to. But the thought of being without him — the quiet in that dorm room, the cold sheets on his own, the mornings without Sieun’s coffee steam curling through the air — it made his chest physically ache.

Suho stared at him — at the golden light catching on Sieun’s lashes, at the calm in his voice — and felt his body lock up.

His stomach twisted.

His mouth went dry.

Is this it? Is this the part where he leaves me?

 

He stepped back.

Then again.

Until his back hit the doorframe like the truth had finally slammed into him.

 

He’s really leaving.

 

He’s not saying it, but he is.

 

He’s moving out. Alone. Far enough to build a life without me in it.

 

And somewhere between the panic and the heartbreak — a thought anchored itself deep inside him:

Fuck it.

 

If I have to beg, I’ll beg.

 

If I have to kneel, scream, cry, throw away every ounce of pride I have—

 

Then I will.

 

Because I will not let him walk away thinking I’m okay with this.

 

Then someone — maybe Juntae — asked, “But isn’t it a little far from campus?”

 

Sieun finally looked up from his phone and said calmly, “There’s a bus stop right downstairs. I timed everything. It’s fifteen minutes, twenty during traffic. And by Suho’s scooter… it’s twelve from our building.”

 

That’s when Suho finally blinked back to focus.

 

He looked up.

 

Sieun looked right at him.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Our building?”

Sieun blinked.

Then tilted his head slightly. “Yeah?”

Silence again.

Then—

“Are you not moving in with me?”

And Suho — Suho just stared.

What?

The words didn’t compute.

 

Suho stared.

 

Everyone stared at Suho.

 

He blinked again, completely stunned.

He looked around, as if trying to find confirmation from someone else. But everyone had fallen silent. Their gazes now flicking between him and Sieun.

Then Gotak, very softly and dramatically, leaned in and said, “Suho-sshi. Our Sieunie is asking you to move in with him.”

Suho opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

But his throat betrayed him.

His eyes stung.

He turned slightly — just enough to wipe at the tears before they could fall, but it was too late. Everyone saw.

“Awwww,” Baku said immediately, slapping a hand over his chest. “Golden retriever down! I repeat, golden retriever down!”

“Don’t cry!” Juntae said, scrambling for tissues.

“I’m not crying!” Suho croaked, definitely crying.

Sieun, on the other hand, was now clearly freaking out in his very Sieun way.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just thought— you know— you might want— But if you want your privacy or— if you’re tired of living with me or— or if you want someone better— I can cancel— It’s okay, Suho-ya, really—”

“SHUT UP.”

Suho’s voice cracked as he lunged forward and hugged Sieun, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"Yeon Sieun,” he choked out, “I would love to move in. I want to move in. Please. Let me move in.”

 

The others melted into collective “Awwws” as Gotak wiped an imaginary tear, and Baku sniffled loudly just for drama.

 

“Oh no,” Juntae whispered. “It’s too soft. I can’t handle this.”

Then Baku muttered, “We were laughing, but now we’re the ones crying.”

Gotak nodded solemnly. “Deserved.”

But it wasn’t over.

 

Juntae looked around. “Wait. But if you both move in… who do we throw midnight ramen parties with now?”

 

The mood dipped for a second. Everyone realized — they’d be splitting.

 

Everyone turned sad.

Suho still had his arms around Sieun.

Then — still tucked in Suho’s tight, desperate hug, his voice barely above a whisper — Sieun said, “Why don’t you move in too?”

Silence.

Utter, stunned silence.

“...Huh?” Baku blinked.

Sieun stepped back slightly. “The apartment has space. We’d have to share rooms, but… we can figure it out.”

And then, almost instinctively, Suho peeked up from the hug. Adorably. Wide-eyed. Like a golden retriever who just heard the word “walk.” His arms still wrapped tightly around Sieun, not loosening even a bit.

 

Gotak gasped. Baku clutched his chest. Juntae mouthed oh my god behind his glasses.

 

Suho blinked. “Wait… what?”

 

Sieun blinked back, still half-trapped in Suho’s grip. “I… thought it was obvious.”

 

Suho, still latched onto Sieun in that suffocating hug, peeked out with wide eyes and messy hair. His eyes were glassy, but he had the softest, most wobbly smile.

 

He looked at them all — Baku, Gotak, Juntae, all frozen mid-thought, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

 

“Only if you want to,” Sieun repeated, voice muffled against Suho’s shoulder.

 

And that’s when the dam broke.

 

“AAAAHHHHHH OUR BABY!” Baku screamed, leaping up from the swing like someone had set him on fire.

 

“I CAN’T HANDLE THIS SOFTNESS,” Gotak croaked, holding his face in both hands like it was melting.

 

“THIS IS ILLEGAL LEVELS OF WHOLESOME,” Juntae wheezed, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

 

“GROUP HUG!” Baku declared, and before Sieun could escape or even blink, they were all descending on him.

 

“Wait— I can’t— breathe—” he muttered, arms now trapped between Suho’s chest and Gotak’s arms and Baku’s biceps.

 

“TOO BAD,” Suho said firmly, tightening his hold like a stubborn puppy refusing to let go of its favorite blanket. “You did this. You made this bed. Now get hugged.”

 

“I didn’t even—”

 

“Shut up, you’re adorable,” Gotak added, squeezing from behind.

 

“I— I just said move in—”

 

“And now we will,” Gotak declared dramatically, voice cracking. “Forever.”

 

Sieun’s head thumped lightly against Suho’s chest.

 

“I regret everything,” he whispered, face pink, voice dry.

 

But his arms… his arms didn’t push them away.

 

In fact, after a few seconds of struggling, he gave up and let his hands curl into Suho’s hoodie again.

 

And when he closed his eyes — just for a second, just to block out the chaos — he smiled.

 

Just a little.

 

(Bonus)

 

Everyone was being emotional — some trying to pretend they weren’t sniffling, some fully collapsing into the wave of warmth and surprise. And Suho, still clinging to Sieun like he’d never let go, peeked out from the hug and mumbled with a teasing pout, “You were laughing at me earlier... now you all understand.”

 

“Shut up,” Baku said instantly, already sounding wrecked with emotion.

 

“Shut up,” echoed Gotak, voice wobbling.

 

“You’re such a baby,” Juntae added, voice barely holding back a laugh.

 

But then, right in the middle of it, Sieun — squished between limbs and feelings and too many emotions for his quiet system — murmured, “I seriously need some air guys.”

 

Nobody moved.

 

If anything, they hugged him tighter.

Notes:

Tomorrow's chapter is also a little bit angsty. But I'm damn sure you guys are gonna love it. For now I'm planning to post chapters in this story only. Like I'm going to continue this. I think I will figure things out. ❤️

Should I give you a sneak a peak though....!!??

Precap:
They stopped in front of Sieun and Suho’s door.

And for a beat, everything was still.

Juntae stared at the wood like it was holding back a tide.

His fists clenched at his sides.

 

Then Baku stepped forward, hands balled, and banged so hard it echoed through the whole floor.

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.

“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL BREAK IT DOWN WITH MY HEAD!”

Gotak stood beside him, tense.

But quiet.

Like this was war.
Like they’d prepared for it.

 

Inside, Sieun stirred.

Eyes half-closed.

Hair sticking to his forehead.

His phone buzzed with the time:

3:18 AM.

He blinked again.

“…What…”

Suho groaned from the other bed, dragging the blanket higher over his head.

“Are we being robbed…?”

WHAM.

“I’M COUNTING TO THREE, ICE PRINCESS—”

Sieun was already up.

Feet bare against the tile.

Half-asleep, eyes narrowed in confusion, mumbling, “I’m coming, just calm the fuck down”

The handle clicked.

The door creaked open.

And there they were.

Three boys.

Standing in the hallway like they had seen something they couldn’t unsee.

Juntae.

Baku.

Gotak.

Silent.

Staring.

Shoulders squared.

Breathing heavy.

And Sieun?

He blinked at them.

“…Did I forget someone’s birthday…?”, questioned a very confused and sleepy Suho.

Chapter 18: A House And What It Meant Part 1

Notes:

Hey guys yes I'm alive thank you very much. And I'm sorry somehow I missed to update it last night I was so tired. But it here is the new chapter. So happy reading. ❤️

Suho was still staring at him.

Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. The words still hanging in the air like a balloon no one had grabbed yet.

“Are you not moving in with me?”

 

It echoed again in Suho’s ears — not loud, but heavy.

Sieun looked at him like the question was normal.

Like Suho wasn’t short-circuiting inside.

Like this—this apartment, this golden light, this giant swing chair—was all just the background to one quiet truth:

He had already decided.

He wanted Suho to live with him.

Suho’s heart was doing jumping jacks in his ribs. “I…”

His voice cracked. He tried again. “When did you even—?”

“I’ve been sorting it for a while,” Sieun said simply, walking toward the kitchen counter and setting his phone down. “A few weeks, officially.”

“You were never home,” Suho said, realization dawning. “You kept leaving early. Always on the phone. I thought—” he stopped.

“ I thought maybe you needed space from me.”

Sieun glanced at him. “I had paperwork.”

Juntae sat down on the wide couch, pulling his legs up. “Wait. You arranged the paperwork? Alone?”

Sieun nodded once.

“And the registrations? The approvals? The contract?”

Sieun shrugged. “I asked my parents.”

Everyone paused.

Even Baku stopped rocking the swing.
“You asked your parents?” Gotak asked carefully.

Sieun nodded, barely looking up from where he stood by the kitchen counter, like this was any normal conversation.

“I told them I wanted to buy a house,” he said quietly.

The sentence sat for a second. Then he added:

“They bought it.”

 

Another pause.

But then—calm, too calm—he continued:

“They don’t give me anything. Not really. Just money. That’s easy for them. Transferring a payment. Signing a document. That’s all they’ve ever done.”

“So I just had to ask them once.”

 

He didn’t say it with bitterness.

He didn’t even sound disappointed.

Just… like he’d already accepted it. Like it was simply the way things were. Like it had never occurred to him it should’ve been different.

 

Suho’s breath caught in his throat.

Juntae stopped mid-scroll on his tablet.

Baku sat up straighter in the swing.

Even Gotak, who always had something to say, said nothing at all.

Sieun didn’t notice the shift in the room.

He grabbed two water bottles from the fridge and placed one near Suho without a word, then leaned against the counter again, speaking like he was still walking through a checklist.

“They never asked why. Never said anything. Just wired the money. I handled the rest.
The room shattered like it meant everything.

Nobody spoke.

For a second, even the hum of the refrigerator sounded too loud.

Sieun didn’t flinch. Didn’t realize.

He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle slowly, took a sip like this was any other day, any other story.

But Suho?

Suho could barely breathe.

 

They don’t give me anything. Not really. Just money.

 

The way he said it — so quiet, so casual, so goddamn normal — it made Suho’s stomach twist.

He thought of all the times Sieun had gone quiet when parents came up in conversations.

The way he never talked about holidays.

The way he stayed on campus long after others went home.

The way he always texted “fine” whenever someone asked about family.

And it made sense.

Too much sense.

 

Baku looked down at his lap, mouth twitching like he wanted to crack a joke and couldn’t.

Gotak blinked, frowning softly — jaw clenched in that way he only did when he was holding something back.

Juntae’s tablet screen dimmed in his hand. He didn’t even notice.

And Suho?

Suho felt like the couch had disappeared under him.

 

Sieun took another sip.

Then wiped his hand on his hoodie sleeve and added, almost like it was a throwaway line:

“I wanted to live with my family.”

 

Eerie silence.

 

“I thought owning a house would help.”

 

And that’s when the silence turned into something else.

Not shock.

Not sympathy.

Just this deep, quiet ache.

A realization that bloomed too slow and hit too hard.

Because no one understood what he meant — not at first.

 

---

 

The door clicked shut behind them.

No one spoke.

The apartment had been warm — too warm, maybe — soaked in sunlight and quiet and something else none of them had found the words for yet. And now, as they stepped onto the sidewalk, the cool evening air clung to their skin like a gentle reminder that the real world hadn’t stopped while they were inside.

Sieun slipped the key card into his sleeve. His hands were tucked inside his hoodie, his steps even. Calm.

They followed him in silence.

 

The bus stop wasn’t far.

They moved without needing to ask for directions. Of course not — Sieun had said it was nearby. “Just five minutes. Bus number 41. It’s usually quiet at this time.”

It was.

There were two empty benches, a dim orange light overhead, and not a soul waiting but them.

Juntae sat down first, slowly.

Gotak leaned against the pole.

Baku slumped down onto the curb, knees drawn up, his voice quiet when he finally spoke.

“Feels like I just woke up from something.”

No one answered.

Because that’s exactly what it felt like.

Not heavy.
Not sad.
Just... full.

Like they had touched something important but hadn’t held onto it long enough.

 

When the bus came — on time, just like Sieun had said — no one reacted.

No surprise.

No jokes.

They climbed aboard like clockwork.

 

Baku curled into a window seat, arms crossed.

Gotak sat near the back, head tipped against the glass, watching the blur of light and trees drift by.

Suho chose a seat beside Sieun without thinking — like gravity made the decision for him.

Juntae stayed across from them, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other, not even pretending to check his phone.

 

The hum of the bus was steady.

Predictable.

Everything outside the window was moving, but nothing inside the bus felt like it had to.

Sieun sat straight, knees together, hands folded in his lap.

He wasn’t fidgeting.
Wasn’t sighing.
Wasn’t watching anyone else.

He was just... there.

Still.

 

And suddenly, they all started thinking — separately, silently — about the same kinds of things.

He really did say it would be five minutes to the stop.

 

He said the ride would be quiet this time of day. It is.

 

He even mentioned the golden hour hitting the balcony just right. It did.

 

The rooms. The seating. The warm floors. The quiet rooftop. The way he said it like a checklist — and like it mattered to him, even though he pretended it didn’t.

 

Juntae blinked slowly.

He knew what we’d want before we asked for it.

 

Suho’s gaze drifted toward Sieun’s hands.

The way he was still holding them in his sleeves like he always did when he was unsure of something. But his face?

Calm.

Too calm.

 

Baku was still curled up, but now his chin was tucked against his knee, and his eyes weren’t closed. He was looking at the floor of the bus.

Thinking.

Maybe even replaying the moment Sieun had said:

“Baku can scream into the swing chair and no one will tell him to shut up.”

 

He hadn’t even told Sieun he liked swinging when stressed.
But he did.
He always had.

 

Gotak’s head shifted slightly against the window.

I never told him about my bed. How does he even know it.

It hit different.

 

They didn’t say any of this out loud.

But the feeling was starting to crawl in.

Something meant more than they had let themselves realize.

They just didn’t know what it was yet.

Not yet.

 

The bus rolled to a stop with a soft hiss.

Campus lights flickered overhead, humming like always. A group of students passed on bicycles, laughing about something none of them could hear.

They stepped off one by one.

No rush.

No words.

The streetlights painted their shadows long across the pavement.

 

Sieun adjusted the strap of his bag.

Didn’t look back.

Just started walking.

And everyone followed.

Not because they agreed on anything.

Just because they always did.

 

The dorms looked the same.

But somehow, the air around them didn’t.

The breeze had cooled. The gravel sounded louder beneath their shoes. The silence between them stretched longer than usual — not uncomfortable, but almost too full.

Suho looked up at the stairwell lights as they climbed.

One had burned out. It always did.

And still, he thought—

Sieun would’ve noticed.

 

Juntae trailed behind, hands in his jacket pockets.

He was thinking again.

About the precise bus timing.
The space between their footsteps.
The way Sieun had walked behind them just enough in the apartment, never in the center. Like he was watching. Measuring. Making sure no one felt boxed in.

He never tried to impress us.

 

He just… planned around us.

 

Gotak rubbed his eyes as they reached their floor. His voice came out muffled.

“Feels later than it is.”

Baku mumbled back, “Yeah. Feels like... a lot happened.”

But even as he said it, he couldn’t figure out what, exactly.

Just that something had changed.

Something subtle.

Something unspoken.

 

Suho unlocked their door, pushing it open slowly. He let Sieun enter first.

There was a letter on the floor.

He picked it up without reading it and tossed it on the desk.

Sieun dropped his bag in its usual spot. Shrugged off his jacket. Sat down.

That was it.

Like any other day.

Like nothing had happened.

 

But Suho stood near the door a moment longer.

He didn’t even realize it until Sieun glanced up, tilting his head just slightly.

“…You okay?”

“Yeah,” Suho said too quickly. “Just... tired.”

 

Down the hall, Baku was lying on his bed with his arms stretched wide.

Staring at the ceiling.

Gotak was brushing his teeth with the door open.

Juntae hadn’t even taken off his shoes yet.

He sat on his bed, the door still ajar, staring at the glow of his tablet screen.

Not reading.

Just thinking.

 Why did it all feel so... carefully placed?

 

 Why did it feel like something was happening for them, not to them?

 

 Why did it feel like Sieun had been making room for them long before they realized it?

 

They all felt it.

Each of them.

The weight.

The shape of something almost understood.

The echo of something they’d missed.

But no one could name it.

Not yet.

Not until later.

Suho couldn’t sleep.

Not deeply.

Not properly.

He’d been lying there for almost an hour — eyes closed, body still — but his mind had never shut off.

Not once.

The room was dark, but not quiet. Not to him. It buzzed with unspoken things. Half-memories. Glances. Words Sieun had said earlier that afternoon that kept looping in his head like old dialogue in a dream he didn’t remember agreeing to.

“You won’t have to deal with people knocking on the door anymore.”

“Your own space.”

“No admirers.”

 

It had sounded... calm. Casual. But also too precise. Too gentle. Like it wasn’t just about comfort.

Like it was protection.

Why did that make his chest hurt?

 

He rolled over.

Faced the wall.

Then back again.

 

Across the room, Sieun was fast asleep — or at least pretending to be. One arm tucked under the pillow. Face turned toward the window. Breathing even.

Suho stared at the curve of his shoulder under the blanket.

And the ache — that same heavy, quiet ache — settled in his throat again.

 Why does it feel like I’m losing something…?

 

 Nothing’s wrong. He didn’t do anything wrong. But… why does it feel like I’m about to be left behind?

 

He reached for his phone.

Then didn’t.

Closed his eyes.

Opened them again.

 

Two doors down, Juntae sat up in bed.

Abruptly.

Like the air had shifted around him.

He hadn’t heard a sound.

But something inside him was louder than anything else.

His hands were clenched into the blanket. His legs were tangled. He shoved them aside and stared at the darkness like it might hand him an answer.

 Something’s missing.

 

The feeling hadn’t gone away since they’d left the apartment.

He kept trying to label it — awe, confusion, affection, guilt — but none of those words fit.

Then—

A flicker.

A thread pulled.

He stood up and crossed the room to his desk.

Opened his tablet.

Scrolled through his messages.

There.

From Sieun.

 “Do you think Baku and Gotak could live together long-term?”

 

It was from three nights ago.

He’d replied with a dumb meme.

No follow-up. No explanation. Just that one line.

At the time, he hadn’t thought twice.

But now…

Now it felt like a cornerstone.

 

He looked back toward the bed.

Then toward the door.

Then back to the message.

 Oh.

 

It wasn’t just curiosity.

It wasn’t logistics.

It was a blueprint.

 

Suho rolled over again.

Faced the ceiling.

Eyes wide now.

 He was building something.

 

He didn’t know what.

Not yet.

But he could feel it.

And the longer he stared at Sieun’s still frame across the room, the more he felt like he was watching someone drift just slightly out of reach.

 

And down the hall, Juntae slipped into a jacket.

Stepped into the corridor.

He didn’t run.

He walked.

But his legs were stiff, fast, like they were moving before his brain caught up.

His breath was shallow. His jacket was half-zipped. And his heart? Loud. Like a drumbeat he couldn’t shut off.

 

The clock on the wall read 3:15 AM.

He didn’t knock on Baku and Gotak’s door gently.

He banged.

Once.

Twice.

“OPEN UP—”

The door creaked, just a crack. Gotak stood there in shorts and a half-open mouth.

“What the—”

“Get dressed.”

“What?”

“Wake Baku.”

“He’s—”

“Now.”

 

Two minutes later they were in the hallway.

Gotak wore a sweatshirt backward.

Baku was holding a bag of gummy bears like a weapon.

“You’re not even gonna tell us where we’re going?” Baku muttered, voice still raspy. “If this is about pancakes again I swear—”

“It’s about Sieun,” Juntae said sharply.

That shut them both up.

They turned.

Juntae wasn’t crying.

Not really.

But his eyes were red.

His voice broke halfway as he said, “We missed it.”

 

He didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t let them ask.

He turned the corner, stopped in front of Sieun and Suho’s dorm, and clenched both fists at his side.

Baku caught up first, still chewing on sleep. “What the hell are you even—?”

“I didn’t get it,” Juntae said, facing the door. “I didn’t get it earlier. But I do now.”

 

He stared at the door like it had betrayed them.

Like it had been holding the truth on the other side this whole time.

“He timed the bus down to the minute.
He picked each room like he already knew who’d live in them.
He asked me if you two could live together and I didn’t even realize he meant it.”
“He planned the lighting. The rooftop. The swing chair. The shelves.
Not for himself.”

The hallway was dim, lit only by one flickering tube light that had always buzzed just a little too loudly.

The corridor was supposed to be silent at this hour.

But tonight, it held weight.

 

Juntae walked ahead. Not rushed. But there was no pause in his step.

His face was set — jaw tight, lips pressed into a line. Eyes… unreadable.

Baku was at his left, gummy bear bag abandoned. Hoodie half-zipped. For once, no jokes. Not even a curse.

Gotak followed behind, silent, like he’d been given orders he couldn’t ignore.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Something had already been said.

And it had been enough.

 

They stopped in front of Sieun and Suho’s door.

And for a beat, everything was still.

Juntae stared at the wood like it was holding back a tide.

His fists clenched at his sides.

 

Then Baku stepped forward, hands balled, and banged so hard it echoed through the whole floor.

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.
He pounded on the door with both fists.

 

“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’M BREAKING IT DOWN!”

 

Inside, Sieun jolted upright.

 

His hair stuck up on one side. The blanket fell from his shoulder as he reached for his phone.

 

3:22 AM.

 

He blinked.

 

“...What the hell…”

 

Across the room, Suho groaned.

 

Face still buried in the pillow. Voice thick and dazed.

 

“Did someone die?”

 

Another bang.

 

Baku again.

 

“SIEUN I’M NOT KIDDING—OPEN IT OR I WILL KICK IT IN.”

 

Sieun flinched. Swung his legs over the side of the bed, disoriented.

 

“I’m coming—what is even—?”

And started walking.

 

The handle clicked.

The door creaked open.

And there they were.

Three boys.

Standing in the hallway like they had seen something they couldn’t unsee.

Juntae.

Baku.

Gotak.

Silent.

Staring.

Shoulders squared.

Breathing heavy.

And Sieun?

He blinked at them.

“…Did I forget someone’s birthday…?”, asked a very confused sleepy Suho

Notes:

There is one more chapter. Yes double update.

Chapter 19: The House And What It Meant Part 2

Notes:

A bit longer chapter

The door creaked open.

Sieun stood there — eyes slightly narrowed, hair a bit flattened on one side, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder.

His tone was flat. Barely awake. “What time is it…”

Behind him, Suho blinked awake from the bed, sitting up groggily. “Why are they here…?”

No one answered him.

Not yet.

Baku shifted, arms crossed tight.

Gotak stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the floor.

And Juntae… took a step forward.

 

He didn’t speak immediately.

He just looked at Sieun.

Really looked.

The hallway buzzed.

His chest felt tight.

His voice, when it came, was quiet — not cracking, not loud — just… pulled from someplace deeper.

“I’ve been thinking about it. For hours.”

 

“The timing. The way you brought us there. That whole evening.”

 

He kept his eyes on Sieun’s.

“You didn’t say much. You never do. But everything about that place…”

 

A pause.

“It already knew us.”

 

Sieun didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there. Quiet. Eyes steady.

 

Juntae continued.

Slower now.

Like the weight of the words were dragging behind every breath.

“Baku’s swing chair.
Gotak’s desk with a working lamp.
Suho’s room farthest from the door.
Mine next to the window — because I always stay up late reading.”

 

He laughed under his breath. A humorless sound.

“You even told me last week not to order that bookshelf because I ‘might not need it soon.’”

 

He looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t get it. Not then.”

 

Baku glanced at Gotak.

Suho was sitting upright now, silent.

Watching.

Listening.

His hand was curled into the blanket on his lap.

 

Juntae stepped forward one more time.

The light hit his face.

Tired.

But clear.

“And the bus.”

 

He looked at Sieun again.

“We got back at 8:04. Exactly what you said.”

 

“You didn’t guess. You calculated.”

 

The tension thickened in the air — like a string being pulled too tight.

Then, finally:

“That place… wasn’t about you moving on.”

 

“It was about us.”

 

“You were trying to give us a place we wouldn’t lose.”

 

Silence.

No one breathed.

No one moved.

Even Baku’s fingers were still.

 

And then—

Sieun’s eyes flicked between them, one by one.

Expression unreadable.

Juntae’s voice had gone soft now.

Almost hoarse.

“You weren’t preparing to leave.”

 

“You were preparing to keep us together.”

 

His gaze landed on Sieun again — not accusing. Not emotional.

Just... honest.

“You didn’t say it. But everything you did... it was never about just you.”

 

“It was about all of us.”

 

“You were trying to give us something permanent. A home.”

 

Sieun didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

But something shifted — almost invisible.

His eyes lowered for a second.

Then met Juntae’s.

And when he finally spoke, his tone didn’t rise. His voice didn’t break.

He just said:

“I didn’t want to lose anyone.”

 

Then — softer, almost to himself:

“I thought maybe if I made space… people would stay.”

The silence held.

Juntae’s words were barely a breath.

“You were trying to build a family, weren’t you…?”

The air thickened.

No one moved.

Sieun didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t rush to explain or deny.

He just… breathed in.

His lashes lowered for a second. His gaze flicked, slowly — from Juntae, to Baku, to Suho.

Expression unreadable.

Then:

“Why would I want you to be my family now…”

 

The words were too calm.

Too casual.

And for a moment — just a beat — the others froze.

Like they’d misread the whole thing.

Like maybe… they’d got it wrong.

Suho’s throat tightened.

Juntae’s fingers curled.

Baku shifted back half a step, confused, uncertain.

Then—

“…Aren’t we already?”

 

That’s when it hit.

No softness in his tone.
No tears.
Just truth, dropped like a stone into still water.

And they all felt it ripple.

The words barely settled before the silence stretched again.

Longer this time.

Heavier.

Not a single person moved.

Not even Suho.

No one spoke.

No one breathed too loud.

Because for a second — just a second — they weren’t sure what they’d heard.

They weren’t sure if he meant it.

If it was confirmation.

Or deflection.

If it was sarcasm.

Or the most honest thing he’d ever said.

 

And Sieun just… stood there.

Still.

Expression calm.

Eyes steady.

Like he hadn’t just tilted their entire world off its axis.

 

It was Suho who finally blinked first.

Not because he wanted to say something.

But because he realized he couldn’t.

He physically couldn’t speak.

The air felt too full. His throat too tight. His hands clenched into the blanket by instinct, holding something.

Or maybe trying not to let go.

 

Then — still quietly — Sieun spoke again.

His voice was soft.
Flat.
Almost clinical.

But the kind of quiet that somehow felt louder than a scream.

“The first time I thought about it seriously was after Suho..... started looking tired.”

 

He didn’t look at Suho when he said it.

“You weren’t sleeping well. You flinched every time someone knocked.”

A pause.

“The notes. The letters. The questions in class.
People showing up outside our door just to… “

 

“It was bothering you.”

 

“Even when you didn’t say it.”

 

Suho didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

 

“So I thought… what if you had a space?”

 

“Not a hiding place. Just… somewhere that felt yours.”

 

“And then I realized…”

 

A breath.

Eyes still calm. Still not looking directly at any of them.

“Everyone else… might need that too.”

 

“Juntae always ends up working at the kitchen table because his roommate plays music too loud.”

 

“Baku hates how the dorm bathrooms echo when he sings.”

 

“Gotak has never had a bed that doesn’t creak when he turns.”

 

A beat.

“I remembered all of it.”

 

“So I.... I built something that could hold it all.”

 

That’s when it broke.

Baku’s hand flew to his face.

Juntae let out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t breathing either.

Gotak just muttered, “What the hell…” before clenching his fists against his eyes.

And Suho?

Suho stood up.

Feet slow. Shoulders tense.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask.

He just walked.

Straight to Sieun.

And hugged him.

Hard.
Full.

No pause. No gap between them.

His arms wrapped around Sieun’s shoulders, pulling him close like he was anchoring himself to the only thing that had ever made sense.

Sieun didn’t move at first.

He just stood there — arms at his sides, face tucked near Suho’s neck, blank.

But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t freeze.

He just let it happen.

Like he’d been expecting it.

Maybe not tonight.
Maybe not like this.
But eventually.

 

The others were still at the door.

Frozen.

Stunned.

Until Baku let out a strangled sound that sounded like half a sob and half a curse.

“You idiot—” his voice cracked. “You—stupid, silent, genius little shit!”

He marched in, smacked Suho’s back just enough to shove him to the side, and crashed into Sieun too.

“You made a whole house—” he sniffed, “—for us?! Without even saying anything?!”

Sieun blinked as Baku clung to him from one side, a full-body hug like a koala with rage issues.

 

Juntae walked in slowly behind them, his eyes red.

“Of course he didn’t say anything,” he muttered, voice watery. “That would’ve required actual human emotion.”

Then he slipped an arm around Baku’s back and wrapped the other gently around Sieun’s shoulder.

“You didn’t have to do it alone, you idiot.”

 

Gotak was last.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t yell.

He just walked up quietly, rested his forehead against Sieun’s back, and said:

“You remembered my creaky bed?”

 

His voice broke halfway through the question.

 

Sieun still hadn’t spoken.

His hands were still at his sides.

Then — slowly — almost uncertainly…

He raised one arm.

Then the other.

And placed them around all of them at once.

Barely touching.

But finally holding back.

The hug lasted longer than anyone expected.

Maybe longer than any of them had ever been hugged in their life.

No one said anything for a while. They were too tired. Too full.

And weirdly… safe.

Wrapped in too much body heat, crushed together by too many limbs, on a floor that definitely wasn’t meant to be slept on.

But still — safe.

 

At some point, Suho slumped back against the bed, pulling Sieun down beside him.

Baku dropped like a tired toddler, half across Suho’s legs.

Gotak sat cross-legged beside the wall, arms folded.

Juntae flopped down near the door like someone had unplugged him.

None of them moved to leave.

No one even looked at the clock.

They weren’t going anywhere.

Not tonight.

 

“I’m sleeping here,” Baku mumbled.

“Same,” Gotak added.

“I’m literally too emotionally unstable to walk,” Juntae muttered from the floor.

Suho exhaled softly. “Guess this is a sleepover now.”

Sieun didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t ask them to leave, either.

 

The room was quiet again — not the heavy kind anymore, just… still.

Until Baku, lying flat on his back, suddenly said:

“We should make a pact.”

 

Juntae blinked. “You mean like a blood oath?”

“No, idiot. Well, maybe. I don’t know. I’m too emotional for logistics.”

He sat up.

Eyes puffy. Voice dramatic.

“A pact. That no one — no one — gets to hurt Sieun ever again.”

 

“Not other people. Not us. Not even him.”

 

Suho looked over, serious now.

“…Even Sieun?”

“Yes. Especially Sieun. If he ever hurts himself or thinks about isolating again, I swear to God—”

He pointed at the ceiling like it was a divine witness.

“—we don’t live. We just don’t. We disappear. We’re done. Game over. That’s it.”

 

Gotak, nodding slowly, added:

“If anyone hurts him… we kill them.”

 

“Or we kill ourselves.” Baku declared with too much energy for 4AM.

“Bro—” Juntae half-laughed, half-sobbed. “That’s not how pacts work—”

“I DON’T CARE.”

 

Sieun finally looked up.

Expression unreadable.

“You guys are ridiculous.”

“Shut up and say you accept it.” Baku said, grabbing his sleeve.

Sieun blinked.

Then, quietly — almost like a sigh:

“…Fine.”
Eventually, the tears dried.

The sniffles faded.

Their bodies gave up before their hearts did.

There weren’t enough beds for five, but no one cared anymore.

 

Sieun and Suho ended up on their shared bed — side by side, blanket barely covering their legs, their shoulders pressed just slightly.

Gotak and Juntae were crammed sideways into the other bed like two badly-packed carry-ons.

Baku, true to his drama, claimed the floor.
They dragged out a spare futon. He refused a blanket. “Let me suffer in peace,” he’d declared, hugging a spare hoodie instead.

The lights were off now.

Just the soft moonlight slipping through the curtain.

And their breathing.

Steady.

Soft.

Almost synchronized.

 

Everyone looked asleep.

But Sieun was still awake.

Eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

His voice came so quietly, it barely disturbed the silence.

“…Buying the house was worth it.”

 

He didn’t mean to say it out loud.

It just… slipped.

 

For a second, he thought no one heard.

Then — slowly, sleepily — Suho turned his head, eyes half-lidded.

“…Yeah,” he whispered back.

 

Sieun blinked.

Then looked at him.

Still flat-toned, still quiet, but something warmer now behind the words:

“I always make calculated decisions.
My choices are supposed to be rational. Logical.”

 

“But this one… this one might’ve topped them all.”

 

“It was worth it.”

 

There was no response for a few seconds.

And then—

From the other bed, someone — probably Juntae — let out the tiniest laugh.

Gotak mumbled, “Damn right it was.”

Baku rolled over on the futon and grunted, “I knew it from the swing chair.”

 

No one opened their eyes.

But all of them were smiling.

Soft.

Sleepy.

Full.

 

That night, they didn’t dream of anything.

Because what more could they possibly ask for?

They were home.

 

The silence had settled.

The kind that seeps into the walls.
Into your bones.
Into the soft space between two people lying in a bed too small for distance.

It was dark.

So dark Suho couldn’t see anything — not the shape of Sieun beside him, not the ceiling, not even his own hands.

And maybe that was why he could finally speak.

Because Sieun couldn’t see the tears.

Because in this kind of darkness, truth didn’t need to be brave.

 

He turned under the blanket.

Shoulder brushing Sieun’s.

Their legs already touching, the mattress dipping where their weight met in the middle.

Suho’s hand reached blindly for the fabric of Sieun’s nightshirt — soft and familiar, like every sleepless night since he woke up from that long, forgotten dream.

And he held on.

Tight.

 

“Sieun…” he whispered.
Barely a breath.

 

Sieun shifted — slow, subtle.
His voice just as quiet.

“What’s wrong?”

 

Suho swallowed.

And the ache cracked open like thunder.

“It should be the last time.”

 

The words came loose, untethered.

“The last time you shut me out. The last time I don’t know what you’re thinking. The last time I have to guess whether you’re still here.”

 

“I know the house was a surprise. I know you wanted to do something good. But… it hurt, Sieun.”

 

His fingers tightened in the fabric.

“These last few weeks — not talking to you, watching you walk out of rooms without telling me why — it felt like I was losing you.”

 

“And I didn’t know how to stop it.”

 

He shifted forward blindly, forehead pressing against Sieun’s chest — grounding himself against a heartbeat he couldn’t see, but could still feel.

 

“You waited for me,” Suho said, voice cracking now.
“You waited for two years.”

 

“Two whole years.”

 

“While I was asleep. While everything else moved on without me. You stayed.”

 

“You showed up to that hospital. Sat there every day. Talked to halmoni. Fought with doctors. Watched me breathe and hoped I’d wake up.”

 

“And then when I finally did… you didn’t stop.”

 

“You didn’t leave.”

 

“You helped me through rehab. You gave me your room. Your routines. Your patience.”

 

“You reminded me how to move. How to eat. How to be a person again.”

 

“And I— I don’t know if I ever really said thank you.”

 

“I don’t even know if I can.”

 

Suho’s voice dropped to a whisper — the kind that lives in the space between begging and breaking.

“But what I do know is…”

 

“I can’t lose that.”

 

“I can’t lose you.”

 

He clung to Sieun’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from drifting away again.

“So please.”

 

“Don’t disappear on me.”

 

“Don’t figure everything out on your own. Don’t shut me out like I’m someone who doesn’t get a say.”

 

“You stayed with me through everything.”

 

“Let me stay, too.”

 

The dark stayed silent.

But Suho could feel it.

Sieun’s breath.
Steady.
Still.

The warmth of his chest under Suho’s forehead.

The fabric damp near Suho’s cheek.

And his heart — still there. Still beating. Still his.

 

Suho didn’t know how long he stayed like that.

Forehead pressed to Sieun’s chest.
Fingers curled into the soft fabric of his nightshirt.
Eyes shut — not that it mattered. The room was pitch black. Nothing to see. Nothing to shield him from the way he felt.

Sieun hadn’t moved.

But he hadn’t let go either.

His fingers brushed gently through Suho’s hair — slow, steady. Like he was sorting his own thoughts with every stroke.

Then, after a silence that felt safe instead of heavy, Sieun spoke.

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

His voice was soft. Steady.
But under it — something fragile. Like the truth had lived in him for too long.

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

“I just… I didn’t know how to say it out loud.”

 

Suho clung tighter to him.

Still wordless.

Still listening.

 

“Day by day, you looked tired,” Sieun murmured.

 

“Not just physically. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix.”

 

“You’d rub your eyes a lot. Speak less. Look away when someone said my name.”

 

Suho’s throat tightened.

 

“I thought maybe… it was me,” Sieun admitted.
“The crowd around me. The letters. The notes.”

 

“So I gave you space.”

 

“That’s why your room is separate.”

 

“I thought if you shared with Juntae — someone calm, someone who doesn’t ask questions — you’d finally rest.”

 

“I wanted to make it easier.”

 

Suho finally lifted his head.

Just barely.

But enough to speak.

 

“You thought I was tired of you?”

 

His voice cracked.

“No. I was tired because people wouldn’t leave you alone.”

 

“I was tired of being the one who had to pull sticky notes off the door.”

 

“Of people waiting outside our room pretending to scroll their phones.”

 

“Of pretending I didn’t notice.”

 

He pressed his forehead against Sieun’s shoulder this time — lower, softer.

“I was never tired of you"

Notes:

In case you haven't realized.... Sieun finalized the apartment... Then he took Suho there first to see if he likes it or not. He studied his expressions closely when he was admiring the apartment then only he call the gang. Because no they weren't aware about it before hand. If you remember Sieun was typing something when Suho and him were there. When he realized it Suho like the apartment, he asked the gang to come there. So when he was typing on his phone, he was messaging those three human beings to come and show their faces in that apartment.

Chapter 20: Clouds, Chaos And You

Notes:

I really, really love the rain... the smell of wet earth, the sudden hush in the air, the way everything feels softer. It’s always been my favorite weather. But this time, the joy feels a little heavy. Because even as I smiled at the sky, I couldn’t stop thinking about our farmers — about the crops already lost, the dreams washed away too soon. And somehow, that sorrow lingered in the story too.

The wind picked up.

It wasn’t sharp. Just slow, humid, like it knew the rain was coming and didn’t mind teasing the world first.

It brushed past the benches, rustled through pages, and tugged lightly at hoodie strings.

And Sieun’s hair moved with it.

Just slightly.

A few strands slipped across his cheek. Others lifted gently over his forehead, shifting the frame of his face.

And it happened — that quiet flicker of motion — and Suho’s breath caught.

For no real reason.

Except maybe… everything.

 

Sieun didn’t notice.

He rarely did.

He just stared down at his book, fingers absentmindedly brushing his bangs out of his eyes. He blinked slowly, sighed again — something long, barely audible — and adjusted his hoodie as if the breeze had kissed too close.

Suho stared.

 

You don’t even know how you look right now, do you?

 

Like the wind loves you.

 

Like it wants to carry you off. Like I’d let it.

 

His jaw tensed.

His hand twitched slightly where it rested over the bench’s edge.

 

He wanted to reach out.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Not the way he always did — soft glances, hesitant touches, brushing his fingers against Sieun’s when passing tea cups.

No.

He wanted to grab him.

By the wrist.

By the hoodie collar.

Pull him in close, kiss him until everything stopped moving — even the wind.

 

I want to keep you here.

Right here. With me. Always.

I want to drag you into our room, close the door, make you look at me like you do those books.

I want to make you stay. Want to make you forget everything but me.

I want to lay you on that bed and tie you down just so you never walk away again.

 

The thought burned behind his eyes.

And scared him, just a little.

Because he knew he wouldn’t do it.

He’d never hurt him.

But God, the way Sieun looked right now, hoodie sleeves pushed back, hair fluttering in soft disarray, lips parted slightly in silent focus…

Suho wanted.

He wanted more than his own hands could hold.

 

But he said nothing.

Did nothing.

Just sat there — shoulders still, fists clenched in the sleeves of his hoodie, swallowing down every wild, greedy part of him.

Letting the wind blow.

Letting Sieun breathe.

 

 

The first raindrop landed like punctuation.
Sharp. Sudden. Right on the page Sieun had been pretending to read.

He blinked once, calmly closed the book, and stood — slinging his bag over one shoulder without a word.

“Library,” he said softly.

And just like that, he was already walking away.
Into the damp breeze. Into the silver-gray air.

 

Suho stared after him.

Didn’t follow right away.

Didn’t even speak.

Just watched.

The light fabric of Sieun’s hoodie clung slightly to his arms. His hair curled more at the edges as the humidity thickened. His figure got smaller as he moved further down the stone path that wound through the quad.

The first real drops had started to fall now — soft and fast, speckling the pavement.

 

Suho stood up fast.

Grabbed the small umbrella tucked at the side of the bench — their shared one. The one Sieun never remembered to carry.

Of course he didn’t take it.
Of course he just walked straight into the rain.
Of course I’m the one running after him again—

 

His sneakers hit the wet path as he took off, heartbeat oddly louder than the rain tapping overhead.

 

And then he saw it.

 

Mid-path.

Just a few feet ahead.

Someone had already reached him.

A guy — tall, fresh-faced, probably one of the senior volunteers or law department assistants.

Holding a sleek, navy umbrella.

Tilted perfectly over Sieun.

Covering him.

 

Suho slowed.

Stopped.

His fingers tightened around the umbrella handle, knuckles whitening.

Sieun didn’t look up.
Didn’t say much. Just kept walking like he always did, eyes ahead, steady.

The guy beside him was clearly trying to chat — smiling, gesturing a little too enthusiastically.
Maybe asking which department Sieun was in.
Maybe offering to walk him the rest of the way.

The umbrella hovered delicately above both their heads, angled closer toward Sieun.

 

It looked… cinematic.

Framed by the overcast light, mist rising from the bricks, two boys under one umbrella like a damn K-drama still.

And Suho?

Suho’s stomach curled.

Twisted.

Burned.

 

He didn’t move.

Didn’t call out.

Didn’t interrupt.

He just stood there — umbrella hanging loosely by his side, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

 

You should’ve waited.
You always wait.
You never walk away like that.
Why didn’t you wait for me?

 

His thoughts ran faster than his feet could move.

But he stayed rooted.

Watching.

 

The boy said something — a joke maybe. Or a compliment.
Something meant to make Sieun look up.

He didn’t.

Just kept walking, even as the guy adjusted the umbrella’s tilt again — closer.
Sheltering more of him. Smiling like he’d just scored a small win.

And Suho…

Suho didn’t breathe.

 

The umbrella in his own hand felt heavier now. Useless.
Like a prop he’d missed his cue with.

 

You should’ve waited for me.
You always wait. Always.
Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re tired.

 

The ache sat right under his collarbone, spreading like a bruise.

 

His grip around the umbrella’s handle tightened until his knuckles cracked.
But he still didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Not while his heart was having a one-sided breakdown in the middle of the pavement.

 

Why didn’t you wait?

 

Why him?

 

Why did it look so easy for someone else to just walk up and take my place—

 

He wanted to call out.

He wanted to storm forward and say “Hey—he’s not yours to cover.”

He wanted to grab the umbrella and throw it and pull Sieun back to his side and hiss “Don’t ever walk ahead of me like that again.”

He wanted to yell.

Cry.

Hold.

Kiss.

Anything.

But he just stood there, soaked in drizzle and silence, while his brain screamed and his hands did nothing.

 

Behind him, Suho could vaguely hear Baku’s voice, muffled through the rain:

“Where the hell did he go?”

 

Gotak, probably answering: “Thought I saw him run toward the dorm—?”

And Juntae, calm as ever: “Ten bucks says this is about Sieun.”

 

But Suho couldn’t even hear them properly.

Not over the stupid sound of the umbrella tapping gently above Sieun’s head.

Not over the quiet in his chest where everything used to feel full.

 

I shouldn’t feel like this.
I have no right.
You’re not mine.
You never were.

 

And yet…

 

You always waited.
You always walked beside me.
You always looked at me first.
Why not now?

 

He still didn’t move.

Not until they were too far to chase without making it weird.
Not until the boy’s voice disappeared behind the hedges near the library entrance.
Not until the umbrella turned the corner and Suho lost sight of them both completely.

 

The rain hit harder now.

Soft. But steady.

His hoodie stuck to his arms.

The umbrella was still closed in his hand.

And Suho just stood there, chest aching like something precious had slipped right out of it.

 

“Dude.”

A voice pulled Suho out of his spiral.

He blinked and turned slightly.

Baku had jogged up beside him, already half-wet, eyes squinting against the drizzle.

Gotak was two steps behind, holding a hand above his head like that would help.

Juntae? He didn’t even bother running. Just strolled up with his hood up, hands in his pockets, sipping from a thermos.

 

“Are you okay?” Gotak asked, genuinely concerned.
“You look like a sad music video.”

Baku tilted his head, looking dramatic on his behalf.

“You want us to beat him up? The umbrella guy?”

 

Suho didn’t answer.

Just pouted harder.

Crossed his arms and sniffed.

“He should’ve waited for me.”

 

The gang exchanged glances.

Juntae: “He literally bought you a house.”

Suho: “Not for me. He said it was for all of us.”

Baku: “Because you were getting disturbed by all the admirers showing up to your shared room.”

Gotak: “He literally wanted to give you peace.”

Juntae, deadpan: “He moved heaven and mortgage because you looked tired.”

 

Suho stared at the sidewalk.

Then quietly mumbled:

“I don’t want peace.”

 

Everyone blinked.

“I want him to bother me forever.”

 

Baku gasped dramatically. “You’re such a clingy little—”

Suho turned to him with a frown. “I am not clingy!”

Gotak, gently: “You just said you want to be disturbed forever.”

Suho crossed his arms. “Exactly. But only by him.”

 

Juntae, with a raised brow: “So you’re saying if he never gave you space ever again…”

Suho: “I’d be happier.”

Baku: “What if he tied himself to your ankle?”

Suho: “Romantic.”

Gotak: “Trapped in a room together for 24 hours?”

Suho: “Perfect.”

Juntae: “He breathes on your neck during sleep?”

Suho: “I’d sleep better.”

 

There was a pause.

Then Baku whispered, “God, you’re so far gone.”

 

Suho pouted harder.

Lower lip sticking out. Eyebrows creased.

“I don’t want space.”

 

“I don’t want silence.”

 

“I just want him to stay. Close. Like always.”

 

Rain tapped softly around them.

And for a second, the gang didn’t say anything.

Just looked at him — hoodie-drenched, hair curling, cheeks puffed out in one of those heartbreakingly adorable scowls.

And then…

Gotak stepped forward and pulled the umbrella from Suho’s limp hand.

Baku slung an arm around his shoulder like a warm, annoying blanket.

Juntae just sighed.

“You’re going to cry when he breathes too far away from you, huh?”

 

Suho sniffed.

“…Shut up.”

“He literally bandaged your knee and fought your hospital paperwork,” Gotak was saying, holding the umbrella over Suho like a patient older brother.

“You think he’d go through all that just to ignore you now?” Juntae added, voice soft but firm.

“Dude bought a house,” Baku repeated, hand on Suho’s shoulder. “A house, for god’s sake. Because you looked a little too tired.”

Suho’s arms were crossed, hoodie soaked. His lower lip stuck out in a pout that could break a thousand hearts.

“I didn’t ask for a house…”

 

Gotak sighed. “You didn’t have to, dummy. That’s the point.”

 

“He thought I needed space.”

 

“You did need space,” Juntae said gently. “From stalkers. And post-it love poems. And… the time someone left him a candle with your name on it.”

 

Baku muttered, “Still not over that one.”

 

Suho sniffled — not because of tears, just… wet hoodie and too many feelings.

 

“I would’ve been happier if he didn’t leave at all.”

 

Baku, dramatic as ever: “You don’t want space. You want spooning with emotional eye contact.”

Suho, not even denying it: “Exactly.”

 

Then—

Gotak blinked.
Juntae squinted past Suho’s sulk.
Baku elbowed Suho softly.

 

“Uh… lover boy, two o’clock.”

 

Then—

A soft shuffle of footsteps.

The sound of sneakers on damp pavement.

They turned.

Sieun was walking back. Alone.
Hair slightly wind-blown. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Face unreadable.

He stopped in front of Suho.

No umbrella.

Just eyes quietly meeting his.

 

Suho blinked. Stared at him for a long beat.

Still sulky.

Still red-eared.

And slowly—without a word—he lifted the umbrella and tilted it over Sieun.

Sieun stepped under it calmly. Like it was obvious. Like it belonged there.

 

Baku made a sound. A strangled noise that was half gasp, half wheeze.

Gotak whispered loudly:

“Oh my god, look at his face. He’s blushing again.”

 

Suho turned, red creeping up his ears.

“Shut up.”

 

Gotak: “Aw, come on. You missed him.”

Baku: “He only walked for ten minutes.”

Suho, muttering:

“Felt like ten years.”

 

Then, without warning—he spun it around.

Turned on Gotak and Baku like a petty little prince.

Eyes narrowed, grin sharp.

“Anyway. Shouldn’t you two be more worried about your own little situation?”

 

Gotak: “What?”

Suho (mock sweet):

“You were snuggling. Deeply. Lovingly.”

 

Baku: “I WAS COLD.”

Suho: “You were breathing in sync.”

Gotak: “You COUNTED?!”

Juntae, helpfully: “Sieun did.”

Sieun, deadpan: “Fourteen breaths per minute.”

 

The boys went silent.

Suho looked smug.

The umbrella tilted slightly as he leaned just a little closer to Sieun, still holding it between them.

“So,” he whispered dramatically, “who’s really the clingy one now?”

 

Gotak and Baku: “WE’RE LEAVING.”

And they did.

Tripped over each other trying to escape.

 

Juntae grinned, watching them go.

“God. I love this family.”

 

Sieun said nothing.

But he stood quietly under Suho’s umbrella.

Didn’t move away.

Didn’t comment on the teasing.

Just looked at him once and asked softly—

“You waited?”

 

Suho didn’t look back.

Just shifted the umbrella a little more in Sieun’s direction.

Still sulking.

Still blushing.

“You were supposed to wait for me first.”

The drizzle hadn’t let up.

It wasn’t enough to soak anyone — but it was just enough to ruin hair, moods, and perfectly good chances at pretending everything was fine.

Suho?
Not fine.

He walked ahead with the umbrella still slightly tilted over Sieun, grumbling under his breath, cheeks puffed out like a moody cartoon character.

 

Baku jogged up beside him.

“Are you still sulking?”

 

Suho didn’t even look at him.

“I’m not sulking.”

 

Gotak, behind them:

“You’re literally walking like a betrayed Victorian widow.”

 

Suho: “It’s not my fault he LEFT me.”

Sieun blinked. “I was gone for ten minutes.”

“TEN. MINUTES. Of abandonment in a weather crisis!”

 

Juntae, fully enjoying himself:

“You act like he left you at the altar.”

 

Suho whipped around dramatically, umbrella swaying.

“He did! He left me at the altar of our usual bench!”

 

Sieun, calm as ever: “I said I was going to the library.”

Suho, pouting harder:

“And I said nothing because I was stunned. Speechless. Heartbroken.”

 

---

 

They finally reached the small student canteen — a little restaurant near the dorm blocks, with a tin roof that echoed the soft rain like a heartbeat.

The moment they sat at the outside-covered table, Suho launched into it again.

 

“You didn’t even look back.”
“That guy had a really dramatic umbrella, by the way.”
“He looked like he came from a brand deal.”
“Was he from law department? Was he handsome? He looked handsome.”
“Not that I care.”
“But like. If you liked him, I would die.”
“Not jealous. Just emotionally invested.”

 

Baku was crying into his noodles.

Gotak was filming.

Juntae had stopped eating just to lean on one hand and watch the tragedy unfold.

Sieun?

Stirring his soup.

Not reacting.

Until—

“You talk too much when you’re sulking.”

 

Suho glared.

“And you talk too little when you’re suspiciously pretty.”

 

Sieun blinked.
Didn’t smile.

But he tilted the spoon toward Suho and said—

“It’s hot. Try it before you choke on your monologue.”

 

The table erupted.

Baku: “OH MY GOD WAS THAT FLIRTING!?”

Gotak: “Write that down. That was flirting, right?!”

Juntae, grinning: “I knew the soup would be the turning point.”

Suho blinked, stunned.
Then took the spoon.

Then whispered:

“I’m still mad.”

 

But he took the bite anyway.

The table was still shaking from laughter when Baku slapped his palm down like a declaration.

“I’m not going back to the dorm. This weather is too beautiful to waste on homework.”

 

Gotak nodded dramatically.

“I second that. It’s romantic. It’s poetic. It’s wet.”

 

Juntae, sipping the last of his soda:

“You literally hate getting wet.”

 

Gotak, pointing to the sky:

“This is different. This is storybook rain.”

 

Sieun, standing under a tree with his hoodie damp and expression vaguely unimpressed, finally said:

“I’m going home.”

 

Everyone paused.

Suho, instantly alert:

“What? Why?”

 

Sieun looked straight at him.

“I have to study.”

 

Gotak, gasping:

“Study?? In this weather???”

 

Baku, dramatically placing a hand over his chest:

“How dare you abandon us. And the romance.”

 

Sieun, deadpan:

“It’s barely drizzling and you’re sitting on a wet bench.”

 

Juntae, still filming:

“That’s what makes it cinematic.”

 

Sieun looked at all of them.

Looked at the rain.

Looked at the sky like he was asking it to rescue him.

Then turned to leave.

Actually turned. Like he was really going to walk away.

Suho blinked.

“Wait—he’s actually leaving?!”

 

Gotak yelled, “SOMEONE GRAB HIM!”

Baku launched first — sprinting and throwing his arms around Sieun’s shoulders like a dramatic cape.

No, Cold Princess. You STAY.”

 

Sieun, unimpressed:

“Baku, you’re wet and heavy.”

 

Baku, already clinging:

“I am also love and loyalty.”

 

Suho ran over too, grabbing Sieun’s wrist and pouting full force.

“Just one hour. Then you can go be boring and academic again.”

 

Sieun stared at him.

Suho widened his eyes.

“Please?”

 

Sieun, soft voice, flat expression:

“You’re weaponizing your pout.”

 

Gotak: “IT’S SUPER EFFECTIVE!”

Juntae: “Roll for emotional damage.”

 

Sieun finally sighed.

Paused.

Then turned slowly and walked back with them like he hadn’t tried to escape five seconds ago.

Suho whispered as he fell into step beside him:

“Thanks for choosing us over Civil Law, Princess.”

 

Suho, finally less grumbly, lifted his chin:

“Where are we going?”

 

Baku, sparkles in his eyes:

“To make memories.”

 

Ten minutes later, they were running across the stone paths near the old garden trail at the back of campus.
No umbrellas. Just hoodies half-zipped, sneakers splashing through shallow puddles, and laughter that sounded too loud for a grey afternoon.

The sky hadn’t broken into a storm — it stayed soft, steady, wholesome.
A drizzle that kissed rather than drenched.
That made the leaves shine and the world feel new.

 

Sieun didn’t run.
He walked, hands in his pockets, damp hair falling a little over his eyes.

But he wasn’t far behind.

And Suho, after pretending to chase Gotak for teasing him again, slowly drifted back.

Falling into step beside him.

 

“Hey,” Suho said quietly.

 

Sieun looked at him.

“Thanks… for walking back to me. Before.”

 

A beat.

Sieun’s gaze flicked away.

“I was going to, anyway.”

 

“You didn’t say anything.”

 

“You didn’t either.”

 

Suho pouted.

“You left me for a man with a drama umbrella.”

 

“You had one.”

 

“I didn’t get to use it.”

 

Sieun didn’t respond.

Just paused.

Then reached out.

And brushed Suho’s fringe back from where it had stuck to his forehead.

Slowly. Absentmindedly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You always forget to dry your hair.”

 

Suho’s heart may or may not have short-circuited.

 

Far ahead, Baku was shouting something about building a dam in a puddle.
Gotak was arguing about leaf boats.
Juntae was filming all of it, whispering, “This is how they fell in love.”

 

But Suho just stood there in the light drizzle.

Hair pushed back.

Heart in pieces.

Watching Sieun, who had already started walking again.

 

He ran to catch up.

Just in time to hear:

“You talk too much when you’re jealous.”

 

Suho gasped.

“I knew you noticed.”

 

“You talk like it’s a crime.”

 

“IT WAS A CRIME. An umbrella crime.”

 

Sieun said nothing.

But he tilted his head slightly.

And whispered:

“You looked cute.”

 

The drizzle softened but never stopped.

They were heading back toward the dorms — jackets damp, hair sticking to foreheads, and zero urgency.

Suho lagged a little behind the group, holding the umbrella like a scepter of passive-aggressive royalty.

Still sulking.

Still pink around the ears.

Still grumbling in his head about how Sieun left earlier without him.

 

Then—

Sieun stopped.

Turned.

And wordlessly took the umbrella from Suho’s hand.

Suho blinked.

And blinked again as Sieun tilted it firmly over Suho’s side — barely covering himself.

 

“Wh—what are you doing?” Suho asked, blinking hard.

 

Sieun, monotone as ever:

“You forgot it’s raining.”

 

“But you’re—you’re getting wet.”

 

“I have a hood.”

 

“BUT—”

 

“You complain when your sleeves are damp.”

 

Behind them, Juntae sighed.

Loudly.

“Great. We’re back to this again.”

 

Baku leaned in.

“This?”

 

Gotak, clueless:

“What ‘this’?”

 

Juntae, dead-eyed:

“The will-they-won’t-they-yes-they-already-are.”

 

“...Huh?”

 

“Nevermind.”

 

Baku turned back to Suho and whispered with an elbow nudge:

“You’re BLUSHING.”

 

Suho, flailing:

“I AM NOT.”

 

Sieun, still calm:

“Your ears turned red six seconds ago.”

 

Gotak:

“Are we measuring that now?”

 

Juntae, muttering:

“No one in this group knows what love looks like. I’m surrounded by fools.”

 

And just like that, Suho’s sulk turned into confused, blushing silence…

While Sieun held the umbrella steady above him — completely unaware of what he was doing to Suho’s entire cardiovascular system.

 

The walk continued.

Laughter behind them.

Splashing footsteps.
Leaves shaking in the breeze.
But Suho kept stealing glances at Sieun.

And every time?

Sieun looked… tired.

Not upset.
Just quieter than usual.
Softer.

Eyes slightly unfocused. Shoulders lower. The way he walked — steady, but almost like he was carrying more than the umbrella.

 

And suddenly, Suho’s sulk crumbled.

He’s tired, Suho thought.
And I’ve been acting like he committed emotional treason for walking ahead for ten minutes.

 

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Looked down at their shoes sloshing through wet pavement.

Their arms barely brushing sometimes.

He didn’t say sorry.
But he adjusted the umbrella silently so it covered Sieun more.

 

“You okay?” he asked.

 

Sieun nodded without looking.

“Just need sleep.”

 

And that was it.

But Suho felt his chest ache anyway.

 

Behind them, Juntae muttered under his breath:

“Oh my god, just hold hands already.”

 

Gotak: “Who?”

Juntae: “Both pairs.”

Baku: “...Wait, what?”

Juntae: “YOU TWO. YES. YOU.”

Baku & Gotak: stare in blankness

Juntae, whispering to the heavens:

“I deserve financial compensation for this emotional labor.”

 

Just ahead, Suho leaned in and whispered:

“When we get back... I’ll make you tea.”

 

Sieun, still deadpan but tired:

“You don’t know how.”

 

Suho shrugged.

“Then I’ll mess it up… but I’ll still try.”

 

Sieun glanced at him.

Didn’t say anything.

But the corner of his mouth lifted a fraction.

And Suho’s heart?

Went straight into orbit.

Notes:

Chapter 21 Precap:

 

Juntae, seated cross-legged with his glowing tablet, read the final version like it was law.

“Sieun — front room with balcony.”

 

“Gotak and Baku — center room.”

 

“Suho and I — back room, skyline view.”

 

Suho’s spoon clattered into his bowl.

“Wait—what?! I’m not rooming with Sieun?!”

 

Sieun, without looking up:

“You’ll sleep better in the farthest quiet room.”

 

Suho sat up, betrayed.

“How would you know what helps me sleep?! You’ve barely even been around lately!”

 

Before Suho could spiral deeper—

Baku shot up from his corner of the futon.

“No. I’m NOT rooming with Gotak.”

 

Everyone blinked.

Gotak: “Excuse me?!”

Baku: “You snore like a freight train and sleep diagonally.”

Gotak: “You talk in your sleep and kick like a possessed toddler!”

Baku: “I’ll sleep in the living room. With the plants.”

 

Sieun closed his eyes. Breathed. Rubbed his temple.

Chapter 21: Uneven Arrangements

Notes:

I fell asleep twice while updating this but here it is.

Just let me know one thing, does Juntae seems too out of character? Do I need to change the way he talks?

The moment they reached the dorm building, the drizzle softened into a whisper. Suho blinked at the sky like it had waited just to spite him.

The group stood at the entrance, all huddled under half-closed umbrellas, soggy hoodies, and chaotic tension.

Suho reached for the key to the shared room when Baku suddenly leaned in with too much excitement.

"Okay. Let’s all crash in your room. I call dibs on the floor mattress."

Suho blinked. "Excuse me?"

Gotak: "I need to air-dry in peace."

Juntae: "The lighting in your dorm is better. I need to charge my soul."

Sieun, already unlocking the door, didn’t say a word.

Suho groaned, shoving it open. "Seriously. Can everyone just –"

He paused, then muttered under his breath,

"...I just need like, ten minutes of alone time with Sieun."

 

Juntae: "We heard that."

Gotak: "Unfortunately."

Baku: "Romantic. Gross. Keep it going."

 

Inside, the gang immediately made themselves at home. Bags hit the floor. Jackets hit chairs. Baku collapsed on Suho’s bed like it was his ancestral property. Gotak started opening windows. Juntae plugged his phone in and started air-dropping cursed images to their shared folder.

Suho just stood there, helpless.

Sieun disappeared into the bathroom with a towel over his head.

Suho watched the door.

Waited.

And somewhere in his chest, something twisted.

 

"He looks tired," Suho murmured, barely realizing he’d said it aloud.

The others paused.

Juntae looked up from his phone. "He is. You didn’t see his face after the second lecture today."

Baku: "No one’s been sleeping properly. He’s been running around alone this week."

Gotak: "Honestly, I thought he was going to crash at the lunch table."

Suho’s eyes stayed fixed on the bathroom door. He sighed, low and guilty.

 

Ten minutes later, Sieun stepped out in a fresh hoodie and loose shorts, towel around his neck, hair damp and messy.

He blinked at the group sprawled across the room. Didn’t comment.

Then quietly said,

"I was thinking... we could start moving our stuff to the new place tomorrow."

 

Dead silence.

Then—

Baku: "YESSSSS!"

Juntae: "FINALLY."

Gotak: "I CALL THE WINDOW BED."

Suho, eyes narrowing: "Wait. Wait wait wait—you just said you were tired."

Sieun looked at him.

Expression unreadable. But something in his eyes softened.

"I am. But I’ll be fine after I sleep."

 

Suho stepped forward slightly.

"You don’t have to push it. We can do it the day after. Or next week."

The others paused.

Baku: "He’s right. You look like you’ve been carrying a semester's worth of legal knowledge and everyone’s emotional baggage."

Gotak: "...We are exhausting."

Sieun blinked.

Then, quietly: "I just want us to start living there. Together."

The room fell silent.

Until Juntae let out the softest:

"God, you're killing me."

The dorm looked like a storm had passed — and not the one outside.

Wet jackets on every surface. Half-eaten ramen bowls. A charging cable jungle.
And five boys arguing like this was the final round of a survival show.

 

They had a 3-day break starting tomorrow.
The plan: move into Sieun’s apartment.

The problem: room assignments.

 

Juntae, seated cross-legged with his glowing tablet, read the final version like it was law.

“Sieun — front room with balcony.”

 

“Gotak and Baku — center room.”

 

“Suho and I — back room, skyline view.”

 

Suho’s spoon clattered into his bowl.

“Wait—what?! I’m not rooming with Sieun?!”

 

Sieun, without looking up:

“You’ll sleep better in the quiet room.”

 

Suho sat up, betrayed.

“How would you know what helps me sleep?! You’ve barely even been around lately!”

 

Before Suho could spiral deeper—

Baku shot up from his corner of the futon.

“No. I’m NOT rooming with Gotak.”

 

Everyone blinked.

Gotak: “Excuse me?!”

Baku: “You snore like a freight train and sleep diagonally.”

Gotak: “You talk in your sleep and kick like a possessed toddler!”

Baku: “I’ll sleep in the living room. With the plants.”

 

Sieun closed his eyes. Breathed. Rubbed his temple.

Suho, immediately noticing, paused mid-complaint.
He frowned. Watching Sieun’s face — tired, tight, clearly done.

His voice softened a little.
But only a little.

“You’re exhausted. And you’re still doing all this…”

 

“Just let me be with you, Sieun. I’ll help.”

 

Sieun, quietly but firmly:

“That’s not helping.”

 

Suho stared at him.

“You think keeping me away helps me?”

 

More silence.

Then Suho dropped back onto the cushion, pulling the blanket over his lap like it was a cape of heartbreak.

“Fine. Whatever.”

 

Juntae muttered, “I’m switching with the rice cooker.”

Baku, hands on hips: “Great. Can I share with that?”

Gotak: “Go ahead. It doesn’t kick.”

 

And in the middle of it all, Sieun just stood there with the patience of a man two seconds away from faking his own death.
He looked around.

His eyes lingered for half a second on Suho — sulking quietly, peeking up only when Sieun wasn’t looking.

But he didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Chaos still echoed through the dorm.

Someone’s socks were on the window latch.
There were two half-empty ramen cups on Suho’s desk.
Gotak had somehow gotten toothpaste on the wall again.

And in the middle of it all —
Sieun sat with his head slightly bowed, rubbing his temple in slow circles.

 

Suho watched from the corner of the lower bunk, arms hugged around his knees, still pouting.

He should’ve stopped complaining.

Sieun was clearly tired.

His eyelids looked heavier than usual.
His jaw hadn’t unclenched in an hour.
And he hadn’t had his usual second cup of tea.

But Suho couldn’t let it go.

 

“You’re really not going to change the room plan…?” he mumbled, quieter now.

 

Sieun didn’t look at him.

“You’ll sleep better with Juntae. Away from the door. Away from the notes.”

 

“I’ll sleep worse without you.”

 

That part slipped out before Suho could stop it.

 

Sieun’s fingers paused at his temple.
Just a second.

Then resumed again.

“It’s better this way.”

 

“For who?” Suho whispered. “Not for me.”

 

Gotak, from the other corner of the room, sighed dramatically.

“Okay, but can we talk about how Baku REFUSES to room with me?”

 

Baku, still on Suho’s bed with a cereal box in his lap:

“Because you throw your shirt on my face every morning.”

 

Gotak: “Because you leave your socks on my pillow!”

“You like my socks!”

 

“I like breathing, you menace!”

 

Sieun finally groaned — softly, tiredly — and pressed both palms to his forehead like he was dealing with five toddlers.

Suho saw it.

And for a second… he felt bad.

Really bad.

But that same ache still curled in his chest.

That need to stay close.
To know Sieun was right there — at arm’s length.
Like it had been since he woke from the coma.

 

Baku dramatically announced, “Fine! I’ll just sleep on the balcony in the new place!”

Sieun didn’t respond.

Didn’t even look up.

 

Suho looked down at his knees, heart heavy.

“You always push people away when you’re tired,” he murmured.

 

No one responded.

But the silence?
It said everything.

 

The dorm had settled. Kind of.

The lights were dimmed, rain tapping softly at the window.

Sieun sat on his lower bunk, back leaned against the wall, hair damp from a quick shower. He’d changed into a soft, oversized tee and loose cotton pants, sleeves pushed up, eyelids heavier than before.

Suho sat in front of him. Cross-legged. Holding a tiny jar of mint balm in one hand.

He dipped his fingers in, warm from his palms, and carefully rubbed it across Sieun’s temples.

Slow. Gentle. In soft, practiced circles.

“Stop frowning,” he whispered.

Sieun didn’t reply. But his lashes fluttered low. Shoulders relaxed. Head tilted just slightly forward, letting Suho touch him without resistance.

From the other side of the room:

Baku: “I swear to god if you steal the corner pillow again, I’m setting your phone alarm for 2 a.m.”

Gotak: “Joke’s on you. I already sleep through war.”

Suho shot them a murderous glare.

Baku and Gotak went quiet.

“Thank you,” Suho muttered under his breath, still massaging.

Sieun’s breathing slowed. His chin dipped. His arms folded loosely over his lap.

He didn’t mean to doze off. But his head leaned just slightly toward Suho’s shoulder. Eyes closed. Peaceful.

Suho exhaled. Warmed his palms once more. And gently, with both hands, laid Sieun down onto the mattress.

He reached for the blanket. Pulled it up slowly. Tucked it under Sieun’s chin.

Then turned off the main light, letting the soft bedside lamp be the only thing left.

The rest could figure themselves out. He didn’t care.

He lay down beside Sieun, shoulder to shoulder. Just listening to his breathing.

“How the hell am I supposed to sleep away from this,” Suho whispered to the ceiling.

He was too used to the warmth. To the presence. To the quiet rhythm of Sieun existing beside him.

 

Juntae had taken up the rolling chair. Gotak and Baku still bickered in the dark.

Gotak, stubborn, had claimed Suho’s bed. Juntae joined him there, squeezing onto the other side.

Baku, dramatically, had dragged the futon near the desk. Arms crossed. Face turned to the wall.

 

But by 2:38 a.m., the dorm was silent again.

Except for the sound of Baku’s restless tossing. He stared at the ceiling. Then at Gotak. Then at the pile of mismatched socks near the window.

Finally:

He stood. Marched over. Woke Juntae.

“What—?” Juntae grunted.

Baku didn’t answer. He just grabbed Juntae’s blanket, dragged him up, and gently dropped him onto the futon.

Then crawled onto the bed next to Gotak. Didn’t say a word.

Just pulled the blanket up to his chin. And finally—finally—fell asleep.

Juntae lay there on the futon, face flat against the floor, eyes open in the dark.

“I hate all of you,” he muttered.

 

The room was quiet now.

Rain still whispered against the glass.

And in the corner bunk, Suho reached across in his sleep and rested his hand lightly against Sieun’s.

Even in dreams, he wasn’t letting go.

The rain had stopped sometime during the night.
But the clouds still lingered — soft, grey, and lazy — just like the boys crammed in that tiny dorm.

It was morning.
But no one had moved yet.

Except Sieun.

He sat up slowly, pushing the blanket off his chest, eyes adjusting to the quiet light slipping between the blinds.

The room was a mess of limbs, blankets, and tangled chaos.

But all he saw — in the bunk beside him — was Suho.

Fast asleep.

Hair sticking to his forehead.
Mouth slightly parted.
One hand tucked under the pillow, the other… still resting where it had slipped during the night.

Between them.

His fingertips barely grazing Sieun’s arm.

Sieun blinked slowly, just… watching.

The steady rise and fall of Suho’s chest.
The soft, unguarded peace of sleep.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t wake him.
Just stared.

Almost as if he was trying to memorize it.

 

Gotak stirred next.

One eye cracked open.
Then the other.

And then—

“What the—”

 

Because there, beside him, dead asleep and breathing softly…

Was Baku.

Snuggled against him.
Arms loosely around Gotak’s waist.
Face smooshed into his hoodie sleeve.

Gotak’s eye twitched.

He glanced down.

“When the hell did this happen?”

 

Baku grumbled in his sleep and only pulled him closer.

 

Across the room, on the futon:

Juntae sat up like he’d aged ten years overnight.

Hair sticking up.
Dark circles under his eyes.
One sock missing.

He blinked at the scene around him.

Then muttered to no one:

“I’m never sleeping here again.”

 

Sieun, still in bed, quietly reached for his glasses.

Pushed them on.

Stole one last glance at Suho.

Still asleep.

Still soft.

Still... there.
Baku’s fingers were hooked into the hem of his hoodie, his legs tangled around one of Gotak’s like it was completely normal.

“When—how—why—”

 

He tried to wiggle, but Baku just tightened his grip with a soft sleepy sound — somewhere between a sigh and a stubborn whimper.

Gotak’s eye twitched.

“I’m going to die like this.”

 

On the futon, where a lone blanket barely covered half the floor:

 

Sieun finally sat up, pushing his glasses onto his nose, still wrapped in silence. He took one last glance at Suho’s hand — still near his — then slowly slipped out of bed.

Soft steps.

No sound.

But Suho stirred the moment the blanket shifted.

Eyes barely opening.

> “...Sieun?”

 

Sieun paused. “You should sleep more.”

Suho yawned, shifting. “It’s cold without you.”

Sieun looked at him.

Didn’t smile.

But the edges of his voice were warmer than usual.

“I’ll make tea.”

 

Suho nodded, eyes slipping shut again.

“Only if you sit next to me after…”

 

---

 

In the kitchen corner of the dorm, Sieun started the kettle with practiced motions. Juntae shuffled in behind him like a zombie with a grudge and a toothbrush.

“Morning,” he grumbled.

 

Sieun: “No comment.”

 

Baku stirred next — still half asleep, still latched onto Gotak like a sleepy barnacle.

Gotak was red in the face.

“Let. Go. Of. Me.”

 

“Mm, comfy,” Baku mumbled into his hoodie.

 

“You’re going to suffocate me!”

 

“We die together.”

 

Suho, now properly awake and watching from his bed, blinked at them.

“You two good?”

 

Gotak: “NO.”

Baku: “YES.”

 

Juntae returned with his toothbrush in his mouth, pointing at them.

“You guys know we watched you cuddle last night, right?”

 

Baku blinked, eyes slowly widening.

> “...I did NOT.”

 

Gotak: “You dragged Juntae off the bed!”

Juntae: “I have spinal trauma.”

Baku: “Lies! That was sleepwalking. Or… emotional gravity.”

Gotak: “You curled into me like a cat!”

Suho: “You were hugging his arm in your sleep, Baku.”

Baku looked down at his arms still around Gotak.

He slowly unlatched.

>“...The bed was small.”

 

Gotak, breathless: “It’s a twin! You slept diagonally!”

 

Sieun placed the tea gently beside Suho, ignoring the yelling.

Suho looked up, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.”

 

Sieun blinked. “Don’t spill it.”

Juntae, from across the room:

“They’re worse than the two of you.”

 

Suho raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Juntae: “You slept so close I thought your souls fused.”

Sieun blinked. “You were watching?”

Juntae: “You were practically holding hands in your dreams.”

Suho: turning red

Sieun: sipping tea like none of this affects him

 

---

 

The dorm still smelled faintly of instant tea, cinnamon from Baku’s hoarded stash, and the kind of warmth that only came after a night filled with too many people in too small a space.

Everyone was technically awake now — even Baku, who had finally, begrudgingly let go of Gotak.

The rain had stopped.

But the clouds lingered like sleepy cotton stretched across the sky — soft, lazy, quiet.

 

Sieun stood at the center of the chaos, hair damp, sleeves rolled, already sorting boxes like he hadn’t been up until 2 a.m. being clung to by a sulky Suho.

He looked calm.

Too calm.

Like a tired general watching five hyperactive soldiers figure out how to use packing tape without screaming.

 

Juntae cleared his throat and tapped his tablet.

“Okay, team. We have two days off. We’re moving out tomorrow morning.”

 

“So today: everyone sorts, labels, and packs.”

 

“And if I see another sock in the kettle box, I will explode.”

 

Gotak: “Can we just burn everything and start over?”

Baku, dramatically sprawled on the bunk: “You can burn your stuff. I’m taking my posters. And my plants. And this hoodie.”

Gotak: “That’s MY hoodie.”

Baku: “It’s ours now.”

 

Suho wasn’t even listening.

He was still in bed, mug in hand, watching Sieun from behind his fringe.

Quiet.

Longing.

Pouty.

Sieun was crouched down near the corner of the room, folding his hoodies with military precision, unaware — or pretending not to notice — the boy half-melting behind him.

 

“Are you really not gonna change your mind?” Suho finally asked softly, under his breath.

 

Sieun didn’t turn around.

“No.”

 

“Juntae snores.”

 

“You wear socks to bed.”

 

Suho narrowed his eyes. “That’s unrelated.”

Sieun didn’t respond.

But Suho knew he was hiding a smirk.

 

Juntae clapped his hands.

“Let’s go, let’s go — clothes first, shoes in separate bags.”

 

“Suho, pack the chargers.”

 

“Sieun, you’re on food and kitchen.”

 

“Gotak, you’re in charge of toiletries.”

 

“Baku…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Just don’t touch anything fragile.”

 

“That’s offensive.”

 

“You threw a hairbrush like a kunai last week.”

 

Baku grumbled and grabbed the bubble wrap like it had wronged him in another life.

Gotak stared at his toiletries like he couldn’t remember what half of them were.

Suho, meanwhile, was shoving random socks into the corner of his duffel bag… and then sneakily slipping his favorite blanket into Sieun’s half-packed suitcase.

He glanced around.

No one noticed.

He zipped it up with a grin.

“Mine now.”

 

Only for a quiet voice behind him to say:

“That bag’s mine.”

 

Suho froze.

Turned slowly.

Sieun was standing there, arms crossed.

“Give it back.”

 

“No.”

 

“Suho.”

 

“It’s emotional support fabric.”

 

“You have three others.”

 

“But this one smells like you.”

 

Sieun blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

Just reached for the zipper.

Suho immediately hugged the bag.

“This is war.”

 

The rest of the room just watched in silence.

Juntae sighed loudly.

“We’re never leaving this dorm.”

The light was dimming in the dorm as the morning wore on — the soft, grey clouds still hanging outside the window. Inside, the only source of light was the mess they were all trying to pack into some semblance of order.

The battle had begun.

First, it was Suho and Sieun’s dorm room — naturally.
Then, Baku and Gotak’s room.

And finally, Juntae would pretend to be the responsible one, but let’s be real, no one was going to listen to him.

 

---

 

Suho was still sulking in his corner, shoving clothes into his bag with the same amount of care as a toddler in a candy store. But the muttering under his breath was relentless.

“When the hell did these guys’ clothes start moving into our room?”

 

He paused, looking at the pile of clothes. Random socks. T-shirts he didn’t recognize. Jackets that weren’t his.

“Why is Baku’s entire wardrobe in here now?” Suho grumbled, picking up a familiar-looking hoodie from the corner of the room. “I don’t even...”

 

“That’s mine,” Sieun said calmly, glancing over from the other side of the room, folding yet another shirt. “I’m pretty sure you wore it.”

 

“B“But I didn’t know you owned it,” Suho said, his pout deepening. “No one told me these were moving in.”

 

“Do you want me to tell you every time Baku’s things land in here?” Sieun raised an eyebrow, not looking up.

 

“Yes,” Suho deadpanned. “Yes, I do.

 

---

 

As the gang worked their way through the dorm room, it felt like a chaotic montage of half-hearted attempts to organize.

Baku had thrown his hoodie again over Gotak’s pillow, this time with zero intention of picking it up.

Gotak, with a dramatic flair, had carefully stuffed half of Baku’s clothes into a bag
> “I’m organizing this... for the third time,” Gotak muttered, glaring at Baku from across the room. “And you still don’t know where your socks go.”

 

Baku only nodded. “Yeah, well, they’re snuggly socks.”

Suho stopped, picking up Baku’s glittery pink socks from under his bed, and shot Baku a look.

“Who... whose socks are these?”

 

> “Oh, those?” Baku said, rubbing the back of his neck. “For a friend.”

 

Gotak glared. “A friend?”

> “Yeah, my mom. You wanna make something of it?”

 

---

Meanwhile, Sieun had placed a few of Suho’s folded shirts in a neat pile, and without even realizing it, Suho was watching him, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. He watched how Sieun's hair fell across his forehead as he focused on folding, how his sleeves bunched around his elbows.

He was tired. But still, somehow, so beautiful.

Suho thought, I just want to keep you close.

 

---

But just as his thoughts started to wander again, Gotak shouted from across the room:

“Why is Juntae's tablet in our room?!”

 

Juntae appeared, eyebrows knitted. “Excuse me, I’m organizing my things for the move. You’re just... stealing my space.”

“You were on my bed with your tablet last night! You almost spilled my drink.”

 

Juntae glared at him with no remorse. “That’s because you’ve got a bigger bed than me. And it’s comfy.”

> “I’ll switch beds if you keep stealing my socks,” Gotak threatened, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

Suho sighed.

“Can we please just move our things and not make this into a war?”

 

---

The chaos shifted, and in the background, Baku and Gotak were still bickering about who had more room to store their things, Juntae was packing his “crucial” items for the apartment, and Sieun — as usual — stayed calm through the mess.

Suho finally gave up on trying to organize his own stuff and just leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, pouting again.

> “I’m just... tired,” Suho muttered. “Tired of the mess... tired of everything...”

 

Juntae, still stuffing his bag, chuckled.

> “And you did want to room with Sieun.”

 

> “Yes, I did,” Suho snapped, looking up. “But now I feel like I’m... stealing his space. We can’t even agree on where to sleep.”

 

---

Finally, Baku was done throwing his tantrum. He marched toward the door, heading straight for the living room.

> “Fine! I’ll sleep on the floor if Gotak can’t keep his socks in the laundry basket.”

 

Gotak groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m being realistic,” Baku said, marching out.

 

And then... silence.

Suho slumped further against the wall, hands in his lap.

“I just don’t want to be far from you,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

 

Sieun, who had been sorting through a bag of snacks for the move, didn’t respond. Not yet.

But his fingers stilled.

His lips parted slightly.

And then, quietly, he said:

“I know. I don’t want you far either.”

Notes:

Chapter 22 Precap:

Sieun stepped out without looking down.

He took a step—

Then his foot hit something soft.

His knee buckled—

“Whoa—!”

 

A startled breath escaped his lips.

He tripped over Suho’s extended foot, completely unprepared for it.

 

Suho jolted upright just in time, instinctively throwing both arms up.

One hand caught Sieun’s waist. The other gripped the fabric of his hoodie. His legs shifted forward to brace the fall.

Sieun’s hands slammed against the wall behind Suho — one to the left of his head, the other just above Suho’s shoulder — to keep from completely tumbling onto him.

And then — everything froze.

 

They were tangled there.

Sieun straddled awkwardly over Suho’s legs, chest hovering just inches from Suho’s.

Their eyes met in the low, humming light.

Sieun’s breath hitched.
Suho didn’t dare breathe.

Their faces were impossibly close — so close that Suho could see the faintest crinkle at the corner of Sieun’s sleepy eyes, the way his lashes caught the light, the curve of his bottom lip still parted from surprise.

 

Sieun’s palms were still braced against the wall.

Suho’s fingers were trembling slightly where they clutched Sieun’s hoodie and side.

Chapter 22: One Empty Bed

Notes:

In the upcoming chapters there will be more of angst. So enjoy these fluffy chapters.

The van screeched to a halt in front of the apartment.

Not literally screeched.

But Baku screamed as if it had.

“MY SPINE!”

“You sat for twenty minutes.”

“My spine, Juntae!”

 

Suho blinked out of his fog as the engine shut off.
He looked down.

Sieun was still leaning on his shoulder — now curled closer, hair brushing Suho’s neck, completely unconscious.

 

“Hey…” Suho whispered, nudging him gently. “We’re here.”

 

Sieun stirred, eyes fluttering open. He blinked slowly — confused, disoriented, and definitely too tired to process reality.

Suho’s heart clenched.

He looks even more exhausted than this morning…

 

Is he sleeping properly? Eating? Why didn’t I notice sooner?

 

They all tumbled out of the van in chaos.

Juntae already barking orders.

“Grab the labelled boxes first. Then bedding. Then the stuff marked fragile.”

 

Baku: dragging three bags and his pillow like a chaotic gremlin.

 

“I claim the living room shelves. They’re mine now.”

 

Gotak: “You’re not even assigned the living room.”

Baku: “Too late! Emotional attachment has been formed!”

 

Meanwhile, Suho refused to let Sieun carry a single thing heavier than a sock.

“Give me that,” he said, snatching a box from his hands.

 

“It’s my toothbrush,” Sieun replied blankly.

 

“Exactly. Too heavy.”

 

Sieun gave him a tired blink, but didn’t argue.

 

Inside the apartment, everything was beautiful — sunlight through the huge windows, soft light on polished floors, and that big shared balcony glowing like a dream.

But all Suho saw?

Sieun rubbing his temple.

Sieun zoning out mid-sentence.

Sieun blinking too slowly.

And it killed him.

 

He turned to the others.

 

“Guys, let’s handle the big stuff. I think Sieun’s just—”

 

But before he could finish, Baku yelled from the kitchen.

 

“WHO PUT GOTAK’S SOCKS IN MY RICE COOKER?!”

 

“YOU don’t even cook rice!” Gotak snapped.

 

“It’s symbolic!”

 

“You’re symbolic!”

 

“I’LL SYMBOLICALLY END YOU!”

 

Juntae: “Everyone. Calm. Down.”

 

Sieun slowly walked into the hallway and leaned against the wall, eyes closing.

Suho followed him instantly, carefully setting the box down and reaching out.

“Sieun… hey.” His voice was soft now. “Are you okay?”

 

Sieun opened his eyes. They were dull, just a little too glassy.

 

“I’m fine,” he said.

 

“You’re not,” Suho whispered.

 

“Just tired.”

 

“You’ve been tired for days.”

 

Sieun didn’t answer.

So Suho stepped in front of him. Close.

So close.

 

“You bought this house… you made space for me… for all of us. You planned everything.”

 

“Now let us take care of it.”

 

A pause.

Then softly—

 

“Let me take care of you.”

 

Sieun blinked.

Tired.

But his lips twitched — almost into a smile.

He nodded once.

Then leaned forward, just enough to press his forehead against Suho’s shoulder.

 

From down the hall—

“THE COUCH WON’T FIT!”

 

“THEN CUT GOTAK’S LEGS OFF!”

 

“WHAT DID I DO?!”

 

Suho didn’t move.

Just stood there, one hand on the back of Sieun’s head.

Letting him rest.

Letting the chaos burn without them for a minute.

 

He sits Sieun down and crouched in front of him.

 

“Sit here. Don’t move. Don’t lift a single thing.”

 

Sieun opened one eye. “You’re ordering me around in my own house?”

Suho leaned in.

“Yes. And you’re going to listen.”

 

Sieun blinked.

But didn’t argue.

 

From across the living room—

Baku: “Can someone tell me why Gotak put his deodorant in my cereal box?”

Gotak: “It’s a storage technique.”

Juntae: “It’s a crime.”

 

Suho handed Sieun a bottle of water and sat beside him on the bench like a guard dog. Arms crossed. Ready to tackle anyone who made the boy move.

“Drink. I’m watching you.”

 

Sieun, tired but amused, took a sip and leaned his head back against the wall.

“You’re intense when I’m tired.”

 

“I’m intense because you’re tired.”

 

Suddenly—

THUMP!

 

Baku came sliding past the hallway, riding his mattress like a makeshift sled.

“I’m making a nest! No one stop me!”

 

Juntae yelled from another room:

“THAT ISN’T HOW BEDS WORK.”

 

Baku, dramatically: “It is if you believe.”

 

Gotak chased after him, dragging the box labeled “Shared War Crimes”, yelling:

“You don’t nest. You unpack.”

 

Suho didn’t even flinch.

He just turned slightly toward them and said, voice calm and deadly:

“If anyone bothers Sieun right now, I will rearrange your faces.”

 

Baku froze mid-slide. “Ten-four.”

Gotak nodded. “Copy that.”

 

Sieun blinked at Suho.

“You scare them more than I do.”

 

Suho glanced sideways.

“They’re scared because I’m not joking.”

 

Sieun smirked.

Just a little.

Then let his head fall gently onto Suho’s shoulder.

 

For once, the gang stayed quiet for a minute.

The sounds of unpacking faded into soft taps of boxes, rustling bags, and muffled laughter.

Suho exhaled slowly — a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

The new apartment was still full of chaos.

But with Sieun beside him?

It already felt like home.

 

---

 

The apartment was starting to look… lived in.

Empty boxes were flattened and stacked against the hallway wall.

Juntae’s laminated chore charts were taped to the fridge like a threat.

Gotak was organizing their tea rack alphabetically.
Baku was organizing it emotionally. (“Peppermint is for heartbreak, okay?”)

 

Sieun was moving slowly. Quietly.

Not because he wasn’t tired — he was, very — but because he had this expression on his face like he was watching it all unfold.

Like all this?

Was worth it.

 

They reached the room reveal moment.

 

Juntae clapped once. “Okay, now for final room pairings. You all know it already, but—”

 

“Suho and me,” he pointed.
“Gotak and Baku—”
“NO,” Baku shouted.
“Too bad,” Juntae said.
“Sieun gets his own room,” he finished.

 

Sieun just nodded once.

Suho?

Suho pouted so hard he might’ve developed a wrinkle.

He crossed his arms. “Still not changing your mind?”

Sieun glanced at him calmly. “You need rest. Peaceful sleep. Away from post-it notes and noise.”

“I want the noise,” Suho muttered. “I want the chaos. Your chaos.”

 

Juntae walked past with a box of light bulbs. “This feels illegal to witness.”

 

Suho walked into his new room — and immediately stopped.

It was… actually really nice.

Spacious. Clean. Soft light pouring through the corner window.
The farthest room from the main door.
The quietest.

And that made it worse.

“So this is my reward for suffering?” Suho muttered. “A calm, quiet life without the boy I’m literally obsessed with?”

 

From behind him, Juntae whispered, “You can talk to me about your feelings.”

Suho glared. “No.”

 

Meanwhile, Sieun entered his room.

It was simple. Exactly how he liked it.

But the balcony?

That was special.

It was wide, private, and opened into the dusky sky. The wind came in soft and steady — that monsoon-kissed breeze that made everything feel like a movie.

He stepped outside and leaned on the railing.

 

A few seconds later…

Footsteps.

Then a sigh.

Then—

“I’m still mad at you.”

 

Sieun didn’t turn around.

He didn’t have to.

“I know.”

 

Suho walked over slowly and leaned on the railing beside him. Arms folded. Face tilted upward.

“You always say it’s for my good. That I need sleep. That you don’t want me tired.”

 

“But I’m more tired without you.”

 

A pause.

“Not in a dramatic way. Just…” He exhaled. “It’s hard.”

 

Sieun didn’t speak right away.

Then softly:

“You need space sometimes. Even from me.”

 

Suho turned to him.

“I never needed space from you. I needed space with you.”

 

That made Sieun finally look at him.

Eyes quiet.

Deep.

Something unreadable behind them.

But his lips didn’t move.

 

In the silence, the sky rumbled — low and steady.
Clouds shifted overhead, rolling like waves.
It smelled like rain again.
That soft, fresh-soil kind of scent that wrapped around your heart.

Sieun finally turned back to the horizon.

“Maybe someday.”

 

Suho blinked.

“What?”

 

Sieun’s voice was almost too soft to hear:

“Maybe someday we’ll share a room again.”

 

Suho’s chest twisted.

His fingers curled on the railing.

He nodded, just once.

 

“Someday better come quick.”

 

---

 

The clouds had started moving slower.

That half-rain, half-still kind of afternoon had settled in — the world glowing soft grey, wind tousling hair, and something sweet and quiet in the air that made even Baku pause for a second.

They’d finally finished setting up the basics.

Mattresses down.
Sheets tossed into something resembling beds.
Boxes shoved into closets.
Wi-Fi connected (thanks, Juntae).
And most importantly — the balcony doors opened wide to let the breeze in.

 

Suho’s room, tucked in the farthest corner of the apartment, had a balcony that was borderline unfair.

It faced a curve of trees.
The sky opened wide in front of it.
And when the wind picked up — the scent of rain, earth, and flowers drifted through like something from a Studio Ghibli dream.

He stood there for a moment, gripping the railing.

Not thinking.

Just breathing.

“So this is my view…” he whispered.

 

The ache of not sharing a room with Sieun still lingered in his chest like a stubborn bruise — but damn, this helped.

 

From inside the living room, Baku yelled:

“WHO PUT THE UTENSIL BOX UNDER MY PILLOW?!”

 

Gotak yelled back:

“You used the rice paddle as a back scratcher. It’s your karma.”

 

Suho didn’t even flinch.

His hands tightened on the balcony rail.

He turned back toward the hallway — and blinked.

Because now?

Sieun was standing in the main hall, holding something in his hands.

A basket. Wrapped in cloth. With a letter.

Juntae raised an eyebrow.

“What’s that?”

 

Sieun stared at the label on top.

Then answered, quiet but a little fond:

“From Halmoni.”

 

The entire gang snapped into place like magnets.

“WHAT?!”

 

“Read it—read it out loud—”

 

Sieun calmly unfolded the card and read it without expression:

“My precious boys. I hope you settle in beautifully.
There’s kimchi, pickles, rice cakes, and tea in the basket.
Baku, don’t eat it all before Gotak even smells it.
Suho, stop staring at Sieun when you think no one’s looking.
Sieun, please rest. And smile once in a while.
Everyone else — behave. Or I’m moving in.”

 

There was a beat of silence.

Then Suho whispered:

“She knows everything.”

 

Baku fell to the floor. “She’s a god.”

Juntae, already opening the basket:

“These pickles smell illegal.”

 

They set everything up on the floor in the living room — paper plates, Halmoni’s snacks, Suho’s tea, and a bowl of those dangerously soft rice cakes Sieun had secretly stolen three of already.

The balcony doors were open.
The rain had finally started — soft, steady, beautiful.

Everyone had their own little moment.

Suho was watching the sky from the living room carpet.

Sieun sat beside him, sleepy and still.

Gotak and Baku were throwing pillows again.

“Stop—”

 

THWACK!

 

A pillow missed Gotak completely.

And hit Sieun.

Square in the face.

 

Silence.

Horrified silence.

Baku froze mid-motion, his soul visibly exiting his body.

“I—I—I—”

 

Sieun blinked.

Expression unreadable.

Slowly pulled the pillow off his face.

The gang tensed like a bomb was about to go off.

And then—

“...It’s fine.”

 

Sieun tossed the pillow aside and poured himself tea.

Everyone collectively exhaled like they’d escaped death.

Suho gave Baku a death glare so potent, Baku curled into a rice cake for protection.
Later that night, the apartment quieted.

Rain brushed the windows in soft waves, the kind that made you want to wrap yourself in a blanket and never move.

Suho slipped into his room with a mug of tea in one hand and a heavy ache in his chest he hadn’t been able to shake since Sieun said those five dreaded words:

“You’ll sleep better without me.”

 

He padded over to his balcony — his balcony, with the most unfair view.
Trees stretched into a velvet sky. The breeze carried the faintest scent of rain and faraway flowers. A curtain of soft fog draped the rooftops in the distance like a secret.

It was perfect.

And he hated it.

 

Suho leaned forward on the railing, elbows resting there, tea untouched.

His eyes flicked toward the other side of the apartment — toward the closed balcony door that led to Sieun’s room.

He wondered if Sieun was standing there too.

If he could feel the same wind.

If he was watching the same sky.

And somehow… if it felt lonelier without Suho beside him, too.

 

Suho exhaled.

“What’s the point of a view like this…”

 

He let the words slip into the dark like confession.

“...if you’re not here to see it with me?”

 

The rain ticked gently against the railing.

His tea had gone cold.

But he didn’t move.

He stayed there, fingers tightening slightly, heart sinking lower.

Because the thing no one understood — not even Sieun — was that Suho didn’t just like his presence.

He needed it.

Even in silence.
Even in sleep.
Even in something as simple as standing side by side, staring at the sky, not saying a word.

He just… needed Sieun.

 

Across the apartment, the door to Sieun’s balcony opened.

Not all the way.

Just a crack.

And in that split second, Suho caught a glimpse:

A figure.

Standing still.

Backlit by warm yellow light.

Sieun.

 

Their eyes didn’t meet.

But Suho smiled anyway.

Because he knew.

Even if Sieun didn’t say it.

Even if he’d never admit it.

He missed Suho, too.

 

---

 

The rain hadn’t stopped.

Just a steady hum now — gentle, constant, like it was cradling the new apartment in something hushed and sacred.

Sieun stepped out of his room barefoot, sleeves tugged over his hands.

He didn’t need to check on everyone.
But he did.

Maybe it was habit.
Maybe it was hope.

 

First stop: Gotak and Baku.

The door creaked open.
One was snoring.
One was wrapped around the other like a hoodie-scented octopus.

Sieun blinked.
Then softly closed the door.

 

Second stop: Suho and Juntae.

Juntae? Snoring. Dead to the world.

But Suho’s bed?

Perfect.

Unbothered. Unused.

Sieun’s eyes drifted to the balcony.

And there — silhouetted against the cloudy night sky — stood Suho.

Leaning forward on the railing.
Motionless.
Head tilted toward the storm like he was waiting for the sky to give him answers.

 

Sieun stepped closer to the curtain.

Didn’t open it fully.
Didn’t say anything.

He just watched.

Watched Suho breathe.

Watched his shoulders rise and fall like waves under pressure.

Watched the way his eyes flicked toward Sieun’s own balcony across the apartment — not knowing Sieun was right there behind him, watching.

 

And in that moment?

Sieun almost stepped outside.

Almost walked to him.
Almost said:

“If you can’t sleep… come to my room.”

 

Almost asked Suho to stay.
To forget the room arrangements.
To forget the rules.

Because maybe — just maybe — it wasn’t only Suho struggling to fall asleep alone.

Maybe it was Sieun too.

 

But he didn’t say it.

Didn’t let himself.

Because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t take it back.

And something that felt like fear curled low in his stomach.

So he just turned.
Soft.
Slow.
Leaving Suho with the moonlight and a silence that ached.

 

Suho never even saw him.

But maybe he felt it.
The moment that almost happened.
And the one that didn’t.

It was nearly 3:30 a.m.

And neither of them had slept a second.

 

---

 

Suho sat outside Sieun’s room, knees pulled up to his chest, chin resting lightly on them. His arms were wrapped around his legs, hoodie sleeves long and crumpled at the wrists. The hallway light buzzed quietly above him, casting a muted gold glow down the corridor.

He wasn’t thinking anymore.

He’d done enough of that earlier — the pacing, the tossing, the ghost-knocks on Sieun’s door.

Now, he just sat.

Eyes half-lidded. Breathing slow.

Waiting for something he didn’t even have the courage to ask for.

 

Inside, Sieun lay on his back in the dark.

Blanket half-draped. One arm across his forehead.

He stared at the ceiling — unmoving, unblinking.

He'd tried everything. Turned to the side. Rolled over. Adjusted the pillow. Closed his eyes.

Nothing helped.

His body was tired, yes. But his mind?

Restless.

He could still hear the rustle of the curtain from Suho’s balcony. Still feel the way Suho looked earlier — hollow-eyed, unsaid words hovering at his lips.

And something inside him kept repeating:

Maybe he couldn’t sleep... because I’m not there.

 

Just like something in Sieun also whispered:

Maybe I couldn’t sleep... because he’s not here either.

 

Eventually, he sighed and got up.

His throat was dry. Excuse enough.

He padded to the door, hoodie thrown over his shoulders. No socks. Hair slightly messy. Fingers brushing through it as he opened the door into the dim hallway.

And he didn’t see Suho at first.

 

Because Suho was sitting low — back slouched gently against the wall, legs tucked in, head slightly turned toward Sieun’s door.

He was almost completely still.

So quiet, so small in the hallway’s shadow, it was like he’d become part of the wall itself.

 

Sieun stepped out without looking down.

He took a step—

Then his foot hit something soft.

His knee buckled—

“Whoa—!”

 

A startled breath escaped his lips.

He tripped over Suho’s extended foot, completely unprepared for it.

 

Suho jolted upright just in time, instinctively throwing both arms up.

One hand caught Sieun’s waist. The other gripped the fabric of his hoodie. His legs shifted forward to brace the fall.

Sieun’s hands slammed against the wall behind Suho — one to the left of his head, the other just above Suho’s shoulder — to keep from completely tumbling onto him.

And then — everything froze.

 

They were tangled there.

Sieun straddled awkwardly over Suho’s legs, chest hovering just inches from Suho’s.

Their eyes met in the low, humming light.

Sieun’s breath hitched.
Suho didn’t dare breathe.

Their faces were impossibly close — so close that Suho could see the faintest crinkle at the corner of Sieun’s sleepy eyes, the way his lashes caught the light, the curve of his bottom lip still parted from surprise.

 

Sieun’s palms were still braced against the wall.

Suho’s fingers were trembling slightly where they clutched Sieun’s hoodie and side.

His voice came out soft. Barely a whisper. Like a confession he’d been holding behind his teeth all night.

 

“I can’t sleep, Sieun-ah.”

 

Just four words.

But they landed like an earthquake.

 

Sieun stared at him.

Longer than a blink.

No teasing. No reaction.
Just a tired gaze that seemed to understand everything at once.

Then, slowly — wordlessly — he straightened.

Pulled away.

Said nothing.

Turned.

Walked toward the kitchen.

 

Suho sat still on the floor, breath shallow, hands now empty.

He lowered them to his lap, trying not to feel the warmth that had just left them.

He heard the quiet sound of the water glass clinking.

Then footsteps again.

Sieun came back.

He walked past Suho without a glance.

Stepped into his room.

And — just before closing the door — left it open.

Not wide.

Just a crack.

Just enough to let the hallway light spill in.

And then, without a word, disappeared inside.

 

But Suho?

He saw it.

The tilt of Sieun’s head.
The way he paused in the doorway.

It wasn’t an invitation.

It was a message.

If you still can’t sleep… come here.

 

Suho stood slowly.

Walked forward.

One quiet step at a time.

Pushed the door open.

And stepped into a room that smelled like cotton and clean laundry and Sieun.

 

Sieun was already in bed — his back facing the door, arms tucked under the blanket.

He didn’t say anything when Suho entered.

Didn’t move.

But Suho could hear his breathing.

Steady. Subtle. Waiting.

 

He crawled into the other side of the bed.

The mattress dipped under his weight.
The covers shifted.
The air changed.

Suho laid there for a moment, on his back.

Then turned.

Faced Sieun’s back.

Scooted closer.

Closer still.

Until his forehead nearly touched the back of Sieun’s neck — not quite. Just… close enough to feel his warmth.

He inhaled slowly.

And the scent that filled his lungs was Sieun.

Not the shampoo or the lotion.

Just him.

That distinct, quiet, grounding presence Suho had been aching for all night.

 

This is what I needed.

 

(In the living room)

Juntae: “He’s not in my bed.”

Gotak: “Maybe he went back to Halmoni’s?”

Baku, chewing toast: “Maybe he got tired of sharing air with your statistics notes.”

Juntae: “He’s in Sieun’s room.”

Gotak: chokes

Baku: gasps dramatically

“Oh my GOD. It finally happened!”

 

Juntae: “He was hiding under the blanket like a cartoon character caught sneaking snacks.”

Gotak: “Did Sieun look mad?”

Juntae: “He looked like he hadn’t moved. Peaceful. Pillow-face.”

Baku: “Do we leave them alone? Or crash the moment with cereal?”

Gotak: “Both.”

 

Back in the room, Suho peeked out.

Saw Sieun’s lashes flutter just slightly.

Suho whispered:

“You awake…?”

 

No reply.

But he swore — for just a second — he saw the tiniest smile tug at the corner of Sieun’s lips.

And his own heart almost burst.

 

He didn’t touch him.

Didn’t speak again.

Just let his breathing match Sieun’s.
Let the steady hum of rain and body heat lull him deeper.

 

Suho finally slept.

Notes:

Precap Chapter 23

 

“I want you,” Suho said.

 

Quiet. Low. Honest.

No jokes. No teasing.

Just want.

 

Sieun didn’t speak.

Just looked at him — with that same unreadable gaze.
Then reached for Suho’s hand.

And pulled it gently beneath the shirt.

Sieun didn’t resist.

Not when Suho kissed him harder.
Not when his hands slid under the soft fabric of that oversized white shirt — hungry, searching, aching.

Not even when Suho backed him up, slow and unrelenting, until the backs of Sieun’s thighs hit the edge of the kitchen counter.

Sieun gasped softly at the contact, catching himself with his hands behind him — fingers spreading on the cool countertop for support.

That white shirt shifted with him.

Riding up.

Exposing more.

Chapter 23: I Want You

Notes:

I fell asleep again. I'm. So sorry.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

It wasn’t storming.
Just steady — enough to fog the glass and chill the air.

But the apartment kitchen felt warm.
Cozy. Still.
Like time had paused here.

Sieun stood at the counter.

Wearing an oversized white shirt, the kind that hung loose over his frame like it didn’t belong to him. Or maybe it did. The sleeves covered his hands, collar slightly askew. It looked way too big — and way too good.

His hair was damp.

Still dripping from a shower.
Dark strands clung to his forehead, the side of his face, curling near his neck.

He looked—

Unreal.

Barefoot. Calm. Focused on something simple like pouring tea. Completely unaware of what he was doing to Suho.

Or maybe not.

Because when he turned and their eyes met — slow, unreadable — it was like Suho forgot how to breathe.

 

He didn’t even know how he got there.
One moment he was watching.

The next, he was moving — crossing the room slowly, like something was pulling him forward.

Sieun didn’t flinch.
Didn’t speak.

He just looked at him — head tilted slightly, shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes heavy like he’d barely slept.

 

And Suho… couldn’t help himself.

He reached out.

His fingers brushed the hem of the shirt first — then slipped around Sieun’s waist. The fabric was warm. Thin. He could feel the heat of Sieun’s skin through it.

He stepped in close, chest pressing lightly against Sieun’s back.

Sieun let him.

 

Suho’s forehead dropped to his shoulder.
He breathed in deep — tea, shampoo, cotton, Sieun.
His entire body ached.

 

“Sieun…” he whispered.

 

No answer.

But Sieun tilted his head slightly, baring more of his neck. The invitation was silent — but obvious.

Suho kissed him.

Just under the ear.

Soft. Barely-there.

Sieun’s breath caught.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t stop him.

 

Suho turned him gently — hands gripping his waist tighter now, like if he didn’t hold on, he’d lose him.

Their lips brushed once.
Then again — firmer. Slower.

Then it deepened.

Sieun kissed him back. Quietly. Completely. His hands stayed loose at his sides, but his mouth opened when Suho pressed forward, and Suho swore he could feel his knees go weak.

His hands slid lower. Around Sieun’s back. Up beneath the shirt.

Skin. Warm. Soft.

He groaned — barely.

Kissed him harder.

Sieun let out a shaky breath against his mouth — not a protest. Not even hesitation.

Just need.

 

Suho pulled back, breath ragged.

Looked at him.

Sieun’s cheeks were flushed. His shirt had slipped further off one shoulder. His lips were red.

 

“I want you,” Suho said.

 

Quiet. Low. Honest.

No jokes. No teasing.

Just want.

 

Sieun didn’t speak.

Just looked at him — with that same unreadable gaze.
Then reached for Suho’s hand.

And pulled it gently beneath the shirt.

Sieun didn’t resist.

Not when Suho kissed him harder.
Not when his hands slid under the soft fabric of that oversized white shirt — hungry, searching, aching.

Not even when Suho backed him up, slow and unrelenting, until the backs of Sieun’s thighs hit the edge of the kitchen counter.

Sieun gasped softly at the contact, catching himself with his hands behind him — fingers spreading on the cool countertop for support.

That white shirt shifted with him.

Riding up.

Exposing more.

 

Suho followed.

Crowded into him, chest to chest.

His fingers gripped the hem of the shirt and pushed it higher, dragging it up until he felt bare skin again — warm and smooth under his palms.

He didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

There was something feral in the way his hands moved, trembling not from nerves but from desire.

Too long. Too many nights. Too many looks left unspoken.

 

“Sieun…”

 

His voice broke on the name — breathless, low, a whisper that cracked from the weight behind it.

 

“I need you. I need this. I can’t—”

 

He kissed him again.
Open-mouthed. Raw.
Teeth grazing lips.
Tongues slipping against each other in a way that left nothing innocent.

Sieun kissed him back.

Eyes closed. Mouth open.
His breath stuttered when Suho leaned in, chest pressing him firmer against the counter, heat pressed to heat.

Suho kissed his jaw, his neck, dragging his lips along damp skin that tasted like sleep and rain and Sieun.

 

He mouthed against his collarbone, pressing kisses lower, hands now roaming freely beneath the shirt — over ribs, down his sides, thumbs brushing the dip of his waist.

The shirt had slipped completely off one shoulder now.

And Suho couldn’t stop staring.

 

“You’re driving me insane…” he breathed.

 

Sieun still said nothing.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t push him away.
Didn’t speak.

Just arched a little when Suho’s hand gripped his waist tighter, when fingers ghosted over the curve of his lower back, slipping dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers.

 

Suho groaned — just softly.

And kissed him again.
Harder.
Deeper.

Like he was afraid this would end.
Like he wanted to mark this memory into his mouth.

He fisted the shirt at the sides and began tugging — desperate now — desperate to touch all of him.

 

Sieun’s chest rose and fell.

And just as Suho dragged his hands up — spreading the fabric wider—

 

“Suho.”

 

He looked up — just slightly.

And that was it.

 

That was the moment Suho broke.

Because Sieun — with his damp hair sticking to his temple, with his oversized shirt clinging in just the right places, with those doe-soft, wide eyes staring up at him — didn’t look real.

He looked dangerous.

He looked like a dream Suho wasn’t ready for.

He looked too pretty to touch — and Suho still wanted to devour him.

 

“I can’t—” Suho whispered.

 

His voice cracked. He pressed in closer, both hands gripping Sieun’s waist under the shirt. “You have no idea what you do to me."

 

He kissed him again.
Desperate.
Messy.
More teeth than tenderness now.

 

Sieun kissed him back — eyes fluttered closed, lips parting just enough.

And it made Suho dizzy.

The little sigh that slipped from him — that soft catch of breath — it wrecked Suho.

He pulled away just enough to look at him.

Sieun’s lashes brushed his cheeks.
His lips were kiss-swollen.
His shirt had slipped halfway off one shoulder, barely hanging on.

Suho was panting.

Hands trembling where they pressed into his ribs.

And Sieun just stood there, chest rising and falling softly, still not saying anything — still looking like that.

Like that.

 

“I want to see you,” Suho whispered.

 

His hands dragged up beneath the shirt. “All of you.”

His voice dropped to a rasp. “Please…”

He kissed him again, hands sliding across skin he’d dreamed about for years.

He tugged the shirt open.

Button by button, no hesitation now.

One.

Two.

Three.

He couldn’t stop.

Sieun’s chest rose as the shirt parted — and Suho’s breath caught in his throat. He was gorgeous. He was too much. He was his in this moment and Suho wasn’t going to waste a second of it.

 

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured against Sieun’s neck.

 

His hands moved again — over his chest, his stomach, down his sides — touching, tracing, memorizing.

And when he kissed him again — this time deeper, hungrier — Sieun finally gasped.

Not pulling away.

But melting.

Letting Suho take what he wanted.

 

Until—

 

Suho didn’t remember moving.

 

He just remembered Sieun’s mouth.
The way it tasted like tea and rain.
The way his breath hitched when Suho’s hands moved under his shirt again — desperate, slow, searching.

He remembered how soft his skin was.
How flushed his cheeks looked.
How his eyes — those impossibly dove-soft eyes — stared up at Suho like he didn’t want this to stop either.

 

“You’re mine,” Suho whispered, forehead pressed to his.

 

His voice was broken. So was his restraint.

 

“You’ve always been mine.”

 

He didn’t want to rush, but god, it was too much. Sieun was too much. Pretty and silent and breathing heavily, still letting him take and touch and taste.

 

Suho kissed him again.
Harder.
Deeper.
Sieun kissed back.

 

His legs shifted around Suho’s waist, pulling him just a little closer. His fingers curled over the edge of the counter.

 

Stay… Suho thought. Stay right here. Don’t go anywhere.

 

"Suho"

He heard someone calling his name. But he ignored it

 

“SUHO.”

 

AGAIN.

 

AND AGAIN.

 

AND AGAIN.

 

UNTIL HE COULDN'T.

 

The voice cut through the room like a slap.

 

In the doorway.

Mug in hand.
Eyes wide.
Face frozen.

 

It was Juntae

 

Suho flinched — heart stopping.

 

He turned around like he’d just been caught in a crime scene. His hands were still on Sieun’s waist. Sieun blinked slowly, shirt wide open, breath still uneven.

“Why—why are you—?!”

 

Juntae’s jaw dropped.

 

“What the—YOU’RE—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”

 

“THIS IS OUR KITCHEN?!”

 

“NO IT’S NOT—WAIT—”

 

“ARE YOU STRADDLING HIM?!”

 

“I—NO—YES—WHAT—SHUT UP!”

 

Suho panicked.

 

He practically lunged to cover Sieun’s chest with the shirt, tripping over his own words, face going scarlet.

 

“Don’t look—stop looking—why are you still looking?!”

 

“I’M FROZEN IN PLACE!” Juntae shouted. “YOU’RE TRAUMATIZING ME!”

 

“I’M TRAUMATIZING MYSELF!”

 

Sieun blinked again.

 

Calm.
Unbothered.

 

And reached for his mug like this was all very normal.

 

“You forgot the sugar,” he said softly.

 

And then—

 

“Suho.”

 

The voice again.

Calmer now.

Not Juntae’s scream.

More like a murmur.

 

Suho blinked—

And everything shattered.

 

His bed.
His pillow.
The cold air of the dorm room.

The dream fell away like glass.

And Suho sat up with a gasp, heart in his throat, sweat damp on his neck, and Juntae — real Juntae — standing in the doorway, again.

But this time, with real tea, and one eyebrow raised like a judgmental god.

 

“You okay?” Juntae asked, calm as anything.

 

Suho blinked at him.
Then at his hands.
Then at his blanket.

Then froze.

 

“Did I—”
His voice cracked.

 

“Did I say anything in my sleep?”

 

Juntae nodded slowly.

“Just a name.”

 

Suho’s heart stopped.

“His name.”

 

“Repeatedly.”

 

“With moaning.”

 

“And something about buttons.”

 

Suho let out a slow, dying sound, grabbed the pillow beside him — and screamed into it.

 

“...You good?”
Suho was wrecked.

 

Chest heaving. Skin flushed. Blanket clinging to every wrong place. The world around him felt too real and not real enough. The air in the room was too cold. His skin was too hot.

And his boxers were doing nothing to hide his suffering.

He blinked.

Then turned his head—

And saw that the bed was empty.

The sheets on the other side of the mattress were already smoothed over — cool and untouched. Like Sieun had never even been there.

But he had.

Last night — Suho had fallen asleep right next to him. Close enough to hear him breathing. Close enough to reach out and—

“Nope,” Suho groaned into the pillow. “Do not think about that dream. Do not think about his thighs. Do not think about—”

 

“Moaning?”

 

Suho’s entire soul evaporated.

 

He looked up.

Juntae.

Now leaning against the doorframe.

Mug in hand.

Wearing that smug, sleep-wrinkled expression that said “I know everything and you can’t stop me.”

 

“You’re up,” Juntae said simply.

 

Suho didn’t move. “You heard.”

“Yup.”

 

“All of it?”

 

“Every whimper.”

 

“Please shut up.”

 

“You said ‘mine’.”

 

“I’ll kill you.”

 

“You also said ‘don’t stop.’”

 

“Oh my god—”

 

“Also? You drooled.”

 

Suho grabbed the nearest pillow and smothered himself.

Juntae didn’t move. Just took another sip of tea and said:

“By the way... Sieun’s in the kitchen.”

 

Suho froze.

“He’s what?!”

 

“He’s been up for a while. Made toast. Tea. Wearing one of those soft oversized shirts. You know... the exact one from your dream.”

 

Suho stared at him, horrified.

“You saw him?”

 

Juntae nodded. “The man looks like a Pinterest board. You’re doomed.”

 

Suho sat up, running both hands through his hair like that would help. It didn’t.

His face was still red.

His body was still very aware.

His heart was a full-blown riot.

And Sieun, apparently, was just out there. Being soft. Making breakfast. Completely unaware that Suho had just dreamed about kissing him breathless against a kitchen counter.

 

“I can’t go out there.”

 

“You have to.”

 

“I’ll combust.”

 

“I’ll light the match.”

 

“I swear to god, Juntae—”

 

“Relax. He didn’t hear anything. You were moaning into your pillow.”

 

“That doesn’t make it better!”

 

Juntae shrugged and started walking away, calling over his shoulder:

“Better fix your face before you see him.”

 

Then paused.

“Or don’t. You’ll match the toast.”

 

Suho stared at the ceiling for three full seconds.

Then whispered:

“This is karma. For all the times I judged people with crushes.”

 

He dragged himself out of bed like a defeated soldier and threw on the nearest hoodie — one that, of course, smelled like Sieun.

Because of course it did.

Suho stood in the bathroom, staring down at himself.

There it was.

Proof of just how far his dream had taken him.

He let out a shaky breath and leaned both hands against the sink.

“You’re disgusting,” he whispered to himself.

 

Another beat.

“...But fair.”

 

The memory was still burning through him — Sieun’s flushed face, the sound of his breath, the feel of his skin beneath Suho’s palms. The kiss. The grip. The counter.

 

Suho squeezed his eyes shut, groaning.

“Get a grip.”

 

He didn’t.

 

He stepped into the shower — water still cold, colder than necessary — and braced one hand on the tile wall. Let it sting. Let it punish him.

But it wasn’t enough.

His body was already far gone.
Every nerve felt tight.
His mind kept replaying dream-Sieun’s voice, soft and breathless. The way he leaned back. The way his lips parted.

 

“Mine.”

 

He broke.

 

It didn’t take long.

Just a few minutes of rough breathing, a bite to his lip, the echo of Sieun’s name in his head as the steam thickened and the world blurred around him.

When it was over, he exhaled — ragged, spent, guilty.

 

The water kept running. He didn’t move right away.

He let it wash over him like it could take away the mess in his head. But it didn’t.

Because the real mess was still waiting in the kitchen.

Pretty and soft and wearing a white oversized shirt.

 

By the time Suho dried off, dressed, and opened the door, he looked composed.

He wasn’t.

Not even close.
Suho had just started calming down.

Tea in hand.
Dream memories shoved into a mental box labeled “Do Not Open Ever.”
Sieun standing a safe-ish distance away, buttering toast like he hadn’t emotionally ruined Suho’s subconscious.

And then—

The front door creaked.

Heavy footsteps.

Dragging socks.

Muffled arguing.

Then—

Baku entered the kitchen.

Hair a mess.

Shirt half-off one shoulder.

YAWNING.

 

Behind him?

Gotak.

Also yawning.

Also sleep-rumpled.

Also wearing Baku’s hoodie.

 

Suho stared.

Juntae turned.

Sieun blinked.

Baku waved casually. “Morning.”

Gotak scratched his head. “Where’s the coffee?”

Suho’s voice cracked:

“EXCUSE ME?!”

 

Baku blinked at him. “What?”

Suho stood up. “You said—YOU SAID you’d sleep on the couch! You made a dramatic speech about ‘I’m not sharing a room with him!’”

Baku shrugged. “The floor was hard.”

Gotak mumbled, “He showed up at 3 a.m. and shoved me.”

 

“YOU LET HIM STAY?”

 

“He stole the blanket, I didn’t have a choice!”

 

Suho turned to Juntae.

“Did you see that?! That’s betrayal #1.”

 

Juntae raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure that’s between them.”

Suho pointed aggressively. “He’s wearing Baku’s hoodie!”

Juntae smirked. “Looks cozy.”

“THIS IS NOT COZY—THIS IS WAR.”

It started with Juntae.

Because of course it did.

He waited until Sieun had stepped out to take a call — the front door closing softly behind him — and then turned to Baku and Gotak like he was about to drop state secrets.

He leaned in over his tablet like he was starting a heist.

“Suho had a dream.”

 

Baku, sprawled across the couch, raised a brow. “And?”

Gotak, already munching toast: “So?”

Juntae smirked.

“A dream about Sieun.”

 

Dead silence.

Then—

“No. Way.” Baku sat up.

 

“No way?” Juntae repeated. “YES way.”

 

Gotak blinked slowly. “Was it romantic or...”

“Oh,” Juntae grinned darkly. “It was full drama. Kitchen. Wet shirt. Touching. I woke him up and he was moaning.”

 

Baku CHOKED on air.

Gotak dropped his toast.

“HE WHAT—”

 

From the shared bedroom, Suho shouted:

“I CAN HEAR YOU!”

 

“GOOD!” Baku shouted back.

 

“Wanna tell us what else happened, Romeo?” Gotak added with a smirk.

 

“NO I DON’T.”

 

“Then we’ll make up our own version!”

 

Suho stomped into the living room, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp from another panic shower.

 

“You three are evil.”

 

Juntae held up his tea. “Correction. We’re observant.”

 

“I will murder you.”

 

“Then who will protect your secret?” Baku asked, twirling an imaginary mustache.

 

“You mean the one where he kissed Sieun in his dream and then took a freezing shower of guilt?” Juntae added casually.

 

“YOU TOLD THEM THAT?!”

 

Gotak: “He also moaned Sieun’s name.”

Baku: “TWICE.”

Suho made a strangled sound.

“Okay, fine! You know what? At least I dreamed about someone I like!”

 

“WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?” Gotak snapped.

 

Suho turned on him.

 

“You’re literally wearing Baku’s hoodie. Inside out. BACKWARDS.”

 

Gotak flushed.

Baku grinned. “Fashion. You wouldn’t get it.”

Suho: “You slept on the couch, huh?”

Baku: “I sleep where I’m needed.”

“That’s not even a real—”

 

Juntae sighed. “This is a disaster.”

 

The front door clicked open.

They all went stiff.

Sieun stepped in, phone still in hand, expression unreadable.
He glanced around at the room of suddenly innocent boys — all blinking too fast, mouths too shut.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

 

The silence could’ve been cut with a butter knife.

Suho immediately coughed, stepped forward.

“Nothing. We were talking about... um. The weather.”

 

Sieun raised a brow.

“The weather.”

 

“Cloudy with a chance of delusion,” Baku muttered.

 

Suho elbowed him.

Sieun’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Okay.”

He looked tired. Even more so than usual.

Not just sleepy — drained. Like his mind had been spinning gears since dawn.

Suho immediately sobered.

He watched Sieun walk past them, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to the elbows, his bag sliding from one shoulder. There was a faint crease between his brows. His lips were pale.

He looks exhausted.

 

Suho turned back to the others. They noticed too.

No one said it out loud.

But the teasing died down a little.

Even Baku sat straighter. Gotak glanced at the floor. Juntae frowned into his cup.

And Suho?

He watched as Sieun disappeared into the kitchen — and whispered under his breath:

“I really am the worst.”

Chapter 24: The Ones Who Stayed

Notes:

I'm sorry for last chapter. But I can't help it. This is supposed to be a slow burn. So no. They are not confessing anytime sooner. I have so many things planned for this. But I guarantee you, whenever the confession will happen, it's going be so worth it.

Also this chapter consists angst. But its worth it trust me.

The drizzle outside had softened to a mist.

Inside, the couch had become a nest of cushions and tangled limbs. Suho sat behind Sieun, who was once again hunched over a law book with the posture of a drowned cat. His hoodie was slipping off one shoulder. His head drooped slightly to one side like a wilting flower.

And Suho?

He’d had enough.

 

“Sit up.”

 

Sieun blinked. “I am sitting.”

 

“Straighter.”

 

Sieun gave him a look. “Why?”

 

“Because I’m about to fix your posture with these magical hands.”

 

Sieun blinked again. “You don’t know how to give a massage.”

 

“Shh. Let me.”

 

Without waiting for further permission — because let’s be real, Sieun never stops him — Suho scooted closer, gently pulling Sieun’s hoodie down just enough to expose his neck and shoulders.

The others were definitely watching from the kitchen corner, pretending to sort out snacks.

 

“He’s gonna dislocate his spine,” Baku whispered dramatically.

 

“No,” Juntae replied, sipping tea, “he’s going to ascend to heaven.”

 

Gotak muttered, “This is like watching a slow-burn romance where everyone except the leads knows it’s a romance.”

 

Suho’s thumbs moved in slow, practiced circles. He had no real training — just instinct and desperation.

 

And guilt.

 

Because Sieun’s skin felt like it carried the weight of everything — the sleepless nights, the pressure, the loneliness, the exhaustion. And Suho hated that he hadn’t done this sooner.

Sieun exhaled — a soft, accidental sound.

Suho’s hands paused. “That okay?”

“...Yeah.”

 

A beat.

“Keep going.”

 

From the kitchen:

“Did Sieun just ask for something?” Gotak whispered.

 

“I’m calling the news,” Baku muttered.

 

“Don’t ruin the moment,” Juntae snapped, eyes glued.

 

Suho kept massaging. His fingers moved up the sides of Sieun’s neck, pressing gently into the base of his skull, thumbs brushing behind his ears.

And when Sieun slumped forward with a sleepy sigh, letting Suho cradle the weight of him just slightly — Suho swallowed back the ache in his chest.

Let me carry a little of it, please.

Just for a minute.

 

The apartment was warm. Smelled like toast, balm, and the faint cling of rain-soaked clothes drying near the balcony.

Suho’s hands were still resting on Sieun’s shoulders. The massage had worked—his head had lolled slightly to the side, eyes closed, lashes soft against his cheeks, posture relaxed like melted wax.

Then—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell broke the stillness.
The doorbell rang.

Soft. One chime.

Sieun stirred awake against the couch. His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering before settling in their usual half-lidded calm. His body hadn’t even shifted much — only the subtle twitch of shoulders remembering where he was.

Juntae was already heading to the door.

He opened it.

And paused.

A tall man stood in the hallway, holding a neatly folded umbrella and wearing a slightly wrinkled white shirt. Not formal. Just... tired. Like someone who didn’t plan to visit but found himself there anyway.

He looked inside — at the noise, the boys, the light chaos of toast crumbs and open notebooks — and then his gaze found Sieun.

Still sitting up on the couch, hair slightly mussed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

A pause.

Then the man gave a quiet nod.

“I’m Sieun’s father.”

 

Sieun sat up straighter.

Not startled. Not surprised.

Just... quiet.

“Come in,” he said, voice low but clear.

 

His dad stepped inside carefully, umbrella still gripped loosely in one hand, eyes flicking once more around the room.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then finally, softly:

“I heard you bought the apartment.”

 

He looked around again, like he was trying to piece it together — the furniture, the living room clutter, the faint smell of balm still in the air.

“I was in the area. Thought I’d see it myself.”

 

That was all.

No lecture. No judgment.

Just observation.

Until his gaze settled back on Sieun — and lingered.

“You look tired.”

 

Sieun didn’t react.

Suho, still sitting beside him, felt the tension build in his own chest instead.

“Would you like tea?” Suho offered.

 

The man turned toward him, blinking once. Then nodded.

“Yes. Thank you.”

 

In the kitchen, Juntae helped without a word.

Back in the living room, Gotak and Baku stayed still — for once, both sensing this was not their usual brand of chaos.

When Suho returned with the tea and handed it over, Sieun’s father accepted it, holding the warm cup between both hands but not sipping.

He looked at Sieun again.

“When you asked to buy a house… we didn’t hesitate.”

 

A beat.

“You’ve always been careful. Calculated. We knew you’d manage it.”

 

Another pause. A soft glance at the others.

“I didn’t come for any reason. Just… wanted to see what you’ve built.”

 

Sieun didn’t speak.

But Suho watched him.

And for a brief second — he thought maybe Sieun didn’t know what to say either.

eun’s dad finally took a sip of the tea.

He nodded — more to himself than anyone — and then looked up at the others still lingering awkwardly across the room.

His gaze settled briefly on Baku and Gotak, who were half-squished onto the floor cushions, pretending they hadn’t been arguing about who finished the last of the strawberry jam ten minutes ago.

“You’re… Baku and Gotak, right?”

 

Gotak blinked. “Y-yeah.”

“From Eunjang?”

 

Baku nodded slowly, glancing at Sieun, who was still sitting quietly on the couch. “Since high school.”

Sieun’s dad smiled faintly — not out of amusement. More like… nostalgia.

“You were the ones in the rooftop photo.”

 

Gotak scratched his cheek. “You saw that?”

“His mother forwarded it. She forwards everything.”

 

The atmosphere lightened for a moment.

Then his gaze slid to Suho.

And lingered.

“So that must mean… you’re Suho.”

 

Suho froze slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“You were the one in.....”

 

Silence.

Baku shifted. Juntae stood a little straighter.

Sieun didn’t move.

“We heard the story, of course,” his dad continued. “But seeing you now — alive, upright… I didn’t know you were still this close.”

 

Suho nodded slowly. “We live together. Have, ever since I woke up.”

“I see.”

 

He glanced at Sieun.

“And that was your choice?”

 

Sieun met his gaze. Calm. Straight.

“Yes.”

 

Another silence passed.

Then, with almost too much casualness, his dad added:

“Still… you look exhausted. You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know.”

 

Sieun’s expression didn’t shift — but something sharp flickered in his eyes.

“I’m managing.”

 

“It’s not about managing,” his father said gently. “It’s about letting people help you. You have friends. You have us. You don’t have to carry all of it.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“But you are. And it’s not healthy—”

 

“You were never here,” Sieun said suddenly.

 

Not loud.

Not cruel.

Just clean. Honest. Like cutting glass with a steady hand.

“You don’t get to arrive now and measure how I carry things.”

 

Baku’s mouth opened, then closed. Gotak’s eyes widened slightly.

Juntae quietly lowered his tea.

Sieun’s father looked stunned for half a second.

Then:

“That’s fair.”

 

Sieun still didn’t raise his voice. But the sharpness in his tone deepened.

“You think I’m tired because I carry too much. I’m tired because I carry correctly. Alone. Efficiently. The way you taught me.”

 

“I never wanted you to be—”

 

“But you left me to be.”

 

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Even Suho… didn’t know what to say.

 

His dad looked down at the tea. It was going cold.

“You’re right,” he said softly. “That’s on me.”

 

“You were never here,” Sieun said.

 

His voice didn’t rise.
But something in the air thinned.

His dad exhaled slowly, like he'd been expecting those words — just not how sharp they'd feel when spoken out loud.

“You didn’t want me to be,” he said finally.

 

Sieun looked at him then.
Just looked.
Not hostile. Not angry.
Just quiet.

“I wanted you to ask.”

 

That made his father pause.

 

“You’re not easy to reach, Sieun.”

 

“Neither were you.”

 

A beat.

 

“After you had to change schools and moved out, you stopped replying. What was I supposed to do?”

 

Sieun’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Call. Try. Something.”

 

The words were calm. Each one cut like clean glass.

His dad swallowed.

“I thought you needed space.”

 

“I needed someone to stay.”

 

Another pause.

His father nodded slowly, like he understood. But he didn’t respond.
Not really.
Just sat with it.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said, softer now. “The apartment, the way your friends care about you. You’ve always been...”

 

“Capable,” Sieun finished, voice flat.

 

“Yes.”

 

Sieun blinked, long and slow.

“That’s the word people use when they don’t want to worry.”

 

His dad’s shoulders tightened.

“I do worry.”

 

“Quietly.”

 

The silence hung again — this time longer.

His father looked down at the tea in his hands. Turned the cup once. Set it down gently on the table.

“You really think I didn’t care?”

 

Sieun didn't respond right away.
Then:

“I think you cared... when it was convenient.”

 

And that?
That finally landed.

His father nodded again, slower this time.
There was no defense left.
Just acceptance.

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I know,” Sieun said quietly.

 

He stood, hands still tucked in his sleeves.

“But I don’t know what to do with that now.”

 

Then, with that same soft steadiness he always had, he said:

“I’m going to get some air.”

 

And walked toward the balcony.

The door clicked shut behind him — not a slam, not a statement.
Just... an ending.

 

The balcony door clicked shut behind Sieun.

And for a second, no one moved.

Not even Suho.

The silence in the room wasn’t sharp anymore. Just… still. Like the moment had turned into glass, and no one wanted to be the one to crack it.

Sieun’s dad sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes down.

Baku kept fiddling with the hem of his hoodie.
Gotak looked like he’d just remembered how to breathe.
Juntae was watching Suho — always the most observant when he didn’t speak.

And Suho?

Suho’s hands were curled tight around his cup. Like if he let go, he might say something too raw.

 

Then finally — slowly — Sieun’s dad looked up.

At them.

At all of them.

“You’re his close friends, aren't you”

 

It wasn’t accusing. Just quiet recognition.

“The ones who were always around him.”

 

Gotak nodded first.

“Yeah.”

 

“Still are,” Baku added, softer than usual.

 

Sieun’s dad looked at Suho next — his gaze settling, staying.

“And you’re the one who was in...... the hospital.”

 

Suho didn’t answer right away.
Then just nodded.

“Yes.”

 

A pause.

 

“He waited,” his dad said. “Longer than anyone thought he would.”

 

That stung. Suho didn’t show it.

“I know,” he said simply.

 

Sieun’s father rubbed a hand down his face. The lines near his eyes looked deeper now. Or maybe they were always there, just easier to see in this light.

 

“He doesn’t talk much about the past. I don’t think he knows how.”

 

No one answered.

Then he said something none of them expected:

“He never liked birthdays as a kid. Or holidays. But he always waited for people to remember them anyway.”

 

Juntae blinked. Baku leaned forward.

“Why are you telling us this?”

 

His dad looked toward the balcony — the faint outline of Sieun’s figure through the glass.

“Because you’re the ones he chose.”

 

A beat.

“I didn’t show up. But you did. All of you. And I think—”

 

“I think that matters more now.”

 

The gang stayed quiet. Not because they were unsure — but because… what do you say to that?

Then Suho spoke, voice steady:

“We’ll take care of him.”

 

No hesitation. No dramatics.

Just the truth.

His dad nodded once.

“I’m glad.”

 

He stood slowly, placing the empty cup near the sink.

“Tell him… his dad is sorry.”

 

“That’s it?” Baku asked, surprised.

 

His dad gave a soft smile — tired, genuine.

“I’ve said everything he’d let me.”

 

Then he stepped toward the door.

Paused.

And turned one last time.

“Take care of him. Please.”

 

Juntae stood, finally — shoulders back.

“We already do.”

 

The door clicked shut.

And the silence that followed didn’t feel heavy this time.

Just real.

 

--

 

The balcony door clicked shut behind Sieun with barely a sound, letting in a thin rush of wind as it did.

He stepped out into the air like it had called him.

The sun hadn’t fully set, but the sky was dipped in pale bruises — faded lilac and slow-burning grey. The breeze was sharper than usual, brushing past the railing with a low whistle. It moved the curtain behind him, stirred the edge of his too-long sleeves.

Sieun didn’t shiver.

But something about the way he leaned over the balcony — elbows resting, fingers tucked into the ends of his sleeves — looked... collapsed. Not physically. But emotionally. Subtly. Like a sigh stretched too thin.

Inside, the others were quiet. Giving space.

Suho followed out a few moments later, still rubbing sleep from one eye, hoodie dragged lazily over his head.

He saw him instantly.

The way Sieun stood — still, small, spine not quite straight. The sweater hanging too loose. His hair mussed slightly by the wind.

Something pulled in Suho’s chest.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked over, silently, and took his usual place beside him. One step away. Enough to give space, but not enough to feel distant.

They both looked out.

Down at the road below, which glinted with wetness from earlier drizzle. At the edge of buildings. The still city. The rooftops.

The silence settled like a blanket between them.

But Suho could feel it — Sieun’s breathing wasn’t even. There was something quiet and restless about him, like his thoughts were pacing even if his body didn’t move.

Then—

 

“There were only two people…”

 

Sieun’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. It surprised Suho, who glanced sideways.

 

“Two people who ever told me it wasn’t my fault.”

 

Suho froze.

Just for a second.

His hand tightened slightly on the railing. He didn’t move, didn’t speak — but something inside flinched. The word fault did that to him. Always had.

Because they both knew what fault meant here.

The coma. The fight. The blood. The way everything ended — and never really started again after that.

Sieun didn’t stop.

 

“Juntae said it. When I was leaving for Singapore.”

 

Suho’s head turned.

Completely.

He blinked at him — slow, startled — like the sentence hadn’t made sense.

“... Singapore?”

 

He didn’t mean for it to come out that quiet.

But it did.

Sieun didn’t look at him. Just nodded once, as if confirming something obvious.

 

“My mom… she thought I was getting worse again. That the fights were getting out of control.”

 

“So she thought it’d help. A change.”

 

Suho stared at him like he was seeing him through glass.

 

Singapore?

You were going to leave? For good?

And I didn’t even know?

 

The guilt curled somewhere tight in his stomach.

Sieun continued, still calmly:

“Juntae called me before I left. Said it wasn’t my fault.”

 

Another pause. The wind moved through their hair.

Then, without looking:

“But the first person who said it… was Dad.”

 

That was when Suho’s breath caught.

His fingers twitched against the railing.

He remembered the hospital. The machines. The quiet of those days.

He’d assumed Sieun had disappeared. But Singapore? He hadn’t known.

And now the word fault was starting to weigh more.

Heavy. Unspoken. Pressed into his chest like a stone.

 

Suho hadn’t looked away.

Not since Singapore.

He was still standing there, one arm resting on the balcony edge, the other hanging loosely by his side. But his entire posture had shifted — not tense, not startled, just… still. Like he was bracing himself for more.

He didn’t interrupt.

Not even when his throat burned with questions he didn’t know how to ask.

Sieun’s voice came again, soft. Not bitter. Just honest.

“I was going to go.”

 

“We even packed. My flight was in two hours.”

 

Suho’s jaw tightened.

The wind curled around their feet.

“But then… Juntae called.”

 

There was a small smile in Sieun’s voice now — barely visible, like the memory stung and warmed at the same time.

 

> “And then he said… ‘It’s not your fault, you know.’”

 

A pause.

Suho turned slightly, barely breathing.

 

“I don’t even remember crying, but I must’ve. Because my mom came in later and asked if I wanted to reschedule my ticket.”

 

“I said no.”

 

“I stayed.”

 

Suho closed his eyes.

There it was.

The reason why Sieun hadn’t vanished across the world. The reason why he was still here. Why they were here — all of them, in this apartment, in this moment.

Because one person had said the right thing at the right time.

And maybe… because deep down, Sieun had been waiting for someone to.

 

Inside, just past the sliding door — slightly ajar — the others had stilled.

No one had meant to listen.

But when Sieun’s voice had started, soft and stripped raw, no one could move.

Juntae stood by the table, his back to the door, eyes on the mug in his hands.

Baku sat cross-legged on the couch, fingers tightening around a half-eaten cookie.

Gotak leaned on the wall, arms crossed — but eyes flicking toward the voice that drifted in from outside.

There was silence for a long beat.

Then—

Gotak whispered, barely louder than a breath:

“That’s why he didn’t go.”

 

The words landed like a ripple.

None of them answered.

Because there was nothing to say.

And also… because they’d never heard Sieun talk like that.

 

Outside, Sieun exhaled.

His shoulders dropped, just a little.

His head bowed again.

“I stopped expecting anyone to say it, you know.”

 

“That it wasn’t my fault.”

 

“It always felt easier to believe it was.”

 

Suho turned toward him — fully this time.

He didn’t touch him. Didn’t speak.

But his face had changed.

It wasn’t just shock now.

It was ache.

The kind you carry in your chest for years and don’t know what to do with until someone finally tells you a truth that shakes it loose.

 

The room behind the balcony door was completely still.

None of them had planned to eavesdrop.

But none of them could move away either.

Because outside — in the quiet glow of the cloudy sky — Sieun was talking. Not just with words, but with pieces of himself they’d never been given before.

Gotak, still leaning on the wall, shifted slightly.
His voice was low. Honest.

“I still remember how happy I was when he showed up the next day.”
Juntae glanced at him, startled.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You came running.”
Gotak didn’t look away from the balcony door.

“I thought he was gone. I didn’t sleep the night before. And then… there he was. Just sitting in the classroom. Head down.”

He swallowed.

"He just asked—”

Gotak paused.

Then said, quietly:
“He asked, ‘Where’s Baku?’”

The room shifted.
Baku blinked, confused.

“Wait—what?”

Gotak turned toward him.
“You forgot?”

“You left. To work for the union.”

The words hung in the air like a chord left unresolved.
Baku’s brows furrowed, expression tightening just slightly.

Suho, behind the door, still hadn’t turned around.

And Sieun… Sieun hadn’t heard a word of it.
But inside — something had shifted.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It wasn’t heavy.
It was full.

Full of memories.
Some of them warm.
Some of them aching.
All of them shared.

 

The wind tugged at Sieun’s white shirt, the sleeves still a little too long. His hair ruffled slightly as he leaned against the railing, face turned toward the pale lavender sky.

He wasn’t crying.

But there was something distant in his voice, like the words were echoing up from deep inside him — not meant for pity. Just… truth.

 

Suho flinched.

Physically.

His fingers tightened around the railing. His breath caught.

Because when Sieun said fault, it was his coma they were both thinking about.

He didn’t dare interrupt.

Sieun continued, voice steady — but lower now. Raw.

 

“The first person who ever said it… was Dad.”

 

A pause.

“Back then. When he dropped me at the new school. He said it once. Quietly. No follow-up.”

 

His eyes flicked toward the horizon again. Almost like he could see it replaying.

“I understand… he’s busy. He’s always been busy.”

 

Another breath.

“But he was the first one to believe me. And then he left me alone with it.”

 

He finally looked at Suho then.

Not angry.

Just tired.

“It’s okay. I don’t blame him. I just…”

 

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I just don’t know what to do with that kind of silence anymore.”

 

The breeze was still cold.
Even with the clouds above blushing faintly orange from the setting sun, the chill didn’t leave. It bit at their fingers. Carried the scent of evening rain.

But Suho didn’t move.
He couldn’t.

Not when Sieun looked at him like that — not angry, not sharp, just… worn down.
Like someone who’d been carrying too much, too long, without realizing the weight until it pressed into his bones.

Sieun’s hand was still resting lightly on the balcony railing. His sleeves were slipping a little, pushed by the wind. His lashes fluttered from the cold.

And then — so quietly, it almost disappeared into the air — he said:

“I’m tired.”

Suho blinked.
But Sieun wasn’t done.

“I’m really… tired, Suho.”

His voice cracked just a little on his name. Just enough to make Suho’s heart drop through his ribs.

And without thinking, without saying anything, Suho reached out.

He didn’t touch his hand. Or his face.

Just gently… pressed his shoulder to Sieun’s.

Side by side.

Not pushing. Not asking.
Just letting him know — I’m here.

Sieun didn’t look at him.
But his shoulder didn’t pull away either.
He stayed like that, still watching the sky.
Until — after a minute, maybe more — he leaned a little heavier. Just a little.

His head lowered.
Until it was resting against Suho’s shoulder.
And Suho didn’t breathe for a second.

The soft weight. The warmth. The quiet surrender of it.
He didn’t want to move ever again.

Inside, behind the door:

No one spoke.

Gotak had stopped pacing.
Juntae’s fingers were frozen on the rim of his mug.
Baku’s loud, expressive face was quiet for once — caught in something that looked too soft to name.

No one said it out loud.
But every single one of them felt it:

Sieun never leans.

And tonight — just this once — he did.

 

The weight against Suho’s shoulder stayed still for a long time.

Not heavy.

Not clinging.

Just… resting.

The kind of tired that doesn’t come from skipping sleep, but from trying too hard for too long. The kind that builds up in your chest before your body even notices.

Sieun didn’t say anything else.
And Suho didn’t ask him to.

He just let the wind move around them, let the fading light brush across their cheeks, and tilted his head — just barely — to rest the side of his own against Sieun’s hair.

It smelled like mint shampoo and worn-out courage.
And Suho’s chest ached.

After a while, when the breeze got too cold, when the sky dimmed just enough to remind them the day was ending…

He whispered:

“Let’s go in.”

Sieun didn’t answer.
But he didn’t resist either.

Suho gently stepped back. Placed a warm hand on the small of Sieun’s back.

Guided him inside.

The lights were soft — dimmed by sunset, no one bothering to switch them on yet.

The others were gone from the hallway, pretending not to hover. Somewhere in the living room, someone coughed. Juntae, probably.
But Suho ignored it all.

He took Sieun to his room — the one with the softest bed, the warmest light, the biggest balcony view.
The one he chose for them — even if they weren't sleeping in the same room anymore.

“You should lie down,” Suho said, voice low.
Sieun blinked once. Slowly. His eyes were rimmed with tiredness now — not red, just hollow.

He didn’t argue.

Just sat on the bed, pulling his legs up slowly.

His shoulders sagged forward a little, and for a moment, Suho wondered if he’d fall asleep sitting up.
Instead, Sieun looked at him.

Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.

And Suho — whose fingers were already twitching with the need to help — stepped closer, gently pushed Sieun’s legs toward the mattress, then lifted the blanket and draped it over him.

He crouched beside the bed. Tucked the edge around Sieun’s wrist. Brushed his fingers once across his fringe, pushing it off his forehead.

“Just rest, yeah?” he murmured. “No one needs you to be anything right now. Just… sleep.”

Sieun blinked slowly again.

Eyes half-lidded.

“You’re being dramatic,” he mumbled.
Suho smiled, soft and crooked.

“You like it.”
Sieun didn’t answer.

But his eyes fluttered shut.
His breathing evened out.

And Suho stayed like that — crouched beside the bed, hand lightly resting on the blanket, just watching his face — until he was sure Sieun was asleep.

 

---

 

The bedroom door clicked shut behind Suho with a barely audible sound.

Sieun was fast asleep now — the kind of sleep that comes when your body finally lets go. One hand was still half-tucked under the pillow, the other loosely curled near his chest. Even in sleep, he looked like he was holding himself together.

Suho watched for just one more breath.

Then leaned down.

Pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Soft. Careful. Like a thank-you he couldn’t say out loud.

Then he turned and stepped out of the room.

 

The moment the door closed, his knees gave out. He crouched down in the middle of the hallway, back to the wall, hands cradling his head.

“I feel bad,” he muttered.

 

The gang was scattered in the living room — Juntae seated on the arm of the couch, Gotak sitting on the floor cross-legged, and Baku with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape.

“Same,” Juntae said.

“Me too,” Gotak echoed, voice soft.

Baku groaned. “Why is this house full of depressed boys?”

 

Suho peeked up at Junate.

“Thanks.”

 

Juntae blinked. “For what?”

“For not letting him go to Singapore.”

 

That made the room go still for a second.

Baku snorted. “Yeah, or by now he’d already be married to some Singaporean tax lawyer.”

Suho glared. “I’m going to kill you.”

Gotak raised a brow. “Yeah, and then he wouldn’t have been here to tell Baku's dad he was the problem.”

Suho blinked. “Wait, what?”

Juntae leaned back.

“Baku left once. Disappeared for days. We thought... we thought union people might’ve done something. He wasn’t joining, and Sieun… he came back, then went straight to Baku’s place. We didn’t even know where it was.”

Gotak added, “His dad opened the door and started blaming Baku. Called him irresponsible. That he was embarrassing the family.”

“Sieun just listened at first,” Juntae continued. “Silent. With that look like when he knows someone’s full of shit. Then he said — dead serious — ‘Baku isn’t like that to us. Maybe you’re the problem Sir.’”

Suho’s jaw dropped.

“The fuck… he said that?”

 

“Yeah,” Baku mumbled, trying to bury his red face in the blanket. “I cried so bad when I heard. Later when he was in the hospital, I went to see him. My dad told me that morning he made me breakfast. Said there was one boy who looked him in the eye and said it like he meant it.”

Suho turned.

 

“Wait… what hospital? Why was he in the hospital?”

 

Gotak said it like it hurt: “Because a truck hit him.”

Suho’s whole body snapped straight. “WHO HIT HIM?”

Juntae winced. “A truck, Suho.”

 

“WHY WAS HE IN FRONT OF A TRUCK?”

 

Baku looked up. “Because the hospital called. Your hospital. They said they were losing you. He was on his way to see you, just heard it, while crossing the road, and… froze.”

Gotak nodded. “He saw it coming. But he didn’t move.”

Suho was shaking.

Baku’s voice was quieter now. “When I went to see him, his mom said it wasn’t even that bad. His body just shut down. The doctor said it was shock. He hadn’t been sleeping. He used to take meds for that.”

Juntae added softly, “You remember those messages he sent you? All those years? Thousands of them? He never thought you’d read them. He just needed somewhere to put it.”

Suho stared at the wall, eyes glassy. He remembered every word. He still had all of them.

Gotak murmured, “Do you guys remember when his mom told us to stop being friends with him?”

Juntae exhaled slowly. “Yeah. She said we were bad for him.”

 

“I wanted to yell,” Gotak admitted. “Just say no. But he already looked so tired even when unconscious.”

 

Suho finally spoke, barely above a whisper.

“There are so many things I don’t know.”

 

No one corrected him.

No one said, you know enough.

Because they all felt it too.

And outside, the sky stayed dim.

But inside, the weight was being shared — slowly, painfully, beautifully.

Notes:

I think I'm missing something. Sieun was going to Singapore...or was it Canada!? I don't remember exactly.

OR WAS IT PHILLIPINES.💀

Also I remember Sieun's dad did say something. It was in the Season 1 last episode. When he dropped him at Eunjang, he said something to Sieun. I don't remember exactly if he told Sieun that it wasn't his fault. But I still imagine him saying that. Throughout season 2 I kept hoping for him to show up. I was screaming internally that Sieun should just live with his dad again rather meeting his mother again and again.

Chapter 25: The Prize

Notes:

I keep falling asleep whike updating. Should I change the time to post. Because I feel bad since some of you genuinely wait for updates. I will try to post little early since tomorrow. Till the enjoy this chapter.

The door was still shut.

The others had moved back to the couch, or the floor, or whatever space they could find to sit. No one turned on the lights. The soft gold of the lamps stayed low and warm. Nobody wanted to break the atmosphere.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

And then — finally — the sound of the sliding balcony door.

Suho turned first.

Sieun stood there.

His hair a little tousled, skin a little flushed, and those sleepy eyes blinking at the soft living room glow. His sleeves were pulled over his hands again. The cold hadn’t quite left his cheeks yet.

But he didn’t say anything. Just walked in quietly, barefoot, and disappeared into the hallway.

Suho stood up without thinking.

Juntae gave him a silent nod.

He found him in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. Not looking sad. Just... worn.

Suho said nothing at first.

He simply knelt down, reached for the drawer beside the bed, and took out a warm set of soft beige clothes — a cozy nightshirt and track pants.

Held them out.

“You should change,” Suho said softly. “We’ll go out in a bit.”

Sieun didn’t argue.

Didn’t speak.

Just nodded and slowly changed, back turned, quiet.

Suho stood there — back against the wardrobe, arms folded — not watching, just listening to the fabric rustle. He noticed the slight tremble in Sieun’s arms when he tugged the shirt down.

“You want me to help?” Suho offered quietly.

Sieun shook his head once. “I’m okay.”

But when he turned back around, his fingers fumbled with the buttons.

Suho stepped closer.

Took over.

One button at a time, slow and careful. They didn’t look at each other. Not until the last button.

And then — when Suho finally met his gaze — Sieun let out a tiny breath.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Button things like you’re solving a puzzle.”

Suho smiled. “Maybe you’re the puzzle.”

Sieun blinked once.

Then, finally, smiled back.

When they returned to the living room, Baku let out a small whistle.

“The princess returns.”

Sieun gave him a deadpan look. “I’m not dressed for royalty.”

“It’s the glow,” Baku said, leaning into Gotak. “Post nap angst-glow. It’s very editorial.”

Suho rolled his eyes. “You’re the only person who uses the word ‘editorial’ unironically.”

“I’m an artist.”

Gotak shoved him gently with a pillow.

Juntae, already up and grabbing his coat, asked, “So? Dinner?”

Sieun just nodded once.

“Let’s go.”

 

---

 

The rain had returned.

Soft, this time — not the thunderstorm of last night, but a drizzle, steady and delicate. It beaded on their shoulders and in their hair as the five of them walked down the narrow road toward the small restaurant Sieun had mentioned once in passing — the one tucked behind the stationery shop, always half-empty, always warm.

Sieun walked ahead with Juntae, the two of them half-covered by a single umbrella.

Baku and Gotak were bickering behind about who forgot the wallet.

And Suho?

Suho walked a step behind Sieun.

Hands in his pockets. Hoodie pulled up. Watching the way the yellow streetlamps lit the edges of Sieun’s hair.
He looked better than he did earlier. A little more awake. A little more like himself.

But not completely.
Not yet.

The restaurant was mostly empty.

A quiet corner table was waiting. Round, wooden, with mismatched cushions. There was a small paper menu written in thick black marker and a faint scent of soy and ginger in the air.

They settled in like they always did — naturally chaotic, but familiar.

Suho ended up beside Sieun again. Of course.

Juntae across the table. Baku and Gotak squished into one side, shoulder to shoulder, arguing over chopsticks.

The room was warm. Soft music played somewhere in the back — something acoustic, old, and in a language none of them quite understood.

They ordered quickly.

Then… they settled.

And it was that kind of silence — the comfortable kind — where you’re not waiting for anything, not hiding anything, just breathing.

Suho leaned his elbow on the table and tilted his head toward Sieun.

“You feeling better?”

Sieun nodded, sipping warm barley tea. “Yeah.”

“Still tired?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then looked at Suho, eyes a little clearer.

“Still here.”

Suho smiled.

That was enough.

Gotak suddenly pointed a chopstick across the table.

 

“Hey, are we not gonna talk about how Suho looks like he just saw god every time Sieun sips tea?”

 

Baku, not missing a beat: “He’s having a spiritual experience. Let him worship.”

 

Suho groaned. “Can’t I be in love in peace?!”

 

Juntae smirked. “Not when it’s on display like a K-drama finale.”

 

Sieun blinked at them. “I’m just drinking tea.”

 

“Exactly,” Baku said. “And he’s dying about it.”

 

The food arrived — warm bowls of broth, dumplings, rice, and spicy stir-fried dishes. It filled the table and the air between them.

 

Halfway through the meal, Suho leaned back and nudged Sieun’s shoulder lightly.

 

“You know… we haven’t talked about it yet.”

“Talked about what?”

“The room situation.”

Sieun stilled just slightly. “Hmm.”

“You said I’d be with Juntae.”

Sieun nodded slowly. “It’s quiet back there.”

“Yeah. But…”

Suho took a sip of tea. Then looked down.

“I’ve gotten used to you.”

“Used to?”

“Sleeping beside you. Having you nearby.”

A pause.

Suho rubbed his thumb over the side of the cup.

“Even when we weren’t talking much, you were still there.”

He glanced up.

Sieun’s gaze was steady. Gentle. His voice was soft.

 

Suho’s heart thumped.

 

The warmth of the restaurant cocooned them from the outside world.

 

Steam rose gently from their bowls, clinging to the air. Their laughter came in soft waves — quieter than usual, but real. Healing.

 

But Suho kept glancing sideways.

Sieun was eating slowly. His shoulders were relaxed, but his eyes were tired — not just physically, but that deep kind of tired that lived behind your skin. The kind that sleep didn’t fix.

And maybe the others didn’t see it.

But Suho did.

He always did.

When Sieun reached for the water, his hand lingered a second too long on the glass.

When he smiled at something Baku said, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

When he blinked, it looked like his lashes took a little longer to lift.

Suho didn’t say anything.

He just kept watching.

And when everyone else started picking at dessert, Suho quietly leaned in and asked — again, softer this time:

 

“You sure you’re okay?”

 

Sieun looked at him.

Just for a second.

And Suho could see it — the weight. The echo of everything from the balcony, from earlier, from years before. Still pressed behind those quiet eyes.

Sieun exhaled.

“I will be.”

 

That was all he said.

Then he went back to his tea, fingers curling loosely around the cup, the steam brushing against his cheeks.
Suho looked down at his own hands.

You always say that. You always will be.

But when are you just... allowed to be tired?

He didn’t ask it out loud.

But later, when they left the restaurant and the drizzle touched down soft and cold — Suho quietly tilted the umbrella just a little more over Sieun’s head.

Just in case.

Even if Sieun didn’t ask.

Especially because he never would.

 

---

 

The walk back from the restaurant was slow.

The rain had stopped — mostly — just a light mist lingering in the air, brushing against their jackets and lashes like ghosted sea spray.

Sieun walked quietly near the front, his umbrella barely tilted, gaze steady ahead.

Suho kept pace beside him — not saying much. But glancing. Often.

The gang trailed behind.

And one by one… they noticed.

How Sieun’s steps were slightly uneven.

How he hadn’t spoken in the last twenty minutes.

How his hand looked pale, fingers curled tighter around the umbrella handle than needed.

Juntae nudged Baku quietly and nodded toward a roadside claw machine glowing at the corner of a tiny convenience store. The kind that spat out trinkets for 100 yen coins — keychains, glass charms, tiny plushes that no one really needed.

Baku blinked at him.

Then grinned.

 

“Okay,” Baku said, dramatically clapping his hands. “I need something stupid and shiny right now.”

 

Gotak: “Again? You literally got candy from the last one and cried about the sourness.”

 

Baku: “This time it’s for... spiritual reasons.”

 

Juntae held up a coin. “Let’s see if the universe is kind tonight.”

 

They walked over, just enough distance to not interrupt Sieun and Suho.

 

Suho noticed them peel away, but didn’t question it.

 

He was too busy noticing how Sieun’s eyelids fluttered for half a second too long.

 

Like he wanted to close them.

It took three tries.

One jammed claw.

One plastic ring with a cracked gem.

And finally —

 

A small, glass keychain in the shape of a clear bubble.

 

Inside, suspended in the middle, a tiny plastic figurine of a cat holding a stack of books. The paint job was slightly chipped, the keyring old.

 

But when Baku held it up under the lamplight, it sparkled like it mattered.

 

Gotak gently took it from him, wordless, and walked forward.

They caught up to Sieun and Suho just before they reached the campus gate.

 

Gotak didn’t say much.

 

He just walked beside Sieun for a beat, handed him the little cat charm, and muttered:

 

“It reminded us of you. The books. Not the cat.”

 

Sieun blinked.

 

Looked at it.

 

Didn’t react.

 

Then…

 

He slipped it into his pocket.

 

Didn’t say thank you.

 

Didn’t need to.

 

Baku piped up with a laugh, “He likes it. If he didn’t, he’d have left it on the road.”

 

Suho rolled his eyes. But quietly, his fingers brushed against Sieun’s arm — just to make sure he was still steady.

 

---

 

The moment they stepped into the apartment, Sieun kicked off his shoes with that same quiet exhaustion — the kind that dripped off his shoulders even though he hadn’t said a word.

 

“Go lie down,” Suho said, trying to sound casual.
Sieun just blinked at him.

 

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, already turning toward his room.

 

But Suho had other plans.

 

The moment Sieun slid the door open — Suho darted past him like a possessed spirit, flung himself onto Sieun’s bed with the commitment of a man escaping war, and sprawled.

 

Flat.

 

Face-first.

 

Limbs everywhere.

 

“Mine now,” came the muffled voice from the pillow.
Sieun stared.

 

Juntae, walking in behind them, blinked. “Suho?”

 

“This is my bed now. My territory. If anyone wants it, you’ll have to peel me off.”

 

Sieun looked at him. Then at the blanket already half-dragged to the floor. Then slowly turned back toward the others in the hall like:

 

Is this real?

Is this happening?

Why is this my life?

 

Baku burst out laughing. “Did he just octopus his way into your bed?!”

 

Gotak added, “Look at his leg! He’s latched on to the corner like it’s his last anchor to Earth!”

 

Juntae leaned in, completely deadpan: “That’s the cling of a man who has nothing to lose.”

 

Suho sat up slightly, pouting hard. “It’s not fair! I slept here last night. I slept the best I’ve slept in weeks. You can’t just evict me.”

 

Sieun said nothing.

 

He just stood there. Looking about 1% done and 99% so tired he might lie down on the floor instead.
Suho saw that.

 

His pout melted into something gentler.

Still dramatic — but softer.

 

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” he added, quieter. “I just… don’t want to sleep away from you tonight.”

 

That shut everyone up for two seconds.

 

Then:
“AWWWWW,” Baku said, like an auntie at a wedding.

 

“HE’S IN DEEP,” Gotak declared.

 

“That’s not just love,” Juntae whispered. “That’s a lifestyle choice.”

 

Suho groaned and buried his face back in the pillow. “All of you, shut up.”

 

Sieun stared for another second.

Then he walked over — stepped on Suho’s leg slightly on purpose — and muttered, “Move over.”

 

“WHA—”

 

“I said move over.”

 

Suho blinked up. “You’re letting me stay?”

 

Sieun didn’t answer. He just grabbed a second pillow from the side and dropped it onto Suho’s back.

 

“Just don’t steal the blanket.”

Suho blinked again.

 

Then grinned like he’d just won an Olympic gold medal in domestic chaos.

 

---

 

The apartment was dim, the sky outside a dull sheet of grey. Rain hadn’t started yet, but the air smelled like it was coming.

Sieun stood near the door, slipping on his shoes in silence.

 

His hoodie hung loose over a cream shirt, hair still damp at the edges, sleeves not quite pulled all the way down. His bag was resting by the umbrella stand.

 

“You’re seriously going?” Suho asked from behind, arms crossed.

 

“I have to,” Sieun replied softly, without looking up.

 

Baku stepped into the hallway with a half-eaten biscuit in hand. “But you were coughing last night.”

 

“I’m fine.”

Juntae emerged from the kitchen, raising a brow. “It’s not about being fine. It’s about being smart.”

 

Sieun just adjusted his bag strap.

Gotak sat slouched on the couch, tossing a cushion from hand to hand. “You’ll collapse halfway through class. Then what? We draw straws on who carries you?”

 

Silence.

Sieun reached for his umbrella.

 

“You should rest,” Suho said, voice lower now. “At least skip today.”

“I gave my word.”

 

He wasn’t being stubborn. Just… stating a fact. There was no emotion in his tone, no drama in his stance. Just a quiet certainty that he would go.

So they all moved.

Baku made a face and grabbed his jacket. “Fine. We’re coming.”

 

“You have nothing scheduled today,” Sieun said, eyes narrowing just a little.

 

“Exactly,” Baku grinned. “Plenty of time to hover over you.”

 

“I’ll walk behind like a ghost,” Gotak added with mock solemnity. “If you faint, I catch.”

 

Juntae rolled his eyes but reached for his own bag. “Don’t expect us to act normal today.”

 

Suho didn’t say anything.

 

He just walked over and zipped up Sieun’s jacket all the way, gently. Not looking at him.

Sieun didn’t stop him. Just stood still, accepting it.

Behind them, on the shelf near the keys, there was something. Something very small.

No one had seen him touch it after that.

But now, in the quiet hum of the room — while the others were slipping on shoes, reaching for bags, arguing over umbrellas — Sieun moved.

Not rushed.

Just smooth, deliberate.

He picked up his bag… and when he turned slightly, his fingers brushed the lid of the box.

Just a flick of motion. So small it didn’t register.

The object vanished into his palm.

A tiny metallic glint — gone in an instant.

By the time he stepped outside, there was nothing to notice. Just the five of them trailing him down the stairs like quiet shadows.

And Sieun — walking slightly ahead, not because he wanted to lead, but because that’s just how he was. Quiet. Independent. Steady.

None of them saw it.

Not the way he slipped the object into his pocket.

Not the way his fingers lingered on it for half a second longer than they should have.

 

---

 

The drizzle had softened to a mist by the time they reached the campus gates.

Sieun led the way, hoodie pulled up loosely, his umbrella tilted just enough to shield part of his shoulder. The others followed behind, not saying much now. Their earlier banter had faded into a more careful silence.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just… aware.

Suho walked with his hands in his pockets, gaze flicking often — always forward, always toward Sieun.

The campus was quieter than usual — most students tucked away inside buildings or under shade. Their group didn’t rush. They crossed the stone path near the side garden, then veered left — toward the old library courtyard.

Their spot.

The one with cracked benches, vine-choked fences, and a mural so faded you could barely tell what it used to be. The one only they ever used.

Gotak and Baku immediately dropped onto the bench like they’d been holding in exhaustion for hours.

Juntae muttered something about saving their seats for eternity and started pulling a book from his bag.

But Sieun didn’t stop.

He walked straight past the bench — calm, steady, deliberate — his steps quiet against the wet ground.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look back.

Just a light nod as he passed, a silent I’ll see you later.

No one stopped him.

No one asked where he was going.

They already knew.

Library duty. Professor errands. Something quiet. Something responsible.

Something Sieun.

Suho watched his back for a long moment.

The mist caught the edge of his hair, making it curl slightly. His shoulders seemed lower today. His steps, just a bit slower.

But he kept moving.

And none of them followed.

They just sat there, letting him go — like always.

But Suho’s heart… didn’t stay seated.

It walked with him.

Because he couldn’t shake the feeling.

That maybe today, Sieun wasn’t just walking away to do something.

Maybe he was walking away with something.

 

---

 

The clouds were still low, the drizzle soft like breath on glass. Everyone was lounging on the stone bench near the edge of campus, books barely touched, snacks half-finished — waiting.
The campus was quiet.

The kind of soft hush that only came with a gentle drizzle — like the sky was whispering instead of weeping. Drops kissed the stone paths and soaked into the edges of sleeves, but none of the five boys minded.

They were gathered near the benches just outside the back library courtyard — the spot with overgrown vines and faded murals, the one only they ever seemed to use.

Suho had his hands in his pockets, hood half-up. Juntae was half-reading, half-listening to Baku and Gotak bicker about whether it was actually going to rain heavier or not.

 

“It’s romantic,” Baku had said, tossing a soggy leaf at Gotak.

 

“It’s damp,” Gotak replied flatly, brushing it off.

 

Suho smiled faintly at their usual chaos, but his eyes kept flicking up.

 

“He’s late,” he muttered.

 

“Library’s crowded,” Juntae said without looking up. “Or he’s still helping the professor like earlier.”

 

Then — a familiar step on the pavement.

They all looked up.

There he was.

Sieun.

Umbrella barely open above his head, bag slung loosely over one shoulder, wearing that oversized cream shirt that made him look like he’d wandered out of a dream and into real life.

He did.

His hair was still slightly damp from the misting rain. His skin too pale. His shoulders lower than usual. But he still moved with that same deliberate grace — like even fatigue couldn’t make him clumsy.

 

He wasn’t running. Just… walking. Calm. The hem of his hoodie slightly damp. His hair curling from the humidity. And in his hand — something small, shiny — the trinket Suho thought he might have pocketed the night morning.

 

He was attaching it to his bag.

 

The keychain.

 

The one they fought over to win.

 

The one they said he had to carry because it was from them.

 

Suho smiled — but it didn’t reach his chest.

 

Because Sieun looked tired.

 

Not sleep-deprived tired. Not overworked tired.

 

A deeper kind.

 

His eyes had faint shadows. His steps, just slightly slower than usual.

 

One by one, the gang stilled.

 

Baku blinked.

 

Gotak’s mouth opened — then closed.

 

Juntae raised a brow, but didn’t say a word.

 

Suho’s breath caught. Just for a second.

 

Something about that little act — him carefully threading the metal, checking it twice, fingers a bit slower than usual — it hit different.

 

It was like he was saying thank you without saying a word.

 

And Suho’s chest ached with how pretty he looked.

 

Soft. Focused. Quiet. Warm.

 

“Guys,” Suho said softly, almost like he didn’t mean to.

 

They all nodded.

 

They knew.

And then Sieun walked toward them.

They just didn’t know how much.

“He looks so tired…” Gotak murmured.

 

Baku frowned. “Yeah.”

 

And for a split second, Suho wondered:

 

Should I make him tea?

Run his shoulders?

Convince him to skip class tomorrow?

Drag him into a blanket fort until he smiles again?

 

He didn’t move yet.

 

But the thoughts kept stacking — quiet and frantic:

 

A massage. A hot drink. A nap.

Just sit him down and make him laugh. Do anything.

 

Because Sieun wasn’t made for exhaustion.

 

He was too soft to be stretched like this.

 

Too rare to burn out.

 

And Suho — Suho would not let him unravel.

 

Not while he was still holding thread.

 

And then—
A shadow.

Someone from behind approached him. A classmate. One of the usual admirers.

 

“Sieun-sunbae!”

 

Sieun slowed slightly. Turned.

The rest of the gang sat up straighter.

Not because this hadn’t happened before — it had, dozens of times — but because it always made Suho’s shoulders stiffen like armor.

Sieun gave a polite nod. The admirer stepped closer, babbling about something. Sieun nodded again, murmured a quiet reply.

“That’s one,” Baku muttered.

 

“Ignore him,” Gotak said. “Sieun’s not even looking at them properly.”

 

“Still makes me wanna throw hands,” Suho muttered.

 

But the second admirer came minutes later. Then a third.

Sieun’s answers stayed the same — quiet, polite, short. But each time, his fingers tightened a little more on the pouch.

And then—
The fourth.

This one was careless. Loud. Laughing too hard.

They stepped too close. Reached out like they wanted to adjust something on his pouch — maybe joking, maybe flirting.
He turned slightly — not out of invitation, but quiet instinct.

And that’s when it happened.

The admirer, adjusting their umbrella, stepped closer.

Too close.

Their foot bumped the corner of Sieun’s pouch.

Clink

 

Something fell.

Everyone on the bench — Suho, Baku, Gotak, Juntae — blinked.

Tink

 

The small, silver keychain — the one the gang had won the night before — hit the pavement.

Right at Sieun’s feet.

He looked down.

A pause.

And then—

The admirer, flustered, stepped forward to pick it up.

Crunch

 

Their foot landed.

Right.

On.

It.

The sound was tiny.

Crrk

 

But it was loud enough in the drizzle.

Sieun flinched — just slightly.

He didn’t say anything.

He looked at the admirer first.

Then at the broken charm.

Then back again.

The admirer blinked, realizing too late.

“Oh—oh no, I didn’t mean to! I’m so sorry—was that—?”

 

Sieun didn’t answer.

He just stared.

At the small, shattered thing on the ground.

One piece had rolled sideways near the pavement crack.

The other had been flattened.

He kept looking.

His fingers didn’t twitch. His posture didn’t change.

But something else… cracked.

Not out loud.

Inside.

 

Suho sat up.

“Wait…”

 

His eyes darted down, then locked on the silver.

“Is that—?”

 

“The keychain,” Gotak whispered.

 

“The one we won,” Baku added.

 

“For him,” Juntae said softly.

 

They all stood.

Sieun was still standing there — completely still — staring at it.

Then…

A blink.

A single breath.

And one tear.

Trailing down his cheek.

Not from shock.

From silence.

More followed. Not fast. Not loud.

They were slower than the rain.

 

And Suho’s heart snapped.

Right then.

Suho stood so quickly the bench scraped behind him.

 

“He’s crying.”

 

No one else moved.

Not yet.

Because even in pain, Sieun looked unreal.

His soft hair damp from the mist.

His eyes glassy, lashes dark.

That keychain — so small, so dumb — had meant something.

Meant everything.

Suho felt his chest twist.

Raindrops kissed the pavement. The broken keychain sparkled like glass on concrete.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t demand an apology or curse the sky.

He just crossed the space, reached forward — and held him.

His hands were gentle, one cradling Sieun’s cheek, the other cupping the back of his head. Thumbs brushing tears away with reverence, not rush.

Like he was terrified wiping too fast would break him further.
It lay in pieces now.
Bent. Cracked. Stepped on.

His lips were parted just slightly — like his body didn’t know how to react.

His eyes… weren’t angry.

Just tired.

Tired in a way that made everyone still.

Even the admirer.

They were still standing close. A little too close.
Still flustered. Still holding their umbrella over them both.

“It’s okay,” the admirer said, gently. “I’ll get you another one—”

 

They crouched — maybe trying to help.
Their fingers reached for the broken charm. Brushed lightly against Sieun’s wrist.

And Sieun — still quiet, still expressionless — flinched.

Just once.

Just enough.

And then, the tears were flowing AGAIN.

Silently. Naturally. Like the tears had just slipped past whatever wall he always built.
No sob. No gasp. Just the slow, steady, unstoppable flow — glimmering against skin damp from rain.

Even the admirer stopped moving.
Their hand froze halfway.
Their eyes widened — not in guilt.
In awe.

Because Sieun, even while breaking, looked…

Heavenly.
The moment Sieun’s tear dropped, it was as if the campus itself held its breath.

No gasps.

No shocked whispers.

Just silence.

Sieun’s eyes never left the broken charm. He didn’t crouch to pick it up. Didn’t ask for help. He just stood there, drenched in quiet drizzle, jaw tight, lips trembling so slightly it was almost invisible.

Almost.

But not to them.

Not to Baku — who had been mid-sentence, about to make another dumb joke.

Not to Juntae — whose cup of vending machine coffee tilted just slightly in his hand, forgotten.

And not to Gotak — who had been watching Sieun closer than any of them, and was the first to speak:

“He’s crying everyone .”

 

Soft.

Like a fact.

Like it was too big to be dramatic.

Baku blinked, stunned. “Huh…?”

And that’s when they saw it.

Not just the tear.

Tears.

A steady stream now, tracing down Sieun’s cheeks with the kind of elegance only he could pull off while breaking.

Just… stood.

Juntae’s eyes moved between the broken charm on the floor and the one person they had all sworn they’d never let fall again.

Sieun didn’t speak. His expression was blank, lips parted, breath catching like his lungs had to remember how to move again.

Suho looked at him carefully.

The rain glistened on his lashes. On the curve of his cheek. His shirt was damp, sticking gently to his skin, collar loose. He looked exhausted.

But still, Suho thought, he looked like something divine. Not in the way people mean when they say it to flirt — but truly. Something that hurt to look at and still, you couldn’t turn away.

Suho wanted to wrap him in the softest blanket. Bury him in warmth and jasmine-scented sleep. Brew tea — that stupid plum one Juntae said tasted like boiled flowers. Or maybe ginger. Something spicy and warm.
Sieun didn’t resist.

 

When Suho pulled him into his chest, he let himself go.

His forehead pressed into Suho’s collarbone.

His fists curled weakly into Suho’s shirt.

And Suho just wrapped around him tighter.

Protective. Grounding. Quiet.

The gang watched.

Fists clenched. Hearts wrecked.

Because when Sieun broke, he didn’t scream.

He didn’t flinch.

He folded. Silently. Gracefully.

And the boy holding him?

Looked like he was holding the last petal of a dying flower.

And he’d never forgive the wind.

 

The moment Suho pulled Sieun into his chest, something in the air snapped.
Not the rain.
Not the wind.
The gang.
The minute they saw a tear fall on Suho’s shirt, something inside each of them cracked — loud, sharp, irreversible.

Sieun didn’t cry often.
And when he did — it was like the whole world should’ve stopped.
But this?

This was shattering.
His shoulders were trembling now.

Suho was whispering something — too soft to hear — brushing his palm against Sieun’s back, gently shielding his face from the stares still clinging around the courtyard.

And the guy — the one who had stepped on the keychain, the one who had pushed just a little too close — was still there.

Frozen.

"It wasn’t intentional. I swear."

Baku stepped forward.

And the air thickened.

He wasn’t grinning.
He wasn’t smirking.

He was furious.

“I don’t care,” he said, low and sharp. “You did it.”

The guy flinched. “It was a mistake—”

Baku grabbed him by the collar.

“Then here’s mine.”

Suho didn’t move.

He was still holding Sieun.

 

But his head lifted, and his eyes were dark, steely.

“Touch him again,” Suho said, voice calm but lethal, “and I won’t give you a second warning.”

Baku scoffed, yanking the guy a little closer.

“Yeah, well, I’m not giving him a second chance.”

“Right now— I’m gonna teach him the kind of lesson that doesn’t get stepped on.”

Gotak was behind him, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
“Baku.”

Baku didn’t even turn. “I know. I know. I’m not supposed to punch anyone on school grounds.”

“You’re also not supposed to make me proud this early in the morning,” Gotak muttered.

The guy stammered, “I-I said sorry—”

“Not to me,” Baku snapped. “To him.”

He jerked his chin toward Sieun, still held tight in Suho’s arms.

“Say it where it counts.”

The guy hesitated — then tried to bolt.

But Juntae moved faster than anyone expected.
He stepped forward — not to block, not to hit — but with a calm deadliness that somehow made it worse.

“Stop.”

The guy froze again.

“You think this is just about a broken trinket?” Juntae asked, quiet and dangerous.

He walked up, past Baku, past Goo9iioliiillitak — and crouched beside Suho and Sieun.

Sieun was still tucked against Suho’s chest, tears drying slowly on his skin. His eyes were distant. Not present.

Juntae gently rubbed his back. Circular motions. Steady.

“This,” Juntae murmured, “was never just a toy.”
He didn’t explain.

Didn’t say “we won it for him.”

Didn’t say “he was finally starting to carry something from us.”

He didn’t need to.

Because that’s when the words returned.

The pact.

It echoed in all their minds now.

The one they made, weeks ago, under that soft light and laughter-filled room:

“Let’s make a pact.”

“No one hurts Sieun.”

“Not even himself.”

“If someone does—”

“We don’t let them walk away.”

And suddenly — the laughter from nearby students felt too loud.

The sky felt too grey.
And Sieun?

Still trembling.

Suho looked up.

His hands, still cupping Sieun’s face like it was made of glass, trembled once.

Then steadied.

“Let’s go,” Suho said.

Not to the gang.

To Sieun.

His voice was gentle. So gentle.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

He pulled back just enough to brush Sieun’s bangs from his forehead.

Still flushed. Still too quiet.

Sieun blinked once.

Didn’t speak.

But when Suho reached for his hand—

He held it.

Tightly.

 

The apartment was quiet now.

Not heavy — just the kind of quiet that comes after emotions had finally settled, and the sky outside was a cool grey, still damp from the rain.

Sieun had barely spoken since they returned.

He’d showered. Changed into a loose white shirt and soft cotton pants. Sat quietly on the living room couch, hair still damp, sipping lukewarm tea.

The others moved around him gently — not walking on eggshells, but close.

Baku was mumbling at the kettle. Gotak was drying an extra mug with a dish towel. Juntae typed something on his tablet, then paused, watching Sieun from the corner of his eye.

And Suho… Suho hadn’t taken his eyes off him since they got back.

 

Sieun blinked slowly. Shoulders sagging.

He hadn’t eaten much.

He kept tugging his sleeves down over his hands — not because he was cold, but because his hands were slightly trembling.

That’s when Suho stood.

Walked over.

Knelt in front of him, gently placed a hand over Sieun’s.

It was cold.

Too cold.

Then Suho brushed his fingers over Sieun’s forehead, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And his stomach dropped.

 

“He’s burning up.”

 

His voice was quiet — not panicked, not loud. Just enough to get everyone’s attention.

Juntae looked up immediately. “What?”

“He’s got a fever,” Suho said, voice sharper now. “Shit, he’s burning—Sieun, hey—look at me.”

 

Sieun blinked.

Eyes half-lidded.

 

“I’m fine,” he murmured.

 

“You’re not,” Suho whispered.

 

The next few minutes were chaos — gentle chaos, but chaos still.

They moved fast.

Juntae was grabbing the thermometer. Baku was pulling Sieun’s blanket from the bed. Gotak was moving pillows to prop his head.

Suho scooped him up bridal-style — again — ignoring the soft “I can walk…” from Sieun that no one believed.

By the time he was on the bed, the thermometer was in.

“102.3,” Juntae said grimly. “He’s going to crash harder if we don’t take care of this.”

 

“We need to change his clothes,” Suho said, already moving to the drawer. “He’s overheating.”

 

Juntae stepped in front of him.

“Absolutely not.”

 

Suho blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll take one look at his chest and malfunction.”

 

“He’s sick!”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Gotak, not helping, muttered, “He’s got a point.”

Suho groaned. “I’m not a pervert.”

“You’re a Sieun-vert,” Baku said helpfully.

 

Eventually, they did it together. Gotak and Juntae carefully helped Sieun out of his damp clothes and into something lighter.

Suho helped only with the blanket, tucking it around him with military precision.

Then he crouched beside the bed, brushing Sieun’s damp bangs off his forehead.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered.

 

Sieun’s lips barely moved.

“I know…”

 

And then he was asleep again.

 

--- 

 

Juntae looked over from where he was mixing electrolytes into water.

“You okay?”

 

Suho didn’t look up. His hand was still resting on Sieun’s.

“No.”

 

A pause.

Then:

“But he will be.”

The room was dim — not dark, just soft.

Only the amber glow from the hallway spilled in, casting slow shadows over the floor. Outside, the drizzle hadn’t stopped. Drops tapped gently at the windows, rhythmic, like a lullaby for the exhausted.

Sieun lay curled under two blankets, skin pale but steady now, breath soft against the pillow. His damp hair was pushed back, his fever finally lowered a little.

The rest of them hadn’t left.

Gotak was on the rug beside the bed, chin resting on his knees. Juntae sat backwards on the desk chair, arms folded over the top, watching the slow rise and fall of Sieun’s breathing like it was sacred.

Suho hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed.

His hand still hovered near Sieun’s wrist — not touching, not quite. Just close.

Baku, standing near the shelf, exhaled.

“He looks like that time.”

 

Suho glanced up. “What time?”

Baku didn’t look at him. His voice was quiet — not hesitant, but careful.

“That week you nearly didn’t make it.”

 

The air changed.

Suho straightened. “What… What do you mean?”

Juntae glanced at Baku, then looked away.

Baku pushed his hand through his hair. He wasn’t teasing now. Not dramatic. Just… raw.

“He looked like this. Pale. Quiet. Still breathing, but like—like he wasn’t really here.”

 

“Like he didn’t want to wake up.”

 

The words landed like stones.

Suho stared.

“He—”

 

Baku finally turned to look at him.

“You don’t know in detail, do you?”

 

Suho’s voice cracked. “What don’t I know?”

Gotak lifted his head.

“The night he got hit… when he was on his way to see you.”

 

Juntae added, softly:

“We didn’t tell you. We didn’t know how.”

 

Suho’s throat tightened.

“He got a call,” Baku continued, “from the hospital. You’d flatlined. He was crossing the road.”

 

“He just… stopped.”

 

Suho blinked. “Stopped?”

Gotak nodded slowly.

“He didn’t move. He didn’t run. Just stood there. Like he couldn’t decide what to feel first.”

 

“And then the truck—”

 

“—he didn’t even try to move,” Juntae said. “He just stood there.”

 

Suho gripped the blanket tighter, eyes wide, lips parted like the air was suddenly hard to swallow.

“And after that?” he whispered.

 

Baku’s voice softened again. “When he woke up, he didn’t ask for anything. Not food. Not medicine.”

“He asked about you.”

 

Juntae looked down at his lap. “We told him you were stable.”

“That’s when he slept. Properly. First time in days.”

 

Suho felt the burn behind his eyes before he felt the tears. He tried to blink them back. Failed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Gotak didn’t answer right away.

Then, gently:

“Because we weren’t sure how much you could handle. Back then, you couldn’t even lift your head.”

 

Baku stepped closer, pulled a folded blanket off the chair, and handed it to Suho — not to use, just to do something. Something to hold.

Juntae sighed. “We took him to see you. He was still in hospital clothes.”

Gotak tried to smile.

“Honestly, it was like watching one patient visit another.”

 

Baku chuckled under his breath. “The nurse looked like she was going to call security.”

“He looked awful,” Gotak added, “but he walked in like he was on a mission.”

 

Suho pressed the blanket to his chest.

“And now… he’s sick again.”

 

No one responded.

Because what could they say?

So much time had passed, but the ache remained. The guilt. The weight.

The realization.

Suho looked down at Sieun again — cheeks still flushed with fever, lashes long against his skin, body curled into the mattress like he was bracing for something even in his dreams.

“I don’t know how to thank him,” Suho whispered. “For any of it.”

 

Juntae looked at him.

“Then don’t thank him.”

 

“Just be the reason he sleeps easy tonight.”

The sky outside was pale — not bright yet, but not fully gray either. That in-between light. The kind that made the curtains glow gently, like dawn hadn’t quite made up its mind.

 

---

 

Sieun stirred slowly.

His eyes didn’t open all at once. Just blinked against the blur, like waking was something he had to negotiate with.

And then... the weight.

He wasn’t cold. In fact, he was warm. Too warm.

Bundled.

Wrapped.

Almost cocooned.

He shifted slightly and realized his body was entirely swallowed by layers of blankets — not just one, but two or three — tucked so carefully it was like someone had manually engineered comfort.

And then he felt it — a breath against his cheek.

Suho.

Still sleeping.

His face was inches away. Closer than he remembered. Eyes shut, lashes soft and dark, mouth parted slightly like he’d been murmuring in a dream. His brows were relaxed. The faintest trace of a pout still lived in the corners of his mouth, like he'd been fussing even in his sleep.

Sieun didn't move.

He just watched him.

And slowly, he realized—

Suho’s arm was around his waist. Loosely, but there. Like an anchor.

Their legs tangled lightly under the blanket. Not pressed close, but not apart either.

They had shifted sometime in the night. Turned toward each other.

And now...

They were facing each other completely.

Breathing in sync.

Even now, Suho’s body kept him warm. Kept him here.

Sieun’s heart fluttered.

And not from fever this time.

He turned his head slightly. Closer. His forehead now brushing the space between Suho’s temple and hairline.

Soft.

Safe.

His entire body exhaled at once — muscles that didn’t know they were tense released all at once.

And just when he might’ve pulled away...

He didn't.

He let himself melt further into the heat, let his lips almost ghost over Suho’s hair.

And then—

A whisper in the background.

Blankets rustling.

Sieun’s eyes flicked sideways.

They were all there.

Juntae curled up on the nearby beanbag, tablet resting against his chest like he’d fallen asleep mid-document.

Gotak, half-hanging off the bottom bunk, one sock missing, his arm over Baku’s stomach.

Baku was snoring lightly. Hair sticking up in all directions. One hand still clutching a water bottle like it was sacred.

Sieun blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then—

He smiled.

Not wide. Not giddy.

Just soft.

Like his body had remembered a feeling it had long forgotten.

He leaned in even closer to Suho — forehead now gently pressed against Suho’s own.

His voice didn’t leave his throat.

But his heart murmured:

So this is what home feels like.

 

And then he slept again.

For just a little while longer.

Notes:

I feel so proud of myself because the recent part I wrote... which is now saved in my drafts... It's a kind of glimpse of past... Suho freshly out of the hospital... Everyone there. Together. And I think that will give you an idea why Suho is so head over heels for Sieun.

Chapter 26: Close Enough To Keep

Notes:

Since previous chapters have been somewhat ansty, this will make you all feel comfy inside.

The first thing Suho noticed when he woke was the weight.

Not heavy — warm. Gentle. Like a soft pressure at his side and the brush of breath on his skin.

 

His eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the quiet glow of Sieun’s room. The light had changed since earlier. It was warmer now — full of lazy, golden sunbeams slipping past the curtain edges and pooling on the wooden floor like honey.

And then—he felt it.

A forehead resting just below his own. A hand barely tucked against his chest. Legs lightly tangled beneath the blanket. A nose brushing his cheek like it had shifted during sleep and forgot to move back.

Sieun.

Fast asleep.

And definitely closer than before.

Suho froze.

His entire brain short-circuited.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh god.

He’s so close.

He shifted toward me? No — he’s basically curled into me—

He smells like mint tea and that ridiculous lotion Juntae made him use—

His hand is on my shirt—

I can’t breathe.

But he didn’t pull back.

Instead — slowly, carefully — he adjusted the blanket higher around them and pulled Sieun even closer.

One arm wrapped gently around Sieun’s waist, palm resting on the small of his back, thumb pressing just lightly through the soft fabric of the linen pajamas.

Sieun stirred a little at the touch — just a twitch, a slow exhale through his nose. But he didn’t move away.
Didn’t tense.

Except…

He was stiff.

Not from resistance.

But from having slept too long in one position — shoulders hunched, neck tilted, arms folded inward.

Like a tightly wrapped cocoon trying not to take up space.

 

Suho’s brows knit together. His fingers flexed a little, carefully rubbing small circles against Sieun’s back — easing the tension out of his muscles, hoping he’d wake up gently, softly.

But Sieun didn’t stir.

Just breathed. Deep and steady.

Suho couldn’t stop looking at him.

He looks like he’s glowing, he thought.

Even after everything — even after being sick — he’s still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

His fingers pushed a small lock of hair off Sieun’s

 

“Are we gonna pretend we don’t see this?”

Juntae’s dry voice sliced through the peaceful silence like a spoon through jelly.

Suho’s eyes snapped open.

Sieun’s eyes were still shut. But his ear? Bright red now. Not pink — red. Deep, obvious, undeniable.

“Shh,” Gotak muttered, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Let the romance bloom. It’s like watching a K-drama. No subtitles needed.”

 

“Should we put background music?” Baku whispered — not quietly at all — as he held up his phone and started playing some ridiculously cheesy love theme from an old show.

 

Suho sat up instantly, pulling back but not completely untangling from Sieun.

 

“Shut up!” he whisper-yelled. His cheeks were tomato red. “He’s sick! I was just—helping him—his back was stiff, okay?!”

 

“Yeah,” Juntae said, smirking as he leaned back into the beanbag, “I’m sure that’s why your arm was caressing his waist like a historical drama lead.”

 

“Suho’s hand had intentions,” Gotak added helpfully.

“I did not—! I was just—!” Suho groaned, burying his face in both hands. “You guys are insufferable.”

 

Sieun didn’t say a word.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t twitch.

Just lay there, very much pretending to still be asleep.

But his ears were burning.

And everyone knew it.

Juntae grinned softly. “Silent Sieun. Classic defense mechanism.”

“Poor guy,” Gotak murmured. “Sick, flustered, and publicly cuddled.”

Baku chuckled. “And Suho got the privilege. Our dog really is loyal.”

Suho muttered something under his breath and flopped backward, landing with a soft thud beside Sieun — who still said nothing. But Suho didn’t miss how his fingers curled tighter into the blanket.
He turned his head toward him again, voice low.

 

“…You’re warm again,” he said quietly. “But not from the fever this time.”

 

And that made Sieun open one eye. Just barely.
Just enough to meet Suho’s.

Just long enough for Suho to shut up completely.

Because in that one sleepy glance — still groggy, still quiet — Sieun managed to say everything.

You stayed.

You helped.

I don’t mind.

Maybe… I liked it.

Then, without a word, Sieun turned his face into the pillow to hide the pink spreading across his cheeks.

 

---

 

By the time everyone had washed up — some barely — and migrated to the tiny kitchen, the apartment smelled like toasted disaster.

Correction: burned disaster.

“WHO let Baku near the toaster?” Gotak yelled, frantically flapping a dishcloth at the smoke detector.

“I thought it had a ‘golden brown’ setting!” Baku cried, holding up a piece of bread that was now two shades darker than asphalt. “This toaster betrayed me!”

Juntae, bleary-eyed and in his oversized grey shirt that said “I passed the exam (barely)”, sipped black coffee and side-eyed the whole scene.

“You can’t even toast,” he muttered. “Why are you like this?”

Sieun sat quietly at the kitchen table, bundled in his beige cardigan over clean pajamas. His hair was still slightly damp from a quick wash, tucked neatly behind his ears. With the glasses on and the sunlight spilling in from the balcony window, he looked—

Stupidly beautiful.

Even with zero effort.

Even while sipping warm water from a plain white mug like it was medicine.

And Suho? Suho had taken one look at him this morning and gone completely soft again.

He’d hovered around Sieun the entire time — not too close, but not far either. Refilled his mug before he asked. Adjusted the curtain to keep light off his face.

Tapped his shoulder gently every 15 minutes like a human thermometer.

“Suho,” Sieun said flatly, not looking up, “I’m not going to die because I sat next to the window.”

Suho sat down beside him and shrugged, clearly unconvinced. “Dramatic lighting makes you look weaker.”

“Or hotter,” Baku whispered.

“Shut up,” both Suho and Sieun said in unison.
Juntae raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Synchronized responses now? Cute.”

Gotak was at the stove now, stirring something that looked shockingly edible.

“I made soup,” he announced proudly, ladling it into mismatched bowls. “No spice. No dairy. Bland and nurturing. Just like Suho.”

 

“I hate all of you,” Suho muttered, but he took the bowl anyway.

 

He set one gently in front of Sieun.

“Eat,” he said quietly, like he was afraid Sieun might refuse.

But Sieun didn’t.

He didn’t speak, didn’t protest.

He just looked at the bowl, then at Suho’s hand — which had placed a spoon beside it — and then back at the soup.

 

He ate slowly. Carefully.
And that, somehow, said more than any words.

 

They ate together, all crowded in the cramped kitchen — Baku cross-legged on the floor with his second bowl of “emergency cereal,” Gotak proudly watching everyone eat his food, and Juntae already halfway through his second mug of coffee.

 

Sieun finished his bowl before anyone expected.

 

Then — calmly, still quiet — he set it down.

His fingers lingered near the edge of the table. Then:
“You didn’t have to stay,” he said. Still not looking at any of them.

The room stilled a little.

Not awkwardly — but like everyone knew it was a rare moment.

“You didn’t have to take care of me,” he added.

His eyes stayed on the curtain. On the little thread sticking out at the corner.

“But you did.”

He inhaled once.

Then, barely audible:

“Thanks.”

 

No one laughed. No one teased.

For once, not even Baku had a comeback.

Juntae quietly looked down and gave a small smile.

Gotak nodded once, murmuring, “Always.”

Baku, after a second, whispered, “You’re welcome, princess,” but softer than usual — almost reverent.

Suho didn’t say anything.

He just reached out under the table and lightly nudged Sieun’s knee with his own.

Sieun didn’t pull away.

But his ears?

Red.

Again.

 

The sound of clinking dishes and running water filled the kitchen as the group began cleaning up, each member moving in the most uncoordinated-yet-somehow-functional way possible.

Baku washed the dishes dramatically, flicking water everywhere like a child playing with bubbles.

Gotak dried them with a towel… that was actually Suho’s old hoodie.

Juntae organized the leftovers into airtight containers like it was a government operation.

Sieun had retreated back to the kitchen table, quietly sipping warm water again, now wrapped in Suho’s navy checkered blanket like a quiet emperor overseeing his royal staff.

Suho hovered near the sink — not helping, just supervising — but mostly just stealing glances at Sieun every few seconds like a lovesick fool.

Then—of course—Baku struck.

“Hey, quick question!” he yelled suddenly, waving a spoon like a mic.

“If both Sieun and I were drowning and Suho could only save one of us—”

“Sieun,” Suho said instantly.

Baku dropped the spoon.

“I didn’t even finish the question!”

“You didn’t have to.”

Gotak grinned. “Try a harder one.”

Baku narrowed his eyes. “Fine. If Sieun and I both needed CPR—”

“Sieun,” Suho said again.

“WHAT IF HE ALREADY HAD OXYGEN AND I DIDN’T?”

“He’d get more.”

“YOU’RE A MENACE!”

Juntae sipped his coffee, amused. “There’s no loyalty test you’ll win, Baku. Just accept it.”

 

“I want a second opinion,” Baku said, turning toward Sieun, who hadn’t looked up once.

“Your Highness,” he announced dramatically, “would you save me over Suho?”

Sieun blinked.

Paused.

Then calmly replied:

“…I’d save whoever wasn’t shouting in my ear.”
Everyone howled.

 

Suho nearly dropped the dish he was drying.

Baku clutched his heart. “Betrayed by my own princess!”

Sieun sipped his water without reacting. But under the blanket?

His hand curled slightly.

His ears? Pink.

Suho grinned to himself, heart so full he thought it might start glowing out of his chest.

 

When the chaos finally settled and the kitchen looked semi-presentable again, Juntae yawned and mumbled something about checking emails. Gotak offered to help Baku clean up the living room — mostly to stop him from playing K-pop on full volume.

 

That left just two people in the kitchen.

Sieun.

And Suho.

 

Sieun hadn’t moved. He was still curled up on the chair, blanket now tucked under his chin. His expression was unreadable — that same calm, closed-off gaze. But something in it was softer now. Less guarded.

 

Suho dried his hands and stepped closer, his heart kicking up its usual ridiculous tempo.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Sieun looked up.

Their eyes met.

And the air changed.

Like the sound faded. Like it was just them again.

“You feeling okay?” Suho asked.

Sieun nodded once. “Mm.”

A beat of silence.

Then Suho scratched the back of his neck, hesitating. “About last night…”

Sieun tilted his head slightly. “What about it?”

 

“You, uh…” Suho cleared his throat. “You were really close.”

“Mm.”

Suho stared. “You cuddled me.”

Sieun didn’t blink. “You were warm.”

 

Suho’s brain glitched.

 

“I—warm—okay but like—” he struggled, cheeks already burning, “you didn’t… pull away or… say anything.”

 

Sieun sipped his water. “You didn’t either.”

 

Another silence.

Then — Sieun stood slowly, walked up to Suho, and stopped just close enough that their arms brushed.

He leaned in — not dramatically, not boldly.

Just close enough to whisper:

“Thanks for letting me be warm.”

 

And walked away.

Leaving Suho frozen.

Completely destroyed.

Unable to form words.

 

After the kitchen chaos, the apartment lulled into a lazy calm. The kind that only came after full stomachs and too many emotions packed into one morning.

Sieun had migrated back to his room.

He didn’t say a word — just picked up his empty mug, stepped into his space, and dropped the blanket in a neat fold at the foot of the bed before lying down on top of it.

Suho, standing in the hallway, watched him go with a weird ache in his chest.

Was it always like this?

Sieun just… disappearing without warning but somehow always leaving something behind — a word, a look, a pink-tinted ear.

Suho stayed frozen for exactly ten seconds before his legs moved on their own.

 

Inside Sieun’s Room:

The light had dimmed a little — curtains drawn just enough to bathe the space in a soft, golden-yellow hue. The kind of light that made it impossible to be angry. Impossible to speak too loud.

 

Sieun lay on his side, one arm folded under his head, the other loosely resting near his chest. His pajamas had shifted slightly — the collar now slightly open from his previous nap, revealing a small sliver of collarbone.

 

His glasses were off this time.

Eyes closed.

 

Hair soft against the pillow.

Suho stood in the doorway like a glitching statue.

Why does he look like this?

Why is he always this pretty when he’s not even trying?

Is it a condition? A curse? A full-time job?

Sieun stirred slightly, one hand shifting.

Without thinking, Suho stepped in.

He sat on the edge of the bed — carefully, quietly.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

After a few seconds, Sieun shifted again.

Then — slowly, like muscle memory — he moved closer.
Not dramatically.

Just slightly.

 

Enough for his fingers to brush Suho’s thigh through the blanket.

Suho’s heart stuttered.

This is fine.

 

Normal.

Best friends do this. Right? Right.

Suho exhaled, carefully lowering himself down beside Sieun, resting back on the pillow with their arms barely touching. He stayed still for what felt like hours, even though it was barely five minutes.

 

And then—

 

A whisper of movement.

 

Sieun’s head tilted gently. Rested lightly against Suho’s shoulder.

 

He’s not asleep, Suho thought. Not really.

He’s doing this on purpose. Right? Maybe?

But he didn’t ask.

Didn’t want to ruin it.

Instead, he tilted his own head until his cheek brushed the top of Sieun’s hair.

Their legs touched.

Their hands rested near each other.

And Suho… let his eyes drift closed.

 

Ten Minutes Later – Disaster

Click.

Suho’s eyes snapped open.

There, in the doorway — camera phone in hand, smirking wide — stood Baku.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Suho mouthed.

 

Baku grinned like the devil himself.

He didn’t say a word.

Just raised a single eyebrow, wiggled his fingers in a “bye” gesture, and disappeared.

Suho sat up, internally SCREAMING.

Oh god. There’s going to be a group chat.

He’s going to name it something stupid like “SuSie Forever” or “My Dog’s in Love” or—

Wait.

Sieun’s still not moving.

Was he… asleep through all that?

He glanced down.

Wrong.

Sieun’s eyes were now open — calm, unreadable.

But his lips were curved. Just a little.

“Are you… smiling?” Suho whispered, heart racing.
Sieun blinked slowly.

Then — in the softest, most criminally calm voice:

“Took him long enough.”

Suho’s soul left his body.

“You KNEW?!” he whisper-yelled.

Sieun closed his eyes again. “Mm.”

“You let him take the photo?!”

“Mm.”

“You were pretending to sleep—again?!”

A beat.

Then, finally—

“You’re warm,” Sieun murmured. “I don’t mind.”

Suho died.

On the spot.

Melted.

Brain short-circuited.

Maybe… just maybe…

He does feel it too.

 

Notes:

Guys you need to tell me if I'm repeating anything. I checked. I needed to update chapter 25.

Chapter 27: Octopus Baby

Notes:

I have updated this chapter. I already deleted chapter 27 which was previously posted. I just realized I've missed so many cute scenes. So I've updated it again. This one is the revised version.

The apartment was too quiet.

Dangerously quiet.

Suho stood in the hallway, watching Sieun from a distance like a man on the brink of losing all his common sense.

Sieun was curled up on the living room couch under a soft cream blanket. His damp hair had dried now, falling gently over his forehead.

His eyes were half-closed, book resting loosely in his hand. The soft gray pajama set he wore was slightly oversized—folded at the wrists, the neckline loose from hours of wear.

His glasses were off. His breathing slow.

And Suho?

He was a mess.

Look at him.

He doesn’t even know how pretty he is.

Who looks like this while recovering from a fever?

Who casually lays there like a slice of soft tragedy wrapped in pastel cotton?

Suho sat down slowly on the armrest nearby, one knee pulled up, trying to seem casual—but failing miserably.

His gaze kept wandering.

To the soft slope of Sieun’s neck.

To the way his fingers curled near his chest.

To the subtle pink of his lips, slightly parted from sleepiness.

 

And worst of all?

The soft exhale he let out as he tucked his chin slightly into the blanket, like he was trying to disappear into the warmth.

I want to kiss his forehead.

And his cheek.

And maybe just—

 

Suho immediately slapped himself mentally.
Stop.

He’s sick. You absolute idiot. What is wrong with you?

This is not the time to have thoughts.

He's in recovery mode and you’re over here ready to write poetry about the curve of his nose—

Sieun shifted slightly, letting out a tiny sound—something between a sigh and a hum—and Suho literally froze.

 

He made a sound. It’s illegal to be this adorable while ill. This is emotional terrorism. I’m being tested by God—

And then—

Sieun’s eyes opened.

Half-lidded. Drowsy. But open.

Suho panicked.

 

“Y-You good? You need anything? Water? Soup? Space? A blanket upgrade? I can call Baku and tell him to shut up from outside—”

 

Sieun blinked slowly. “You’re staring.”

“Me? Staring?” Suho laughed nervously, shifting. “I was just—uh—thinking.”

“About?”

“...nothing.”

 

Sieun stared at him.

Suho looked away, ears burning.

I was thinking about how much I want to brush your hair back and feed you soup and hold your hand while you sleep and maybe whisper something stupid like you’re the softest person I’ve ever met and I don’t know how to live with that feeling—

 

“I’m warm,” Sieun murmured quietly.

Suho blinked. “Yeah?”

Sieun’s fingers shifted near the edge of the blanket.

“Because you’re here.”

And that’s when Suho’s brain officially blue-screened.

 

CRASH — THE DOOR FLIES OPEN

 

“PRINCESS, YOUR ROYAL CLAW PRIZE HAS ARRIVED!!”

 

Baku exploded into the apartment, waving a tiny bag above his head like a medal of honor.

 

Suho literally jumped. “WHAT THE F—WHY—”

 

Gotak followed behind him, huffing. “We fought death itself to win this plushie.”

 

Juntae, calm as ever, set down a drink tray. “You won a keychain. Relax.”

 

Suho turned to Sieun, who had not moved.

But his hand?

Still curled into the blanket.

Still holding back a smile.

“I liked it better when they weren’t here,” Suho mumbled, clearly frustrated.

They all gathered around Sieun on the couch.

Baku dramatically dropped to one knee like he was proposing. “For you, Your Coldness—your replacement for the keychain…”

 

Gotak added, “We literally almost died at the claw machine.”

 

Juntae raised a brow. “Baku almost punched a child.”

“I WAS OUTBID BY A TODDLER,” Baku screamed.

Sieun blinked slowly.

Suho handed him the bag gently.

Inside?

The new keychain.

A soft plush cat with books, same style as before, different color — bright orange, a tiny stitched crown on its head.

Sieun held it for a second.

Silent.

Then clipped it to the zipper of his bag.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t say thank you.

But everyone stared when his hand lingered on it.

And Suho?

He just sat beside him quietly, heart full, ears pink.

 

.
.
.

 

The drizzle hadn’t stopped since last night.

The sky was draped in a soft gray blanket, low and quiet, like it didn’t want to disturb the world. The pavements shimmered with a fresh coat of rain, leaves stuck to the stone in colorful patches, and every step made a soft tap, tap, tap against the puddles.

 

Suho walked through the campus courtyard like a man haunted.

Hood up. Hands buried deep in his pockets. Fogged-up glasses he didn’t even need. Face down, avoiding eye contact with reality.

Behind him, the gang followed with the energy of four stray cats in mismatched layers. Baku was holding an umbrella that was half-broken, spinning it dramatically over his head. Gotak had his hood up and a lollipop in his mouth, while Juntae walked like this was a nature documentary and Suho was the tragic lead.

 

Suho muttered under his breath, “I can’t believe I said that…”

 

Baku leaned in gleefully. “Said what, exactly?”

“Don’t.”

Juntae raised an eyebrow. “Go on. Say it.”

 

Suho groaned. “I said ‘You’re my breakfast’ to Sieun in my sleep, okay?! While cuddling him!”

 

“And you said it like he was French toast,” Gotak added.

 

“I WAS UNCONSCIOUS.”

“You moaned it.”

“I DIDN’T MOAN.”

 

“You nuzzled his shoulder!”

“It was cold!”

 

“You were the heat source!” Baku howled.

 

Suho stomped forward into the foggy quad, muttering about transferring schools and changing his name.

The trees were dripping gently, the branches above still heavy with water.

Suho sat on a bench near the edge of the courtyard, hunched into his hoodie, book open in his lap but completely unread.

 

Across the field, the sports ground shimmered with water. Rain pattered gently on the umbrella someone had left behind on the next bench.

 

Suho stared ahead.

Didn’t blink much.

Didn’t notice the cold.

Sieun looked so warm last night.

And he let me hold him.

He didn’t pull away. Not even once.

Even when I said something stupid like "you’re my breakfast."

He just stayed there. Calm. Steady.

I think… I think I miss that already.

His fingers curled around the page of the book, unmoving.

He blinked slowly.

A drop of water slid down from his hoodie and hit his wrist.

If I asked to sleep beside him again tonight, would he let me?

Or would he just raise an eyebrow and ask if I’m cold again…?

Suho sighed, long and quiet.

The gang was watching from across the courtyard under the safety of the old stone arch.

“Is he smiling at fog?” Gotak asked.

 

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Sieun sat on the edge of his bed, combing his fingers through his still-damp hair after a hot shower, his fever fully broken now.

The soft gray nightshirt he wore was neatly ironed — probably by Juntae — and his face looked less pale, more alert.

He was back.

Back to being Yeon Sieun — Cold Princess mode: activated.

And Suho?

Was sitting on the bed, sulking.

Still in his stupid fluffy green pajamas with the stars on them, blanket dragged behind him like a heartbroken Victorian ghost. He had one knee pulled up and was currently chewing the sleeve of his hoodie while watching Sieun with narrowed, jealous eyes.

 

“You look better,” Suho muttered.

“Because I am,” Sieun replied, simple and blank.

“I can tell,” Suho added, voice a little too dramatic. “You’re already back to ignoring me like I’m background furniture.”

“I didn’t ignore you.”

“You haven’t clung to me once all evening.”

“I never cling.”

“YOU HELD MY ARM YESTERDAY.”

“I was cold.”

“You were obsessed with me.”

“I had a fever.”

Suho flopped back dramatically onto the bed, groaning into a pillow. “Unbelievable. Two days ago I was the chosen emotional support human and now I’ve been demoted to pest.”

Sieun ignored that.

He stood up and walked to the dresser, folded his towel with surgical precision, and placed it neatly on the shelf.

Suho sat up, watching him like a kicked puppy.

“Where are you going?”

Sieun turned slightly, raising an eyebrow.

“Nowhere. This is my room.”

“Oh.”

 

“Which means you are going to your room.”

A beat.

Silence.

Then—

“No.”

Sieun blinked. “What do you mean no?”

Suho stood up, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders like a cape, and stomped forward. “I’m not leaving.”

“I’m not sick anymore.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re sharing a room with Juntae.”

“Then Juntae can suffer.”

“Suho.”

“I like it here,” Suho said stubbornly. “It’s warm. It smells like you. You don’t snore.”

Sieun stared at him blankly.

Suho looked him dead in the eye and said, without shame—

“I’m emotionally attached to this bed now. You can’t take it from me.”

Sieun sighed, crossing his arms. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re being cold again,” Suho pouted, voice lower now. “You’re all quiet and distant and doing your ‘shut-everyone-out’ thing again. I get it—you’re better. But just because you’re not sick anymore doesn’t mean I want to stop being close.”

 

He looked down then, voice softening.

“I liked it. When you let me stay. When you didn’t push me away.”

A beat.

Then:
“I don’t want that to disappear just because your fever did.”

Sieun didn’t answer at first.

He walked past Suho. Sat down on the bed. Stayed quiet for a full ten seconds.
Then he looked up.

And very, very softly:
“I wasn’t trying to push you away.”

Suho turned to face him, hopeful. “Yeah?”

“I just didn’t want you to think I was…” He paused. “...needy.”

Suho blinked.

“Too late,” he grinned. “We both know you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You slept on my shoulder for two nights.”

“You invited yourself into my bed.”

“I’m Octopus Suho, baby. You said you were cold and I wrapped myself around you like destiny.”

Sieun’s lip twitched. Just barely.

Then he reached for the blanket on Suho’s shoulders, tugged it once, and said:
“Fine. But no kicking me in your sleep.”

Suho beamed.

Jumped into bed.

Immediately latched on.

Sieun didn’t fight it — just turned off the lamp and settled back against the pillow, quiet as ever.

And just as they started to drift—

Suho whispered:
“You’re still warm.”

Sieun’s voice was barely audible:
“Because you’re still here.”

 

.
.
.

 

The light in the room was soft.

Early morning sun filtered through the curtains, painting faint golden lines across the wooden floor and the edge of the bed.
Sieun was the first to stir.

His lashes fluttered, breath steady, mind slowly returning from the fog of sleep. The weight pressing against his side wasn’t unfamiliar anymore — it was warm, heavy, and wrapped around him with the kind of possessiveness only Suho could manage in his sleep.

One of Suho’s arms was tucked under Sieun’s head. The other was firmly wrapped around his waist, hand splayed against the small of his back.

 

Their legs were tangled.

 

Their faces… stupidly close.
Sieun could feel Suho’s breath on his cheek.

 

Could hear the tiny hums he made in his sleep.

 

And yet… he didn’t move.

Not for a while.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he didn’t want to.

He’ll wake up if I shift.

And I don’t want him to move just yet.

Sieun stayed still.

Staring at the ceiling.

Letting the warmth settle in his chest.

 

Soft knock.

Creak of the door.

 

Juntae peeked his head inside,

whispering, “Sieun, do you—”

 

He stopped.

 

Froze.

Saw the situation.

Octopus Suho, in full cling-mode.
Sieun, wide awake and not objecting.
Blanket half-fallen. Intimacy level: illegal.
Juntae slowly backed out of the room like he’d seen a crime scene.

 

Door quietly shuts.

BUT THEN—OF COURSE—BAKU
“PRINCESS! BREAKFAST IS—”

 

Door slams open.

Baku’s voice dies mid-scream.

He stares.

 

Suho stirs slightly but doesn’t let go.

 

Sieun calmly looks over at him with a face that says one more word and you die.

 

“...I see,” Baku whispers. “This is how it is now. This is who we are.”

 

Gotak appears behind him. Blinks.

 

“Did he glue himself to Sieun or is that a real arm?”

 

Sieun sits up slightly — just slightly — and with that same deadpan voice, says:
“Get out.”

 

“Noted!” Baku salutes. “Long live the married couple.”

 

Door closes.

Back in Peace.

 

Suho finally opens his eyes, groggy. “Mmm… what time is it…”

 

“Too early,” Sieun mutters, lying back down.

 

Suho hums. Then sleepily, instinctively — pulls Sieun closer again.

 

Nuzzles into his shoulder. “M’not going anywhere.”

 

“You’re already late for breakfast.”

 

“I’m having breakfast here,” Suho mumbles. “You.”

 

Sieun rolls his eyes.

 

But doesn’t move.

 

“You’re clingy.”

 

“Yeah,” Suho mutters, arms tightening around him, “and you’re warm. So I win.”

 

Sieun lets his hand rest lightly on Suho’s arm.

 

Doesn’t say it aloud.

But in the quiet, he thinks:

He always wins when it comes to me.

 

.
.
.

 

The drizzle hadn’t stopped since last night.

The sky was draped in a soft gray blanket, low and quiet, like it didn’t want to disturb the world.

The pavements shimmered with a fresh coat of rain, leaves stuck to the stone in colorful patches, and every step made a soft tap, tap, tap against the puddles.

Suho walked through the campus courtyard like a man haunted.

Hood up. Hands buried deep in his pockets. Fogged-up glasses he didn’t even need. Face down, avoiding eye contact with reality.

 

Behind him, the gang followed with the energy of four stray cats in mismatched layers. Baku was holding an umbrella that was half-broken, spinning it dramatically over his head. Gotak had his hood up and a lollipop in his mouth, while Juntae walked like this was a nature documentary and Suho was the tragic lead.

 

Suho muttered under his breath, “I can’t believe I said that…AGAIN.....”

 

Baku leaned in gleefully. “Said what, exactly?”

“Don’t.”

Juntae raised an eyebrow. “Go on. Say it.”

 

Suho groaned. “I said ‘You’re my breakfast’ to Sieun in my sleep, okay?! AGAIN. While cuddling him!”

 

“And you said it like he was French toast,” Gotak added.

 

“I WAS UNCONSCIOUS.”

“You moaned it.”

“I DIDN’T MOAN.”

“You nuzzled his shoulder!”

“It was cold!”

“You were the heat source!” Baku howled.
Suho stomped forward into the foggy quad, muttering about transferring schools and changing his name.

The trees were dripping gently, the branches above still heavy with water.

Suho sat on a bench near the edge of the courtyard, hunched into his hoodie, book open in his lap but completely unread.

Across the field, the sports ground shimmered with water. Rain pattered gently on the umbrella someone had left behind on the next bench.

Suho stared ahead.

Didn’t blink much.

Didn’t notice the cold.

Sieun looked so warm last night.

And he let me hold him.

He didn’t pull away. Not even once.
Even when I said something stupid like "you’re my breakfast. TWICE"

 

He just stayed there. Calm. Steady.

I think… I think I miss that already.

His fingers curled around the page of the book, unmoving.

He blinked slowly.

A drop of water slid down from his hoodie and hit his wrist.

If I asked to sleep beside him again tonight, would he let me?

Or would he just raise an eyebrow and ask if I’m cold again…?

Suho sighed, long and quiet.
The gang was watching from across the courtyard under the safety of the old stone arch.

“Is he smiling at fog?” Gotak asked.

“Fog-Sieun,” Baku said, placing a hand on his chest. “The most emotionally devastating version of Sieun.
”
“He’s got it bad,” Juntae confirmed.

Notes:

These are some fluffy chapters. Enjoy them when you can un the upcoming chapters there is going to be emotional war.

Chapter 28: Form Submission

Notes:

Posting longest update because it's been what...4 days since I last posted!? And maybe also because it's my birthday!!!

I can't literally share my birthday cake with you so I'm sharing the update instead. Enjoy. And this one is mix of fluffy and angst.

The rain hadn’t stopped.

It came in soft waves now, like a whisper instead of a storm, brushing against Suho’s hood as he stared at nothing on the campus bench.

His book was still open. Pages slightly damp at the edges. He hadn’t read a single word.

All he could think about was—

The way Sieun turned toward him in his sleep.

The way his fingers curled slightly when Suho whispered to him.

The way he hadn’t let go.

Not even once.

He sighed softly, a small smile on his lips.

And then—

 

tap-tap

 

The sound of cautious shoes on wet pavement.

“Suho?”

He blinked.

 

A girl stood in front of him, holding a bright pink umbrella and a coffee cup. Soft smile, carefully styled hair, and a nervous flicker in her eyes.

From the Literature department, he thought. Or maybe Economics?

She was in a light beige coat and black boots, her umbrella tilted just slightly in his direction.

“Oh,” he said blankly. “Hey.”

“You’re sitting here alone,” she said, inching a little closer. “You look like something out of a sad movie.”

Suho blinked again. “...I’m fine.”

 

She laughed lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, you’re not sad anymore, because I brought this!”

She handed him the extra coffee cup she was holding.

Suho stared at it.

“Um. Thanks,” he said, though he didn’t take it.

She sat down beside him.

Too close.

Too... cheerful.

“So… do you have class next period?”

Suho hesitated. “I don’t—uh…”

Why does this coffee smell like vanilla?

Sieun likes vanilla. Not that fake syrup kind — the real stuff.

God, why am I thinking about that right now?

 

“You’re usually with that quiet guy, right?” she asked casually, nudging her shoulder into his.

Suho blinked again. “...What?”

“That guy — the one with glasses? The intense stare? He’s kinda scary.”

Suho frowned immediately. “He’s not scary.”

The girl tilted her head. “Well, he did glare at a professor once.”

 

“That professor made a lazy generalization about criminal psychology and misquoted Jung. He should’ve glared.”

She blinked.

Suho realized he said that too fast.

Shit. Reel it in. Be normal.

But before she could say anything else.

Footsteps.

Quiet ones.

From the side pathway near the courtyard entrance.

Sieun.

Black umbrella.

Hair still slightly tousled from class.

Wearing his dark charcoal coat, rain-kissed and clean.

A messenger bag slung neatly over his shoulder.

He wasn’t walking fast.

He wasn’t walking toward them.

He was just... passing by.

Until.

He saw.

Saw Suho.

And the girl beside him.

And the way she had leaned in slightly.

And the second coffee cup.

And the smile on her face.

And the slight space Suho was not creating.

Sieun’s pace slowed.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t interrupt.

But something changed.

Not on his face — that was still blank.

But in his eyes.

Observing.

Noticing.

Storing.

And for a second, just a second—

He looked straight at Suho.

Who saw him.

Froze.

And the pink umbrella girl?

Didn’t notice a thing.

 

.
.
.

 

The gang had reassembled under the canopy near the café stall, their snacks steaming gently against the chilly air.

Suho sat at the end of the bench, sipping a hot cocoa Baku had bought for him with a suspicious amount of smugness. His thoughts were still halfway back at the bench where Sieun had walked by and seen things.

He didn’t even stop. He just… blinked. Like I was background furniture. He didn’t even narrow his eyes. Is that worse??

Across from him, Pink Umbrella Girl appeared again — this time with less awkwardness and a full crewneck change.

She smiled brightly. “Hey again!”

Suho straightened instantly, too alert. “Hi! You… found us.”

Baku side-eyed him. Gotak crunched louder on his protein bar.

The girl smiled. “You’re all always together, right? And Suho’s always with… uh, what’s his name again? The serious one?”

Everyone stopped.

Juntae slowly turned his head.

“Yeon Sieun,” he said dryly. “The guy whose death stare once made a visiting professor cry.”

“Oh yeah!” the girl chirped. “That guy! He’s so—um—intense. Like, scary intense.”

Silence.

The gang blinked slowly.

Suho, still smiling, tilted his head. “Scary?”

“Yeah, I mean…” she giggled. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s like… objectively pretty. But his vibe is like a death god who hates small talk.”

Gotak squinted. “You’re not wrong but I still feel weird agreeing.”

Juntae sipped his tea. “He does make eye contact like he’s judging your whole ancestry.”

“Oh, totally,” she said. “But like… a lot of people I know have a crush on him.”

Suho’s ears perked up.

Literally.

Like a golden retriever who just heard a snack bag rustle.

"A lot?"

“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “My friend Mirae thinks he’s like a human aesthetic filter. And Hyerim from Psychology straight-up said she wants him to ‘emotionally ruin her.’ Oh, and that tall girl from law—what’s her name—"

Suho leaned forward so fast he almost fell off the bench. “Yura?”

“YES! That’s her!”

“Oh wow,” Suho chuckled too loudly. “So many… Sieun fans.”

Baku stared. “Why are you acting like an HR intern taking feedback?”

“Just curious,” Suho said smoothly, eyes fake-wide.

“Always good to know who’s interested in….. my best friend. So I can….. screen them appropriately.”

Gotak whispered, “I’m getting bad vibes.”

“Deeply cursed vibes,” Juntae agreed.

Suho turned toward them, smile still intact. “What? I’m just being friendly.”

Juntae whispered, “That’s not a friendly smile. That’s the smile of someone who once googled ‘can you make someone accidentally fall into a bush.’”

“Okay, first of all,” Suho said, “that video was funny and educational.”

 

And then—

As if summoned by the chaos—

Sieun appeared.

Walking slowly from the department building, messenger bag slung across his shoulder, black umbrella resting closed in his hand now that the rain had faded into mist.

 

Hair neatly parted.

Glasses perched perfectly.

Expression unreadable.

He looked like a K-drama poster that could kill you.

The girl spotted him instantly. “Speak of the devil.”

Suho’s eyes snapped up.

He’s here.

Sieun’s gaze flicked toward the group.

And paused.

His eyes landed on Suho—

Who was smiling.

With her.

For a split second, Sieun stopped walking.

And then — without any change in expression — he resumed, heading toward the library path.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t glare. Didn’t frown.

But the gang FELT it.

Juntae: “Okay, did anyone else just feel the temperature drop?”

Baku: “Is it raining again or did he just darken the sky with his aura?”

Gotak: “I think my lollipop just melted in fear.”

Suho turned to them slowly, still frozen in his fake-friendly position, coffee cup raised halfway, like he was trying to figure out if he just committed emotional treason.

He saw.

And he didn’t stop.

 

Didn’t react.

Didn’t say anything.

AGAIN.

But this time… Suho’s heart clenched.

 

.
.
.

 

The group had moved to their usual chill spot now — under the half-covered canopy outside the campus café.

Rain had faded to a mist now, clinging to hair and lashes, softening everything. But there was nothing soft about the way Suho was panicking internally.

He kept replaying the moment.

Sieun saw me smiling with her.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t say a thing.

Just walked away like I was… anyone.

He stared blankly at the ground, cup of cocoa untouched in his hands.

“You okay, bro?” Baku asked, eyes squinting. “You’ve been looking at that puddle like it owes you an explanation.”

Gotak leaned forward on his elbows. “Still thinking about the pink umbrella incident?”

Suho sighed. “He didn’t even care…”

Juntae hummed thoughtfully. “Did he?”

Suho looked up. “...Huh?”

Baku immediately whipped out his phone and spun dramatically toward Suho. “Okay, listen. I’ve watched enough dramas to know what a man looks like when he’s Not Jealous versus Secretly Jealous.”

Suho frowned. “He literally just kept walking.”

“Exactly,” Baku said, wagging his finger. “Too calm. TOO normal.”

Gotak nodded. “And his eyes lingered on you for at least 2.5 seconds longer than necessary. That’s a red flag in cold prince language.”

 

Juntae added, “The fact that he didn’t stop proves he’s processing it silently — and dangerously. That’s the Yeon Sieun brand.”

 

Suho blinked, stunned. “Wait. Are you guys saying…”

 

Baku grinned. “That boy was jealous.”

Suho short-circuited.

 

His ears turned pink so fast it was basically heat rash.

“He—jealous? Of me? With her?? No way—he didn’t even look mad.”

 

“Of course not,” Gotak said. “Sieun’s jealousy is like poison tea. Pretty cup. Deadly effects.”

 

Juntae muttered, “He probably went to read a book on non-verbal possessiveness afterward.”

 

Baku slammed his cup down. “AND YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS—”

 

“Baku, no—”

“IT’S TIME FOR EXPERIMENTAL FLIRTING,” Baku screamed.

 

Suho blinked. “Wait. What?!”

 

“You gotta test the theory! If he gets twitchy every time you act friendly with Pink Umbrella Girl, boom.

Confirmed. Jealous. Done deal. Married by spring.”
Suho: “Baku—”

 

Baku: “FOR SCIENCE.”

 

.
.
.

 

About thirty minutes later, Suho found himself doing something deeply out of character.

Laughing — genuinely laughing — at a dumb story the girl told about a professor falling asleep in her oral presentation.

He didn’t even know why it was funny.

It just felt like the right move.

Especially since...

He was seated at the table right outside the café windows.

And Sieun?

 

Was inside.

 

Sitting at a window seat.

 

Head tilted slightly.

 

Book open in front of him.

Eyes not on the book.

 

Eyes on them.

Suho tried not to smile.

But failed.

Just a little more… let’s see if you blink.

The girl was mid-sentence, talking about some group project that involved posters and Canva, when Suho leaned in just a little and asked, “So who else do you think likes Sieun?”

 

From the café window, Sieun’s eye twitched.

 

No one noticed.

Except the gang.

“Oh my god,” Baku whispered from the next table, hiding behind a ketchup bottle. “It’s working. Operation ‘Poke the Cold Princess’ is a success.”

 

Gotak nodded solemnly. “Sieun blinked twice. That’s the equivalent of a full tantrum for him.”

 

Juntae added, “He just reread the same paragraph three times. He’s not processing a single word.”

 

Suho sipped his drink, hiding his grin.

 

Until—

The girl suddenly reached across the table and brushed something off Suho’s sleeve.

 

“Sorry,” she said sweetly, “you had something—”

 

From the corner of his eye, Suho saw Sieun stand up.

 

Book closed.

Bag slung over his shoulder.

Expression blank.

Oh no.

He didn’t storm out.

He didn’t glare.

He just walked out of the café calmly… and started walking toward them.

 

Sieun Approaches, Calm but off.

The rain had settled into a misty drizzle again, glistening over the pavement and making everything look softer than it felt.

Suho was still at the café table.

Still sitting beside Pink Umbrella Girl, who was now mid-giggle and holding her drink with both hands while leaning ever so slightly toward him.

Suho was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

And then—

From behind her, he saw the tall, familiar silhouette.

Sieun.

Walking up with that same unreadable expression.

Bag over his shoulder.

Coat collar slightly turned up.

He stopped by the table.

Not awkward.

Not aggressive.

Just… still.

“Hey,” he said, voice perfectly even.

The girl looked up. “Oh! You’re the friend Suho’s always with, right?”

Suho flinched.

Sieun glanced at Suho, just briefly.

Then nodded at her. “I’ve seen you around.”

The girl smiled. “I was just telling him about this hilarious presentation disaster—”

Sieun looked back at Suho again.

Held the look for a second longer.

Then said, “I’m heading to the library.”

Suho blinked. “Wait, we were going together—”

Sieun shook his head gently. “It’s fine. Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

No tone. No bite.

Just words.

But something about it made Suho feel like the air had been sucked out of his chest.

Sieun turned and walked off without waiting for a reply.

Suho stared after him, lips slightly parted.

 

.
.
.

 

It started very innocently.

(Okay — not innocently. But Suho would claim it was innocent if someone asked.)

He was seated under the awning with Pink Umbrella Girl again, the rain a soft backdrop behind them. The others were scattered nearby, pretending not to eavesdrop while absolutely eavesdropping.

She was retelling a story about how her classmate panicked during a presentation and called their professor “Mom.”

Suho laughed — genuinely, kind of.

And then tilted his head, eyes fake-casual.

“So… you said your friends think Sieun’s cute, right?”

The girl blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “Oh—yeah! Like, all of them, honestly. He’s like... mysterious? Brooding? And his face is stupidly symmetrical.”

Suho nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Real problem.”

“Yura from law once said he looks like someone who’d destroy her emotionally and then ghost her. But she was into it.”

“Mirae too?” Suho asked, sipping his cocoa.

“She said he probably wears cologne that smells like crushed confidence.”

Suho laughed again. “Wow. That’s... a lot of crushes.”

From a few meters away, Sieun turned a page in his book.

Firmly.

But not harshly.

Suho didn’t miss it.

He bit back a grin.

Just a little page flick. That’s all I wanted.

 

Later that day, they were near the vending machines again.

 

Suho sat with the girl, sharing snacks and the occasional terrible pun. The others were sprawled nearby like decorative potted plants.

 

She smiled and asked softly, just loud enough for the gang to hear—

“By the way… do you think Sieun knows how many people want him to step on their neck?”

Suho snorted into his drink. “Probably not. You’ve met him — he’s allergic to social cues.”

“He’s also allergic to eye contact with strangers.”

“I think Hyerim wrote a poem about his jawline.”

Crunch.

Everyone turned.

Sieun was standing at the vending machine.
He had taken the entire next biscuit pack Suho had bought.

He opened it, one-handed.

And one by one… pulled out every biscuit.

Then dropped the wrapper on Baku’s head and walked away chewing calmly.

Baku looked up. “I just got used as a prop.”

Suho watched him go, smirking. “So dramatic.”

But his chest fluttered.

Because that was not a neutral biscuit theft.

That was jealousy in gluten form.

 

.
.
.

 

The sun peeked through later that afternoon, briefly lighting up the quad.

Suho and the girl sat on the ledge near the Art Department case, side by side.

She was showing him stickers she made on her phone.
He was laughing along, leaning just a little too close.

“So wait — how many names are on your ‘people who’d die for Sieun’ list now?”

The girl hummed. “Honestly? Like... seven? I stopped counting. Someone from the music club literally referred to him as ‘aesthetic pain.’”

Suho laughed, eyes sparkling. “I need to write these down.”

Click. Click. Click.

Footsteps approached behind them.

Sieun.

Cool. Composed. Clean as ever.

He didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t even glance at her.

But called out, calm as anything:

“Suho. You left your notebook. Has your name in all caps.”

Suho startled. “Wha—oh, right!”

 

Thunk.

 

Notebook landed next to him.

 

By the time Suho looked up — Sieun was already halfway down the steps.

 

The girl blinked. “He’s helpful.”

Suho grinned to himself. “He’s watching.”

Gotak muttered nearby, “You’re playing with fire.”

 

.
.
.

 

They were all lounging again in the open grass zone.

Suho’s notebook was out. The girl was drawing tiny star doodles in the corner.

Suho leaned closer to look and — out loud — asked, “So out of all your friends, who exactly has the worst crush on him?”

 

The girl tapped her pen thoughtfully. “Oh, Mirae. For sure. She wrote a haiku about his neck. Do you want to read it?”

“Absolutely.”

And then—

A hand reached in.

Sieun.

Quiet. Precise.

Took the pencil from her fingers.

Flipped it in his hand.

“Wrong end,” he said coolly.

And handed it back.

No glare. No rudeness.

Just surgical petty energy wrapped in polite diction.

Then he walked off and sat down with a different pen, eyes already on his notes.

Suho stared at him in silent delight.

He’s so mad. I’m so winning.

The girl blinked. “Does he do that often?”

Suho smiled. “Only when he’s paying attention.”

 

.
.
.

 

It was late afternoon.

Golden mist still hung in the air as Suho sat under the awning again, notebook open beside him, sipping from a warm paper cup. The girl — umbrella neatly folded beside her — sat next to him, talking animatedly about some club event she was planning.

Suho wasn’t even listening properly.

He was too focused on something else.

Not her.

But him.

From across the courtyard, Sieun sat alone, under the overhang by the science building. His laptop was open, but his eyes weren’t on the screen.

They were on them.

Suho leaned just a little closer to the girl. Not too obvious. Just enough to fake interest.

The girl didn’t notice.

But Sieun did.

He blinked. Once. Slowly.

Then looked down at his keyboard.

Pressed two keys.

Paused.

Then just... stared at the screen.

He thinks I like her, Suho thought, biting back a grin.

Oh my god, look at his ears. They’re turning red. He’s jealous again. It’s so cute I’m gonna die.

Juntae, who had been sitting nearby, sipping something aggressively herbal, leaned in toward Baku.

“He still doesn’t know this is all for him.”

“Nope.”

Baku slurped. “But watching this is the best entertainment we’ve had all semester.”

Gotak, behind them, frowned. “It’s starting to feel... too real, though.”

Juntae glanced back at Sieun.

Saw the way he blinked twice too fast, like he was overthinking again.

And sighed.

“We should tell Suho to stop.”

Baku nodded.

But none of them moved.

Because watching Sieun’s quiet confusion and soft jealousy was somehow too captivating.

 

.
.
.

 

Suho and the girl were sitting under the quad’s big banyan tree now — her coat draped beside her, shoes kicked off, as she chewed on her pen cap and scrolled through her phone.

It was casual. Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

Suho wasn’t even trying to hide the grin stretching across his face.

He’d noticed it already — that look Sieun gave when something confused him. That slight tilt of his head.

That micro-frown in his left eyebrow. The way his fingers slowed on the trackpad.

And right now?

From the bench just thirty feet away — Sieun was doing all of that.

Suho leaned closer to the girl, voice lowered in that "we’re sharing secrets" tone.

“So… is it true your whole group chat is lowkey obsessed with Sieun?”

The girl blinked. Then laughed. “Not lowkey, no. It’s embarrassing. Half of them saved his group presentation screenshot. Like, zoomed in.”

Suho grinned like a fox. “And who are we talking about exactly?”

“Let’s see…” she counted on her fingers. “Yura. Mirae. Hyerim. Maybe Taehee from music? She said he looks like pain in a turtleneck.”

Suho snorted. “He really does.”

Please tell me Sieun heard that.

And oh — he did.

Because just a few feet behind them, Sieun had walked by, intending to pass straight through toward the main building...

Until he heard his name.

He slowed.

Paused briefly — not enough to be obvious.

But enough to hear “screenshot” and “Yura” and Suho’s laugh.

He didn’t stop.

Just kept walking.

But his pace… changed.

A little slower. A little quieter.

Like his chest had suddenly gotten heavy.

So Suho’s… interested in who likes me?

Why would he ask that... in front of her?

He walked off calmly.

But his thoughts were anything but calm.

Back under the banyan tree—

Juntae leaned against the trunk, watching.
Baku had gone completely still.

Gotak whispered, “Did… did he just hear all that?”

Juntae’s lips pressed together. “Yep.”

Suho looked up from the conversation just as Sieun turned the corner and vanished from view.

Still smiling.

Still amused.

He totally heard. He’s gonna be so annoyed. He’s gonna squint at me like I betrayed national security.

Ugh, I love that face.

Juntae sighed. “We really need to tell him to stop.”

But Baku still said nothing.

Just looked down at his phone and muttered, “This is funnier than any webtoon I’ve read.”

 

.
.
.

 

It was a perfect moment.

Too perfect.

Suho was mid-laugh again, a half-eaten pastry in one hand, grinning about something the girl had said. She had started doing impressions of their economics professor, and Suho had nearly dropped his snack from laughing.

And that’s when Sieun saw.

He had just walked up to their usual meeting spot — the one where the entire group usually met between lectures — and slowed when he spotted them.

Suho.

Smiling like that.

The girl, nudging him with her shoulder. Her eyes soft.
The space between them — familiar. Comfortable. Warm.

Sieun stood still for a second.

And then quietly turned around and walked to the edge of the seating circle instead of joining the center like he always did.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t make a show of leaving.

Just… didn’t sit beside Suho this time.

Sat on the far end instead.

Opened his laptop.

Didn’t look up.

Suho didn’t notice right away.

But Juntae did.

Baku definitely did.

Gotak’s face fell instantly.

“...Wait,” Suho finally whispered. “Where’s—?”

Baku nodded toward the bench, eyes a little too serious now. “He’s right there.”

 

Suho blinked.

Eyes scanning.

 

Landing on Sieun.

 

Sitting two whole meters away.

 

No eye contact.

No teasing comment.

No soft blink.

Nothing.

Suho’s stomach dipped.

 

That’s weird. He usually comes right over. He always sits close.

 

Suho turned back to the girl automatically, answering something she said — but his words came out distracted. Muted.

 

A few minutes later.

 

The group started gathering their bags to head to the lecture hall. They moved slowly, joking as usual, tossing wrappers into bins and fixing hair in mirrored windows.

The girl tugged Suho’s sleeve lightly. “Wanna walk together?”

Suho hesitated.

Just for a second.

And when he turned to look for Sieun—

He was already gone.

No goodbye.

No glance.

No waiting.

Just… gone.

 

.
.
.

 

“You need to stop,” Juntae said flatly, arms crossed as he watched Suho casually offer his pen to the girl again.

They were standing behind the cafeteria vending wall like they were staging a poorly hidden stakeout.

“I’m not done yet,” Suho replied, not even looking away.

 

Gotak looked personally offended. “What else is there to do?!”

“I’m building a list,” Suho said matter-of-factly. “So far I’ve got Yura, Mirae, Hyerim, Taehee—”

 

“Are you trying to date him or security-clearance him?” Baku muttered.

Suho finally turned, whispering urgently, “If he gets close to anyone, I need to know who they are. I need to know who to avoid. Who to distract. Who to block if necessary.”

 

Gotak blinked. “You’re insane.”

“I call it love.”

 

Juntae rubbed his temple. “This is like watching someone slowly eat a chili pepper thinking it’s candy.”

 

Suho held up a hand. “Just a little longer. I swear. One more admirer. One more name. Then I’ll stop.”

 

Baku: “That’s what he said three girls ago.”

 

Gotak: “At this point, you’ll have to interrogate the entire university.”

 

Suho: “Not a bad idea—”

“NO.”

Meanwhile, Sieun was acting normal.

Too normal.

He sat with Suho at lunch.

Asked if he’d eaten.

Passed him a napkin without being asked.

Laughed softly at something Baku said.

 

But that was it.

 

No shoulder brushes.

No warm glances from across the room.

No extra second of eye contact when Suho said something stupid.

No quiet “I saved your seat.”

No “you okay?” in the hallway.

 

No nudging Suho’s hand under the table just because.

 

Just…

“Hey.”

“Pass the file.”

“See you after class.”

 

Best friend Sieun.

 

The others noticed immediately.

 

Later, while walking across the quad—

 

Sieun handed Suho his charger cable wordlessly, then walked ahead a few steps.

 

Juntae leaned over and whispered, “So… how’s that clingy, jealous octopus Sieun doing?"

 

Suho whispered back, stunned. “He’s evolved. He’s become… the calm sea cucumber of casual friendship.”

 

Baku snorted. “This is hilarious. You made him jealous so he’d cling to you, and now he’s treating you like a group project member.”

 

Gotak added, “He’s not even annoyed. That’s the worst part.”

 

“He’s… accepting it.”

 

They watched as Sieun walked ahead calmly, typing something on his phone, not glancing back once.

 

Suho had always wanted to see Sieun flustered.
But now?

 

He just wanted him to come back.

 

.
.
.

 

The sky was hanging low that afternoon — cloudy, still, heavy in a way that made sound feel muffled and time feel slow.

Under the old fig tree on the edge of the courtyard, the boys were spread out on their usual bench. Juntae was tapping on his tablet screen, Baku was lazily balancing a bottle cap on his knee, and Gotak was hunched over a half-eaten sandwich, arguing about nothing with no one in particular.

It was the kind of moment where nothing really happened — until it did.

 

Sieun arrived without a word, as he often did — ghostlike, quietly folding into the edges of the group like he’d always been there. He wore his usual layered black, hair still slightly wind-mussed from walking across campus. He sat down without fanfare, dropped his bag beside the bench, and pulled out a worn paperback.

 

No greeting.

No complaint.

No glance around to see what they were talking about.

But Juntae saw it.

That tiny pause — the hesitation when he reached into his bag. A beat too long before he opened the book. Like something had stalled him from the inside.

And then Juntae’s eyes caught something — a paper, sticking out of the side pouch of Sieun’s bag. Crisp. Printed. Folded once. Not like the usual classroom handouts they crumpled and forgot.

Curious, Juntae leaned over, tugged it free with two fingers, and casually asked:
“What’s this?”

 

Sieun didn’t even look over.

“A form,” he said, quiet and emotionless.

Baku cackled. “Wow, thanks, professor.”
Gotak nodded solemnly. “So detailed.

Really paints a picture.”

But Juntae didn’t laugh.

His eyes had already scanned the header.

“Departmental Research & Field Documentation Program
Academic Module B4 – Optional International Elective
Duration: 18 Days”

 

The form was serious — approval sections, faculty signatures, travel window, curriculum credits. He remembered this.

Sieun had mentioned it once in semester one, offhandedly. Said he wanted to do it “eventually,” when the slots reopened.

Something about cultural anthropology fieldwork. Competitive seats. Prestigious module. He never brought it up again — until now.

Juntae’s thumb hovered over the trip date.

Start Date: June 24

End Date: July 11

His gaze snapped to Sieun.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Baku leaned in. “Trip? Wait, what trip?!”
Gotak’s head tilted. “Is this that one you mentioned ages ago? The one you said fills up in like 3 hours?”

 

Sieun didn’t look up from his book.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t deny.

Just sat there.

Still.

 

Reading the same sentence for the third time.

 

Juntae’s eyes dropped back to the form.
Then—

“That overlaps with Suho’s birthday,” he said softly.

Baku paused mid-sip. “Wait, what?”

“Look at the dates,” Gotak muttered, leaning over. “He’d be gone till the 11th. That’s… after July 9th.”

A silence settled.

They all slowly looked up — not at the paper, not at the dates — but at Sieun.

He was still staring down.

Eyes moving across the page, but not really seeing it.

 

Baku finally said, “So… you’re going?”

And Sieun replied, still without looking up:
“I’m not.”

 

His voice was level. Flat. No flicker. No weight.

 

But that was what made it feel heavier.

 

Gotak blinked. “You’re not?”

 

“You were excited about this,” Baku added.

“You talked about it forever ago.”

Juntae was still watching him.

Still piecing it together.

He’s not going.

Not because he lost interest. Not because of paperwork.

But because it falls during Suho’s birthday.

He didn’t say it.

Of course he didn’t.

Sieun never said things like that.

He just… didn’t go.

That was the plan.

Until now.

Juntae carefully folded the form and slipped it back into Sieun’s bag. Nobody else said anything.

But inside?

Juntae’s gut twisted.

Because Suho had no idea.

The air was heavier now — that pre-storm pressure that presses just behind your ears. The gang was still lounging under the tree, half-sprawled on stone benches, sipping warm drinks and quietly digesting what they’d just learned about Sieun’s canceled trip.

 

No one said it out loud.

But they all knew why he wasn’t going.

And none of them were sure how to talk about it.

Then—

Laughter.

Bright, echoing across the courtyard.

 

Suho’s laugh.

And not alone.

The girl beside him was laughing too, hand playfully batting at his arm, her other hand holding a melting popsicle like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Juntae’s eyes tracked them immediately.
Suho was grinning, flushed with energy, completely unaware that the world had just shifted a little in his absence.

He dropped down beside the others with a dramatic sigh. “God, you should’ve heard what she said about Professor Min’s voice. I’m never recovering.”

 

“She’s not wrong,” the girl added, popping the last bite of her popsicle. “He sounds like a sleepy chainsaw.”

 

They laughed again.

Suho looked to his left, the space next to him still empty.

“Where’s Sieun?”

“Returned a book,” Gotak answered.

“Be back in a few,” Baku added.

“Cool,” Suho said.

He meant it.

He missed him, actually. Even in the
middle of a joke, part of him was tracking when Sieun would come back. But he didn’t show it. Not now. Not while he was still in the middle of this ridiculous plan — trying to pull jealousy reactions out of someone who was too composed for the game.

Suho turned to the girl again, still a little flustered. “Anyway, you were saying something?”

“Yeah!” she said brightly. “I was just asking — when’s your birthday?”

“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Uh… July 9th.”

 

Her face lit up. “Ohhh that’s so close! You should come to our rooftop birthday hangout that weekend!”

 

“What?”

 

“My friends do it every year. We bring cupcakes, do karaoke, stay up stupid late. You’ve never joined. This year, you should.”

 

Juntae turned his head.

Baku shifted his foot.

Gotak sat up slightly.

Suho hesitated — not because he was tempted, but because… well, he was still deep in his dumb little strategy.

 

So, without even thinking, he laughed and said:
“It’s fine. I’ve spent every birthday with my friends anyway.

 

One year, I can spend it somewhere else.”
The girl grinned. “Exactly!”

And then—

A shadow fell across them.

Soft footsteps behind the bench.

None of them heard him arrive.

But Suho felt it.

Felt that familiar stillness near his left side.

He turned—

Sieun was standing there.

Back straight. One hand still adjusting the strap of his bag. A paperback tucked under his other arm. The light behind him caught the edge of his glasses, hiding his eyes just for a second.

But when he spoke—

 

His voice was soft. Deceptively calm.
“...Is that so.”

 

The entire bench went still.

Suho opened his mouth. “Wait—”

But Sieun had already walked around the bench and sat down silently on Suho’s left — the space that had always been his.

 

He opened his book.

Began reading.

Didn’t say another word.

Didn’t even glance in Suho’s direction.

But his hands were a little too still.

And he didn’t flip a page.

He’s not ignoring you, Juntae thought.

He’s accepting it.

That’s so much worse.

The others went quiet, like they’d all heard something fall. Something glass.

Something important.

Suho didn’t know what to say.

Because he hadn’t meant it.

But it was already said.

And Sieun had heard it.

 

The air around the bench was unnaturally still.

No one was talking anymore.

Sieun sat with his book open in his lap, his eyes on the same paragraph for almost five minutes now. He hadn't flipped the page. Hadn’t scribbled in the margin. His highlighter was capped and untouched beside him.

 

But he wasn’t reading.

He was thinking.

And Juntae noticed first.

Noticed how Sieun’s gaze wasn’t focused.

How his hands weren’t really resting — just… frozen. Like he was pausing himself.

He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing, observing him with the same quiet care he always used when people weren’t looking.

He heard that line.

He’s replaying it.

Over and over.

The others felt it too — the difference.

Gotak stopped munching on his chips.

Baku lowered his bottle cap.

And finally — finally — even Suho turned toward him.

Something in his chest started twisting.

He’s not looking at me.

He always looks at me. Even when he’s mad. Especially then.

Why does it feel like I’ve lost something and I don’t even know what yet?

He leaned slightly toward him, unsure, his lips parting—

 

“Sieun,” he said quietly.

Sieun blinked.

Finally looked up.

He was about to respond.

About to say something-
But then—

“Oh my god,” Jiyun said, interrupting the quiet.

Everyone turned.

She didn’t notice.

She was adjusting her hair in her phone camera, then looked at Sieun, laughed nervously, and said:
“You know, you’re kind of scary sometimes?”

Silence.

Sieun didn’t respond.

Jiyun smiled anyway, trying to fill the space with her voice.

“I don’t get it,” she added, shrugging. “Like, I know you have your whole quiet brooding thing — but half my friends are so weirdly into it. You barely talk and yet they act like you’re the main character in a thriller.”

 

Suho blinked, stunned.

 

Juntae’s expression hardened just slightly.

“Like I get it — mystery and all,” Jiyun continued, “but personally, I think it’s kind of creepy.”

 

Still, Sieun said nothing.

Just looked at her.

Not cold.

Not harsh.

Just… blank.

Like he’d already learned how to leave the conversation without moving.

And then she grinned at him — like it was just a joke — and added:
“Anyway, maybe stop hogging Suho all the time, huh? Let him breathe!”

 

The silence that followed was sharp.

Jiyun laughed again, waving a hand, “Kidding! God, you all look like I kicked a puppy.”

Sieun just blinked.

Said nothing.

Didn’t look at Suho.

Didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t explain that they weren’t even spending time together anymore — that Suho had stopped being beside him first.

He just…

Stood up.

Smoothly. Calmly.

Brushed imaginary dust from his coat.

“I’m going to the library.”

His voice was as even as ever.

But it landed like a brick.

He turned without another word, slung his bag over one shoulder, and began walking away.

“Wait—” Suho started, standing.

But before he could follow—

Juntae stood too.

“Wait, Sieun-ah,” he said, shouldering his bag, “I’m coming with you.”

Sieun didn’t look back.

But he slowed his pace just enough for Juntae to fall into step beside him.

And just before they disappeared from earshot—

Juntae turned, looked directly at Jiyun, and said:
“You’re hogging all of Suho’s time.”

She blinked, confused. “What—?”

Then Juntae looked at Suho.

And this time, his voice was softer.

But dead serious.

“I’ve warned you already.”

Then he walked off.

After Sieun.

Leaving the others in stunned silence.

Baku, for once, said nothing.

Gotak just stared ahead, the echo of Juntae’s words still floating in the air.

And Suho?

Still standing.

Still watching Sieun’s back get smaller and smaller.

Still wondering when the teasing stopped being fun.

And why his chest hurt so badly now.
The library was hushed — not silent, but still in that heavy, academic way.

 

.
.
.

 

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. The walls smelled like paper and dust and cold metal bookshelves.

Sieun sat across from Juntae at one of the corner study tables. Far from the windows.

Even farther from the noise.

He hadn’t spoken since they arrived.

He’d unpacked his pencil case.

His textbook.

His notes.

But he wasn’t reading.

He was just staring down at the blank corner of a notebook page, pen poised, unmoving.

Juntae watched quietly from across the table.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t ask Are you okay? or What are you thinking?

Because he already knew.

He could see it.

The way Sieun’s gaze wasn’t focused.

The way his jaw was tight — not angry, just… clenched to hold something in.

They sat like that for several minutes.

Breathing in silence.

And then—

Sieun moved.

Deliberate.

Slow.

He reached into his bag.

And pulled out the form.

The same form Juntae had found earlier that day.

The one for the trip.

The one Sieun had decided not to submit.

Juntae watched, heart heavy.

Sieun unfolded the paper carefully. Lined it up on the table with unnecessary precision. Smoothed the crease.

Then picked up his pen.

He didn’t look at Juntae.

Didn’t say anything.

 

He just started filling it out.

Section by section.

Name. ID. Department.

The sound of the pen scratching paper echoed in the quiet like something sharp and clean being cut.

He’s doing it, Juntae thought.

He’s really doing it.

And when Sieun reached the end — when he finally signed it in that precise, neat handwriting — he paused.

Then looked up.

Met Juntae’s eyes.

And with no emotion in his voice, no anger or bitterness or sadness, he simply said:
“I’m going.”

Juntae didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t try to stop him.

He just stared at him for a long, careful second.

Then nodded once.

Soft. Heavy.

Understanding.

They both stood.

Gathered their bags.

And left the library together.

Not as classmates.

Not as a dramatic exit.

But like people who’d just buried something quietly between them.

 

They didn’t talk as they walked.

They didn’t need to.

The form — folded cleanly and tucked under Sieun’s arm — said everything already.

 

He stepped out into the corridor, the soft tap of his shoes echoing on the polished floor tiles. Juntae followed behind him, a quiet shadow, holding his own file — unrelated, but he hadn’t left Sieun’s side all day.

 

And when they opened the front doors to leave—

 

The gang was already outside.

Waiting.

Half-loitering by the stair railings.

Suho was pacing.

He looked up the moment the doors swung open.

And his face lit up.

“Finally!”

 

He jogged forward — hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a little wind-tossed — and beamed at Sieun like he hadn’t been doing everything in his power to make him jealous for days.

 

“Where’d you go, huh?” Suho asked casually, walking up beside him. “You disappeared on me.”

 

“I told you,” Juntae said from behind, “he went to submit something.”

 

Suho blinked. “Submit what?”

Sieun, calm as ever, just said:
“Nothing urgent.”

 

Suho tilted his head but didn’t press.

Instead, he stepped closer, nudged Sieun lightly with his elbow, and smirked.

 

“You seriously walk this slow without me?”

 

Sieun blinked.

 

“Didn’t realize I had a speed quota,” he said flatly.

 

Baku laughed behind them. “There it is. Cold Princess mode: activated.”

 

But Suho just grinned and reached for Sieun’s shoulder strap.

“Here. Give me your bag.”

Sieun frowned slightly. “It’s fine.”

Suho was already lifting it off his shoulder.

“You’re always carrying so much. Let me.”

 

Sieun didn’t fight it.

Didn’t thank him either.

But he let Suho take the bag.

Let him adjust the strap onto his own shoulder like he’d done it a thousand times before.

And when they walked out through the front gate, Suho was right beside him — swinging their bags, chatting about absolutely nothing.

“We should stop by the bakery,” Suho said, half to the group, half just to Sieun. “The strawberry ones might still be there.”

 

“Didn’t you say you’re off sugar?” Gotak asked.

“Yeah,” Suho replied. “But I’m off that rule too.”

Baku cackled. “You’re so whipped right now.”

Suho didn’t even deny it.

And Sieun?
He just listened.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t push him away.

Didn’t say a single word about the form still freshly stamped inside the admin office — the one Suho had no idea about.

He just walked beside him.

Like everything was fine.

Because right now?

It almost was.

 

.
.
.

 

The next morning was unusually bright.

Clear skies after days of clouded silence.

They all met under the same courtyard tree — out of habit, not out of comfort. The air around them was quieter. Like everyone was waiting for someone to speak first.

 

Sieun arrived exactly on time.

He stood there for a second — watching Suho already talking to Jiyun at the edge of the path. She was teasing him about something again. He was laughing too easily.

 

Sieun didn’t interrupt.

He walked over to the bench, greeted no one, and quietly unpacked his notebook.

Sat down.

Juntae and Baku exchanged a glance.

Suho eventually jogged over, plopped beside him with the same smile as always — the one Sieun knew by now meant I’m pretending everything is fine.

 

And for a brief moment?

 

Sieun believed he’d finally say it.

He glanced sideways, gathered the words at the back of his throat.

 

“Suho—”

 

But before he could finish—

 

Jiyun called out again.

 

“Suho! Come quick — I think you left your charger in the café!”

 

Suho groaned. “Ugh, that thing. I swear I have a curse.”

 

He stood quickly, halfway apologetic. “Be right back, yeah?”

 

He didn’t notice how Sieun’s lips were already half-parted.

 

Didn’t see the moment shrink and collapse in Sieun’s silence.

 

Jiyun hooked her hand through his wrist playfully. “Let’s go!”

 

And just like that—

He was gone.

The silence that followed felt deeper than before.

 

Gotak, finally breaking, turned to look at Sieun. “What’s going on?”

Sieun didn’t answer.

 

Just kept staring at the notebook he hadn’t opened yet.

 

Juntae looked away, but Baku didn’t — he was already bracing for it.

 

And then, finally—

Quietly—

 

Sieun spoke.

 

“I submitted the form.”

 

A pause.

Sharp. Echoing.

 

Gotak blinked. “You… what?”

 

“The trip,” Baku muttered under his breath.

 

“You’re actually going?!” Gotak exclaimed, stunned. “But… you said you weren’t. Just yesterday—”

 

Juntae didn’t say anything. He just leaned back, arms folded, eyes narrowed at the courtyard path where Suho had disappeared.

 

Gotak sputtered. “Wait—if this is about what he said yesterday, don’t be stupid. He didn’t mean it. You know that, right?”

 

Sieun looked up at him.

 

Expression unreadable.

 

Just… still.

 

Gotak sighed. “It was just a joke. He says dumb things sometimes. He was distracted.”

 

“I know,” Sieun said simply.

 

“Then—”

 

Sieun looked down again. Fingers tracing the spiral of his notebook.

 

Then softly:
“I think… he’s going to be okay.”

 

That silence?

It felt final.

And Juntae felt it first.

That wasn’t a warning. That was a goodbye waiting for time to pass.

 

Later that afternoon, the mood had settled again. Suho was back, bouncing between groups like usual. Jiyun was nearby again, sticking close.

 

They were gathered around the campus lawn, someone talking about an upcoming festival.

 

Jiyun turned suddenly to Sieun, mid-joke. “Hey, you’re like… Suho’s best friend, right?”

 

Sieun blinked.

Didn’t answer right away.

 

So she leaned closer, teasing: “Then tell me — does he always act like this when he likes someone?”

 

Sieun’s eyes lifted slowly.

He met her gaze — not cold, not rude. Just calm. Unshaken.

And then, softly, almost like explaining a weather pattern:
“When he likes someone…
He hovers.
He makes excuses to be near them.
He forgets to think before he speaks.
And he carries everything for them without being asked.”

A pause.

Then he added:
“That’s just how he is.”

 

Jiyun blinked. “Wow. That was… very specific.”

 

Suho, standing just a few feet away, heard it all.

 

And for the first time, the words didn’t feel sweet.

 

They felt like a list of memories.

 

Ones that didn’t belong to her.

 

He looked over at Sieun — still composed, still scribbling something in his notebook.

 

Why are you telling her everything about me?

 

Suho didn’t say it out loud.

 

But his hands curled slightly in his sleeves.
And the jealousy that had once been a game?

 

Started to feel like a punishment.

 

Suho couldn’t sit still.

 

.
.
.

 

They were all sitting near the fountain steps after lectures — snacks half-eaten, water bottles open, sun just beginning to lower. A slow summer breeze was pushing shadows across the bricks.

 

But Suho was restless.

 

He wasn’t laughing with Baku like usual.

 

Wasn’t teasing Gotak.

 

Wasn’t scrolling on his phone.

 

He was watching Sieun.

 

Who sat on the far end of the step. Book on his lap. Notebook open. Completely unbothered.

Unbothered.

That was the part Suho hated most.

 

Why wasn’t he reacting anymore?

 

Wasn’t he supposed to at least roll his eyes?

 

Say I’m being annoying?

 

Anything?

 

He tapped his fingers on his knee.

 

Baku looked over. “You’ve been vibrating for ten minutes.”

 

Suho ignored him.

 

He got up.

 

Walked casually over to where Jiyun was talking to a couple of her friends nearby.

 

Purposely.

 

He laughed a little too loud.

 

Leaned a little too close.

 

And in his peripheral vision — he waited.

 

Waited for Sieun to glance up.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Didn’t blink.

 

Didn’t tilt his head.

 

Didn’t shift.

 

Just stayed where he was.

 

Like Suho wasn’t doing anything new.

 

Like he was… already done caring.

 

Suho forced a laugh at something Jiyun said.

 

Juntae, a few feet away, was watching it all.

 

His jaw tensed.

 

Gotak, next to him, whispered, “Is he really still trying this?”

 

Juntae didn’t answer.

 

But then—

Sieun stood.

Book still in hand. Bag over one shoulder.

 

“I’m heading out,” he said quietly

.
Juntae looked up. “Back to home?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Want company?”

 

Sieun gave a small nod.

 

Didn’t even glance in Suho’s direction.

 

And walked off.

 

Suho turned, watching him go.

 

Everything in him tensed.

 

He wanted to run after him. Say something. Anything.

 

But what?

 

“Why aren’t you reacting?”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Why are you going without asking me to come?”

 

Instead, he just watched him leave.

 

Hands empty.

 

It was late evening by the time they got back home.

 

The others had gone out for late snacks.

 

The apartment was quiet — soft lighting, quiet floors, windows half-open to the sound of crickets.

 

The soft hum of Sieun’s desk lamp was the loudest thing in the apartment.

 

It had been like this for over an hour — him on the floor in the living room, surrounded by a half-finished assignment and a halo of scribbled notes. His back leaned lightly against the edge of the couch, a pencil tucked behind one ear.

He looked peaceful.

Maybe even content.

Suho, meanwhile, had been orbiting around him like a restless moon.

 

Pacing from kitchen to hallway, occasionally flopping onto the couch, occasionally standing again. The silence was eating at him, even though Sieun hadn’t said a single cold word all night.

 

“So…” Suho called softly from the kitchen, “don’t be alarmed but I may have accidentally reorganized all the mugs by emotional damage levels.”

 

No reaction.

 

He tried again.

 

“Like, the one with the chip on the handle is obviously for heartbreak. The one you always use? That’s emotional numbness with caffeine addiction.”

 

Still nothing.

 

Sieun flipped a page, pen tapping faintly against the floor.

 

Suho came over and dropped onto the couch with a thud, upside down this time — head hanging off the edge.

 

“Would you be less terrifying if I brought you mango candy?”

 

Sieun didn’t even glance up.

 

“Depends,” he replied, calmly, still reading. “Is it expired?”

 

Suho sat up fast. “It was a joke. So there is still life in you.”

 

Sieun didn’t respond. He just underlined something with too much precision.

 

Suho studied him for a moment — his steady breathing, the furrow just between his brows when he focused, how his lips pressed together when he was trying to ignore something.

 

He leaned forward a little.

 

Voice softer now.

 

“You’re not mad, right?”

And then—

The front door opened.

Juntae, Baku, and Gotak walked in, half-laughing about something, arms full of snacks and cheap sodas — only to stop halfway into the hallway when they saw Suho on the couch, leaning toward Sieun, who was still planted in his study zone like nothing existed outside his highlighter.
Sieun looked up slowly.

Blinking once.

No shift in expression. No tension.

Just... calm.

His pen paused.

 

“Mad?” he repeated, like it was the strangest thing he’d heard all night.
Suho hesitated. “Just… about what Jiyun said. Earlier.”

 

Sieun stared at him for a second — not long — and then lowered his gaze again as he leaned forward to adjust his notes.

 

“Why would I be mad?”

 

His voice was quiet.

Measured.

Still that same low, flat tone he always had when he was genuinely confused about why someone expected a bigger reaction from him.

 

“She wasn’t lying. I do come off that way most of the time.”

 

The gang stayed frozen near the door.

 

They could tell this wasn’t a joke. Not really.

 

Sieun went on — not because he wanted to make a point, but because Suho had asked.

 

“It’s the face I’ve always had.”

 

“It’s the voice people think sounds bored even when I’m not.”

 

“That’s why Youngbin used to mess with me.”

 

“........Bully me.”

 

“Why teachers thought I had an attitude.”

 

“Why people thought I didn’t care.”

 

His pen moved again.

Smooth. Casual.

Like he hadn’t just handed Suho a quiet truth with both hands.

 

“I know what I look like.”

 

Baku’s snack bag crinkled. But no one opened anything.

 

Suho was still sitting forward — mouth parted, words caught somewhere behind his teeth.

 

“Sieun…”

 

Sieun didn’t look at him.

Didn’t snap.

 

Didn’t raise his voice.

 

“I’m not mad.”

 

Just that.

 

Simple.

 

And that simplicity hurt more than shouting ever could.

 

Suho shifted slightly, tried again.

 

“Still… I don’t think she meant it in a nice way. You know? Like—like she made it sound bad.”

 

“And it wasn't ok for her to say that.”

 

“I know I should've said somethi–”

 

Sieun finally looked at him.

 

Eyes still soft. Calm.

 

“Suho.”

 

A small breath.

 

“Just because I’m not mad…… doesn’t mean I want to talk about it either.”

 

There it was.

 

Like a stone placed gently between them.

 

No accusation.

 

Just a fact.

 

The silence stretched. The gang hadn’t moved from the doorway.

 

No one dared say anything.

 

Sieun gathered his notebook, unplugged his tablet, and stood up.

 

“I’m gonna study all night.”

 

Suho stood with him. “I’ll stay quiet, it’s fine—”

 

Sieun shook his head gently.

“No. You should sleep in your room tonight.”

 

That pause again. Soft. Final.

 

Suho blinked, mouth parting — but Sieun had already turned toward the hallway.

 

He paused just once, hand resting lightly on the wall.

 

His voice was quieter. Like he didn’t want it to echo.

 

“Anyway... it’s not like she was wrong.”

 

A small breath.

 

He looked over his shoulder, voice a shade lighter:
“I’ve always looked a little cold.
I just thought maybe……. people stopped minding.”

 

He tried to smile.

 

He really did.

 

But no one laughed.

 

Not even Baku.

 

The quiet held it too tight.

 

And then Sieun turned away and disappeared into his room.

 

Click.

 

The door shut.

 

And the apartment felt heavier than before.

 

But no one laughed.

 

Not even Baku.

 

Sieun nodded once, then disappeared into his room.

 

Click.

 

The sound of the door closing was soft — but final.

 

Juntae walked straight past Suho without a word, placing the bag on the table, his expression unreadable.

 

Gotak finally exhaled.

 

Baku stared at the carpet.

 

And Suho?

 

He was still standing in the middle of the room…..

 

In the home that Sieun had bought for them all…

 

...and for the first time, it didn’t feel like his anymore.

Notes:

The angst is just started you all. It's going to be heavier by every chapter. This arc is not going to end very soon.

Chapter 29: The Words I Never Said

Notes:

I was so sure I posted it but apparently not. I fell asleep. Like everytime. So I'm posting it now. Since I want to post next chapter today only.

Also I read all of your comments. Thank you so so so much for your wishes. Every year my birthday is never complete without me crying. It has become a ritual somehow. 💀
But I had a blast this year. It's because you guys too.

I just wanted you to know even though I don't reply, I read each and every comment you guys leave under every chapter. I'm like super busy I don't get much time. And whatever extra time I get I use it in this story writing. I also run an insta account. And yeah I need to study too. So that's why I don't reply. I will try from now on. But please know I read every comment of yours. Whether it's short or long.

Thank you so much for kind wishes. You guys are best. 🥺❤️

The click of the door echoed long after it stopped.

For a moment, no one moved.

Juntae placed the snacks silently on the counter and walked past Suho without a word — not angry, not cold, just… done.

Gotak mumbled something about needing to shower and disappeared down the hall.

Baku lingered for a second, opening his mouth like he might say something. Then closed it again and followed the others.

And Suho was left standing alone in the middle of the living room.

The air felt heavier now. The kind that settles into your shoulders, not your lungs.

He stared at the hallway where Sieun had gone, the image of that almost-smile lingering behind his eyes.

 

"I just thought maybe people stopped minding."

That was supposed to be a joke.

It was supposed to be light.

But it had landed like glass.

Suho sat down on the floor , in the exact spot where Sieun had been just minutes earlier.

 

The warmth was still in the carpet.

He glanced at the tea he had made earlier and never gave him.

 

It was cold now.

 

He didn’t even know if Sieun liked that blend.

 

He pressed his thumb against the rim of the mug.

 

And whispered, mostly to himself:
“You didn’t have to say it like that…”

 

But Sieun hadn’t said anything cruel.

Not once.

He had been calm. He had been honest. He had even tried to ease the tension.

I’ve always looked a little cold.

I just thought maybe people stopped minding.

 

That wasn’t anger.

 

That was just… giving up on being misunderstood.

 

Suho didn’t sleep that night.

He tried.

Tossed under his blanket in the room he was now sharing with Juntae again. The silence between them was louder than ever.

 

At some point — maybe 1 a.m. — Suho got up.

Tiptoed into the hallway.

The light from Sieun’s room was still on.

He stood outside the door.

Fingers hovering near the handle.

He thought about knocking.

Just once.

He thought about saying:

 

“You didn’t look cold to me.”

 

“I didn’t stop minding — because I never thought anything was wrong with you.”

 

But he didn’t say anything.

 

He just stood there.

 

Staring at the door that was never locked.

 

But still felt like a wall.

 

Then he walked back to his room.

 

Quietly.

 

.
.
.

 

The morning light fell soft across the apartment. Pale and warm, like any other day.

The kitchen smelled like toast. The kettle let out a slow hiss.

Sieun was already awake, dressed in a simple black tee and navy joggers, glasses pushed up. He moved around the kitchen with calm efficiency, spooning oats into a bowl like it was just a regular Tuesday.

 

There was no tension in the air.

 

No cold shoulder. No heavy silences.

 

Just… normal.

 

Almost too normal.

 

Suho, still bleary-eyed, wandered out of his room, scratching his head and waiting — hoping — for something.

 

A glance. A smirk. A quiet, “You look half-dead.”

 

But Sieun just turned and said, evenly:

“There’s milk on the counter. It’s still cold.”

 

Suho blinked. “Huh? Oh. Thanks.”

 

He shuffled to the fridge, staring blankly at it for a second too long before grabbing the butter.

 

No jokes. No teasing. No light shove.

 

He sat at the dining table, watching as Sieun sat opposite him, casually scrolling through his phone, his spoon tapping softly against his bowl.

 

Everything about him was relaxed.

 

But something was… gone.

 

Not pulled away. Just absent.

 

Like someone had taken down a painting from the wall you didn’t know you looked at every day — and only noticed its absence because now there was too much space.

 

Suho tried to fill it.

 

“Did you finish that worksheet you were working on?”

 

Sieun nodded. “Yeah. Last night.”

 

“You stayed up late?”

 

Another nod. “A little.”

 

No elaboration. No subtle smile. No eye roll.

 

Just answers.

 

Short. Polite. Friendly.

 

Best friend behavior.

 

But Suho felt it — the change. Felt it in how Sieun’s knees didn’t bump his under the table anymore, how his eyes didn’t linger, how he didn’t wait for Suho to speak — didn’t look like he needed anything from him at all.

 

And that?

 

That’s what hit hardest.

 

He wasn’t angry.

 

He wasn’t hurt.

 

He was just… being Sieun.

 

The way he was with everyone.

 

And that made Suho feel like he was just anyone.

 

The apartment slowly filled with life.

 

Gotak stumbled out of his room first, yawning and grumbling about someone finishing his protein bars.

 

Baku followed ten minutes later, still in a sleep shirt that had a mysterious ketchup stain on it, claiming he dreamt of losing a football game to a squirrel.

 

Juntae came out last, quiet, already dressed, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeves. His eyes moved across the room, taking in the quiet tension immediately — not with alarm, but with awareness.

 

Sieun was at the sink, rinsing his bowl, casual and focused.

 

Suho lingered near the stove, pretending to stir his coffee like it required an engineering degree.

 

He watched Sieun carefully — the casual way he moved, the way he wiped his fingers on the dish towel, the little crease between his brows when he glanced toward the clock.

 

This should feel normal.

 

But it doesn’t.

 

Suho turned slightly and bumped his shoulder against Sieun’s lightly as he passed by, trying to reignite a rhythm they once didn’t have to think about.

 

Sieun glanced sideways. Didn’t flinch.

 

Didn’t react at all.

 

Just stepped aside and moved toward the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

 

Suho followed.

 

He leaned in, too close on purpose.

 

“You always forget to refill it,” he teased softly. “What would you do without me?”

 

Sieun looked at the bottle in his hand.

 

Then at Suho.

 

“It was full this time.”

 

Not defensive.

 

Not playful.

 

Just… a reply.

 

Suho smiled awkwardly. “So you’re improving.”

 

Sieun blinked once. “Maybe.”

 

Then turned and walked toward the hallway.

 

No soft nudge.

 

No shoulder brush.

 

No corner-of-the-mouth smile.

 

Juntae saw it all.

 

From the corner of the dining table, he watched like someone reading a familiar scene — only this time, the actors were out of sync.

 

Suho’s still performing a part that used to work.

 

But Sieun’s not playing along.

 

A few minutes later, the group sat around the table — cereal bowls, coffee mugs, mismatched plates and all.
Sieun was seated across from Suho, scrolling through something quietly.

 

Suho tapped his spoon against his cup.

Twice.

Then leaned forward.

“You didn’t even notice I folded your laundry last night.”

 

Sieun looked up slowly.

“You did?”

 

“Color-coded it, even,” Suho said with a hopeful grin.

“Dark to light. Like a psychological gradient of your moods.”

 

Sieun stared for a second.

 

Then nodded.

 

“Thanks.”

 

No smile.

 

No spark.

 

Just… gratitude.

 

Best friend level.

 

Nothing more.

 

And Suho felt it again.

 

That space between them.

 

That gentle void where laughter used to be.

 

Juntae finally looked away.

 

Not out of discomfort — but because the truth had already settled.

 

It wasn’t a break-up.

 

Because nothing ever started.

 

But something ended.

 

And Suho didn’t even notice when.

 

.
.
.

 

Campus was buzzing in its usual late-morning haze — soft wind, distant shouts from the field, occasional clangs from the construction site by the new lab building.

 

Their group had settled on the stone benches near the courtyard — a usual spot shaded by the overgrown tree that had carried every stupid conversation, snack spill, and soft confession for the past year.

 

Sieun was sitting at the far end of the bench, earbuds loosely hanging around his neck, fingers tapping against the screen of his phone as if replying to a message he didn’t want to send.

 

Suho, seated two spots away, wasn’t talking.

 

He was glancing.

 

Every few seconds.

 

Eyes drifting over the slope of Sieun’s shoulders, the way his thumb hovered over his screen, the subtle crease between his brows.

 

He’s been quieter lately. Not in the Sieun way.
In the distant kind.

 

The kind where he doesn’t look at me to check if I’m watching anymore.

 

Suho’s fingers curled loosely around his bottle cap.

 

Then—

 

Sieun’s phone buzzed again.

 

He looked at it, expression unreadable, and stood up without a word. His voice was soft when he said, “I’ll be back in a sec,” already stepping away from the bench.

 

He crossed toward the grass near the building, one hand in his pocket, phone held loosely to his ear.

 

Suho’s head tilted.

 

Brows furrowed.

 

He blinked.

 

“Who’s calling him these days?”

 

Gotak looked up mid-sip. “His dad.”

 

Suho paused. “What?”

 

Gotak nodded, like it was obvious. “He’s been calling almost every day, I think.”

 

Suho turned sharply.

 

“Wait, what? Since when does his dad call?”

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

Juntae, without even lifting his eyes from his book, said flatly:

 

“Since you stopped noticing things.”

 

That one stung.

 

Baku glanced up, biting into a sandwich slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should interfere.

 

Suho looked away, watching Sieun in the distance, his head slightly bowed as he listened on the phone. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck like he was being careful with whatever words were coming through.

 

He looked…

 

Different.

 

Softer.

 

A little more open.

 

A little less his.

 

Suho swallowed.

 

I didn’t know that.

 

I didn’t even know that.

 

A minute later, Sieun walked back toward them.

 

He slipped his phone into his pocket like it was nothing and sat back down in his same quiet spot.

 

Baku, half-curious, half-casual:

“What was that? Serious face.”

 

Sieun looked up at him, voice low but steady.

 

“My dad. Just checking in.”

 

Suho stared. “He calls now?”

 

Sieun nodded once. “Yeah. Almost daily, I guess.”

 

Suho blinked. “That’s…”

 

Sieun gave a small shrug, looking out across the grass.
“He’s trying.”

 

That was all.

 

No bitterness. No hope.

 

Just facts.

 

And Suho sat there, feeling the air between them stretch a little farther.

 

Because for the first time in a long time—

Sieun had something new in his life.

 

And Suho wasn’t a part of it.

 

.
.
.

 

It was late morning, and campus had just the right kind of breeze.

The courtyard bench under the old tree was their usual spot — jackets tossed over bags, snack wrappers crinkling between books, someone’s speaker playing soft lo-fi in the background.

 

Sieun was seated at the far end of the bench, posture steady, expression neutral as always. His notes were open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

 

Tucked inside the notebook was a folded form — the one he’d been meaning to mention.

 

He tilted his head slightly, looked toward Suho, who was sitting nearby, lazily kicking a pebble under his shoe.

 

Just say it. Just say you’re going. Just say—

 

“Suho—”

 

“Yo,” Gotak cut in, “I swear that squirrel from yesterday was stalking me. It followed me past the canteen.”

 

Suho looked up. “You say that like you didn’t feed it three biscuits in a row.”

 

Laughter broke out. Sieun’s chance was gone again.
He stayed quiet. Looked back down.

 

Then—

 

A voice floated through the air, light and annoyingly confident.

 

“Are the brains taking over this bench again, or can the rest of us exist here too?”

 

They all turned toward the path.

 

Jiyun.

 

And beside her—

 

Sohye.

 

She wasn’t trying to stand out.

 

But she did.

 

Her pale pink cardigan matched the faint color in her cheeks. Her skirt moved softly with the breeze, and her lashes looked longer than usual — maybe mascara, maybe not. Her smile was unsure, but sweet.

 

Suho noticed.

 

Too quickly.

 

His gaze trailed down to the books clutched to her chest, then back up to her face — framed by softly curled hair and quiet, almost anxious eyes.

 

And she was looking directly at Sieun.

 

Not smiling wildly.

 

Just… hopeful.

 

Like she had already played out this meeting in her head a hundred times and was still praying it went right.

 

Sieun, of course, didn’t react.

 

Not with surprise.

 

Not with interest.

 

He looked up at her once, gave a slight nod — the same nod he gave to professors, postmen, and Baku’s aunt that one time she brought lunch.

 

“Hey,” he said simply.

 

Nothing more.

 

He didn’t hold her gaze.

 

Didn’t ask why she was here.

 

Didn’t smile.

 

Just turned back to his notes and flipped a page.

 

But Suho saw everything else.

 

He saw how Sohye kept sneaking glances at Sieun.

 

How she clutched her folder a little tighter. How her breath caught every time Sieun moved.

 

And suddenly, Suho’s hands felt restless.

 

Why does she look at him like that?

 

The wind shifted again — this time carrying faint laughter from a nearby bench and the scent of fresh-cut grass.

 

Sohye hadn’t said a word since she sat.

 

She was quiet. Not the scared kind. Not exactly shy.
But the kind of quiet that held too much energy beneath the surface.

 

She kept fidgeting with the edge of her notebook — smoothing it out, lifting the corner, pressing it back down.

 

Her eyes darted toward Sieun, then quickly away.

 

Suho noticed.

 

More than he wanted to.

 

She was sitting two spots from him — just close enough that he could see her wrist trembling slightly as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

 

Just close enough that he saw the way her lips parted like she wanted to say something, then stopped.

 

Don’t do it, Suho thought.

 

Don’t ask him. Not in front of me.

 

She took a breath.

 

“Um… Sieun?”

 

Her voice barely cut through the breeze, but it was enough.

 

Sieun turned his head, slow and deliberate.

 

He didn’t blink in surprise. He didn’t look startled.

 

Just curious enough to let her speak.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Sohye shifted. Not dramatically — just a slight roll of her shoulder, adjusting her weight.

She held out her notebook, not even fully extended, like she was scared it might be too much.

 

“I… I’ve been trying to finish the stats assignment from last week. The regression part? But I still don’t get where the formula branches… I thought maybe—”

 

She stopped. Her voice got smaller with each word.
“I thought maybe you could help. If it’s not a bother.”
Sieun nodded once.

 

Voice calm. Even.

 

“I can go over it with you after this.”

 

No hesitation. No warmth either.

 

Just his usual self — precise, direct, fair.

 

He turned back to his notebook without waiting for a thank you.

 

But Sohye smiled.

 

Not giddy.

 

Just… relieved.

 

And Suho?

 

He was still watching her.

 

Watching her fingers relax from the tight grip on the paper.

 

Watching the way her shoulders eased slightly, like just saying his name had been a victory.

 

Watching her lean forward slightly to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear again.

 

She was so scared to ask.

 

And now she’s glowing.

 

His chest tightened.

 

She thinks she’s lucky.

 

That she got something special from him.

 

He looked at Sieun.

 

Unbothered. Silent.

 

And that somehow made it worse.

 

And then—

 

Jiyun, sipping her juice box like she wasn’t about to ruin the moment, said:

“You’re really brave for asking him directly. I’d honestly cry if he just stared at me like that. I swear, he always looks like he’s mentally calculating where to bury a body.”

 

There it was.

 

Casual. Laughing.

 

Thrown like a pebble.

 

It hit anyway.

 

No one laughed.

 

Not this time.

 

Sieun didn’t react.

 

But Suho?

 

He sat up straighter.

 

His hand curled slightly into the sleeve of his hoodie.

 

His jaw clenched.

 

He was about to say something.

 

But then—

 

Sohye shifted in her seat.

 

She looked over at Sieun again.

 

And that’s when something changed.

 

Her smile faded — just a little.

 

Her brows furrowed.

 

And she said, very gently:

 

“You know that’s not funny, right?”

 

Jiyun blinked. “Huh?”

 

Sohye didn’t raise her voice.

 

She didn’t laugh either.

 

“You say it like a joke. But it’s not a joke.
You say it a lot.”

 

The group was still now.

 

Not frozen. Just… focused.

 

Like someone had tapped the pause button on background noise.

 

“You always call him scary,” Sohye added, more quietly this time. “But he’s never done anything to deserve that.”

 

Her eyes weren’t on Jiyun anymore.

 

They were on Sieun.

 

And Sieun —

 

He just looked at her.

 

Not warmly. Not with any reaction really.

 

Just quietly.

 

Like he wasn’t sure what to say.

 

Or maybe like he wasn’t used to anyone saying it for him.

 

Juntae, from the side, was watching Sohye like she’d just delivered a presentation worth full marks.

 

But Suho?

 

He wasn’t watching Jiyun.

 

He wasn’t even watching Sohye anymore.

 

He was staring at Sieun.

 

At the way he was still looking at her —

 

Not smiling. Not touched.

 

But…

 

Curious.

 

He’s listening to her.

 

And that’s what made Suho stop breathing for a second.

 

Because he’d tried.

 

He’d wanted to say those things.

 

He’d wanted to defend Sieun a hundred times.

 

But she’d done it.

 

And now Sieun was looking at her like maybe…

 

Maybe she understood something he didn’t have to explain.

 

And for Suho?

 

That felt like the worst kind of silence yet.

 

Everything kept going.

 

The breeze kept brushing through the tree branches.
Students kept passing, laughing.

 

Somewhere behind them, someone shouted for a lost pen like it was the end of the world.

 

But Suho couldn’t hear any of it clearly.

 

He sat perfectly still — arms crossed, eyes half-lowered — like he was watching everything from inside a glass box.

 

Sohye was back in her seat, fixing the edge of her skirt.

 

Jiyun had gone quiet, sipping her juice awkwardly, pretending not to care.

 

Sieun was now scrolling casually through his tablet, completely unfazed.

 

Like nothing had happened.

 

But something had.

 

At least to Suho, it had.

 

He shifted slightly, pretending to stretch his legs.

 

Trying to act normal.

 

He glanced toward Sieun — who had just turned slightly toward Sohye, asking:
“Is it multiple regression or the time-series stuff?”

 

She looked up, surprised.

 

Nodded.

 

“Time-series… mostly. That part always confuses me.”

 

He tapped twice on the tablet screen.

 

Still calm. Still normal.

 

“I can show you a better breakdown later. There’s a visual I used last semester.”

 

Sohye blinked. “You’d really show me that?”

 

Sieun gave a small nod. “Sure.”

 

And just like that—

 

She smiled.

 

Small, grateful, and so full of admiration that it made Suho’s stomach twist.

 

Why does that sound so different when he says it to her?

 

He used to be the one who got those answers.

 

The quiet “sure.”

 

The notebook slid across the table.

 

The half-glance with a soft “you’ll get it eventually.”

 

But now?

 

Sieun was looking at someone else.

 

Still his usual self.

 

Still Sieun.

 

But just present enough…

 

To make Suho feel absent.

 

Juntae closed his book and stood.
“Gonna go reserve the study room before someone else steals the good one,” he muttered.

 

He turned, walked a few steps, then paused.

 

Glanced back over his shoulder.

 

“Suho,” he said, casually.

 

“You good?”

 

Suho blinked.

Too quick. Too sharp.

 

“What?”

 

Juntae stared for a second.

 

Then shook his head and walked off.

 

Not disappointed.

 

Just… knowing.

 

Later, as the sun shifted and more groups began gathering around the courtyard

 

Sohye adjusted her strap bag and tucked her tablet close to her chest. She then turned toward Sieun again.

 

“Thank you… for earlier.”

 

Her voice was low.

 

Earnest.

 

Sieun looked up from his notes.

 

“For what?”

 

She hesitated. Then smiled again.

 

“For not making it awkward.”

 

A beat.

 

Sieun tilted his head slightly.

 

“There was nothing to make awkward.”

 

And that?

 

That was the softest thing he’d said all day.

 

Not to Suho.

 

Not to the gang.

 

To her.

 

Suho didn’t react.

 

Not outwardly.

 

But his fingers had curled around the edge of his sleeve so tightly the fabric had bunched near his palm.

 

That used to be me.

 

He used to say things like that to me.

 

The sun had dropped a little lower.

 

The world was tinted orange — soft and slow and far too beautiful for how heavy Suho’s chest felt.

 

He was seated at the edge of the group, trying to keep his breathing even. His fingers tapped the side of his bottle, then stilled. Then started again.

 

Sieun was beside Sohye now.

 

She’d sat closer than before, not by much, but enough that Suho noticed.

 

He could hear snippets — terms like "variance," "coefficient," "prediction error" — but the words didn’t matter.

 

What mattered was that Sieun was explaining them.
Calm, patient, eyes flicking over her notes, pencil in hand.

 

That used to be mine, Suho thought.

 

The quiet explanations. The shoulder bump when he reached across the page. The way he made everything seem less confusing just by being there.

 

Now she had that.

And she was blushing.

 

Smiling.

Nodding with every word like she was hearing gospel.
And Sieun didn’t seem uncomfortable.

 

Didn’t seem distant.

He was just… there.

Present.

 

Suho stood.

 

He didn’t announce it.

 

Didn’t grab his bag like he was mad.

 

He just stood, turned, and walked.

 

Away from the glow.

Away from that bench.

Away from Sieun helping someone else.

Because he couldn’t take it anymore.

 

The orange glow followed him, but it didn’t feel warm.
Suho walked slowly, his bag strap tugging against his shoulder, hand stuffed in his pocket just to keep it from shaking.

 

The path between the courtyard and the library was nearly empty now. A few juniors passed, chatting about some professor’s notes. Someone’s bike rolled past with a squeaky chain. But everything felt muffled.

 

He wasn’t even sure where he was going.

 

He just… needed air.

 

Needed space.

 

Needed to not see Sieun’s head tilted toward someone else.

 

Not right now.

 

Footsteps joined him a minute later.

 

Juntae.

 

He didn’t say anything at first.

 

Just matched Suho’s pace.

 

Walked beside him like he wasn’t waiting for a response.

 

Eventually, Suho sighed — barely.

 

“You following me?”

 

Juntae shrugged. “Walking.”

 

Suho didn’t push it.

 

They walked another ten seconds in silence.

 

Then Juntae spoke — voice calm, casual.
“He thinks maybe he misjudged you.”

 

Suho turned his head, slow.

 

“Who?”

 

But he already knew.

Juntae didn’t look at him.

He just kept walking.

 

“Sieun. We talked a few days ago. Just us.”

 

Suho blinked. “Okay…?”

 

Juntae glanced at him finally.
“You didn’t react when I told you.
You just nodded.”

 

Suho’s mouth opened. Closed.

 

He didn’t remember reacting at all, actually.
“I didn’t think much of it.”

 

Juntae nodded. “Yeah. I figured.”

 

Another pause.

 

Then:
“But you’re thinking about it now.”

Suho exhaled through his nose.

 

Sharp. Shaky.

 

“I don’t know what it means.”

 

Juntae’s reply came quick.

“It means he had an idea of who you were.
And now he doesn’t.
And that space?”

 

He stopped walking.

 

Suho stopped too.

 

Juntae looked him dead in the eye.

 

“That space is being filled by someone else.”

 

Suho didn’t reply.

He didn’t need to.

His silence said it all.

 

That he heard it.

That he hated it.

 

And that he knew it was true.

 

The courtyard was dipped in that kind of gold that made shadows look longer and people look softer.

 

The air had stilled, just a little, like even the breeze wanted to hear what was happening.

 

Sohye stood in front of Sieun, wringing the hem of her sleeve between her fingers.

 

Suho had just stepped into view again, slowing beside Juntae — hidden, quiet.

 

And that’s when she spoke.

 

“I wanted to say sorry,” she said gently.

Sieun looked up from his notes, not confused — just curious.

 

Sohye continued, more nervous now that his eyes were actually on her.

 

“Not just for Jiyun… I mean, yeah, for that too. But also… for the way people talk about you.”

 

Sieun blinked once. Didn’t interrupt.

 

Sohye took a breath.

 

“I used to think the same things too — before I ever actually heard you speak. That you were scary. That you didn’t care. That you were cold.”

 

Her voice wobbled slightly.
“But then I saw you in class. And… you weren’t any of those things. You were just… quiet. Focused. Tired sometimes.”

 

She looked at him — really looked.
“Like someone who’s been carrying more than people notice.

 

Like someone who’s always expected to know what to do.

 

Like someone who had to grow up faster than everyone around him.”

 

Sieun didn’t move.

 

But he was listening.

 

Not just hearing.

 

Listening.

 

Sohye smiled — small, nervous, but honest.

 

“I don’t think you’re cold, Sieun.

 

I think you’re one of the warmest people I’ve ever seen.
You just don’t put it where everyone can reach it. And that’s okay.”

 

A pause.

 

Then softer:

 

“But it doesn’t mean you deserve to be misunderstood.”

 

Suho didn’t breathe.

 

Because those words.

 

They weren’t rehearsed.

 

They weren’t exaggerated.

They were just… truep

 

Words he could never say.

 

Not because he didn’t feel them.
But because he’d waited too long.
And now someone else had spoken them.
Someone else had told Sieun what he needed to hear.

 

Sieun stared at her for a moment.

 

Still. Silent.

And then—

 

He exhaled softly.

And said:

“Thanks.”

 

Not flat.

 

Not robotic.

Just sincere.

Soft enough to make Sohye blush instantly.

 

She looked down, hands flying to her cheeks, stumbling back like she couldn’t handle what she’d just unlocked.

 

And of course--

 

Baku, appearing with snacks:

 

“Damn, she cracked the Sieun code!”

 

Gotak, grinning:

 

“That’s two full sentences and a smile. What kind of sorcery—?”

 

Sieun, still calm, blinked at them…
…and smiled.

 

Real.

 

Gentle.

 

The kind Suho hadn’t seen in weeks.

 

And it wasn’t his.

 

Baku threw open the fridge at 11:47 p.m. like he was discovering a crime scene.

 

“Who ate the last dumpling?!”

 

Gotak, mouth full, raised a hand mid-chew. “Not me.”

 

Juntae didn’t even look up from the table. “You’re literally still eating it.”

 

Sieun appeared in the hallway in an oversized oatmeal hoodie, glasses slipping, hair messy from sleep.
“It’s midnight,” he said, voice hoarse. “Why is there yelling.”

 

Suho followed behind him a second later, blanket still draped over one shoulder like a cape.

 

“He’s mad about dumplings again.”

 

Baku turned dramatically. “Not again. Always.”

 

Gotak pointed a chopstick at him. “Then learn to label your emotional support snacks.”

 

The apartment filled with movement.

Baku started pulling ingredients from cabinets like he was filming a cooking show.

Gotak insisted on helping but nearly dropped an egg into Sieun’s lap.

Juntae ended up manning the stove even though he swore he wouldn’t get involved.
Suho sat on the counter next to Sieun, feet swinging, quietly watching him.
“You look like you just woke up from a 3-year nap,” Suho said softly.

 

Sieun blinked slowly. “You look like you’ve never slept properly in your life.”
Suho grinned. “Accurate.”

 

Chaos peaked at 12:09 a.m. when the pan nearly caught fire.

 

Baku shrieked. Gotak yelled “I GOT THIS” and threw water — only to realize it was oil.

 

Juntae swore under his breath like a dad in a sitcom.
Sieun pulled his hoodmmmmmnnnnnnnb
eeves over his hands and stood calmly in the doorway.
“You're all banned from kitchen duties forever.”

 

Baku pouted. “Even me?”

 

Sieun didn’t blink. “Especially you.”

 

In the end?

 

They sat in the living room floor.

 

Dumplings (slightly burnt), ramen (too salty), one bowl of popcorn (unexplained) between them.

 

Sieun ended up tucked beween Suho and Baku, Suho’s arm brushing his every few minutes like he couldn’t help it.

 

Gotak lay fully on the carpet, feet on the
, rambling about a squirrel from campus.
Juntae had one eye on a law podcast playing softly from the speaker and one eye on the ramen bowl so no one refilled it from the pot again.

And for a while—
Nothing needed fixing.

 

No one was jealous.

 

No one was hurt.

 

They were just five boys in a too-small living room, feet tangled, hearts full, sleepy smiles half-formed.

Home.

Notes:

I know everyone is mad over Suho but what I feel is Suho is a literal child by heart. His actions are really childish. And no he didn't behave that way because he wanted to test or hurt Sieun.

He is the biggest fool in love. And very much head over heels for Sieun. He heard and saw how jealous Sieun would look..... for him of course....... He felt good......he felt greedy...... Greedy that he felt really good and wanted to experience it again...... So he did that....... Again and again..... And sometimes I think we all do things which makes no sense just because we feel good about it.

The upcoming chapters will tell why Suho is so head over heels for Sieun and why he is so scared of confessing.

It's been a week and I still writing about this arc. I've written alot and like still 25% part is still remaining for this.

I just hope I won't bore you with that. Hope you will like it. ❤️

Chapter 30: His Hand Belongs With Mine

Notes:

So this is again a mixture of Fluff, Chaos and Angst. I hope you guys will love the chaos part. Because I had so much fun while writing it.

Idk how you guys gonna handle the angst part. I just thought this is how they will react. This is how Suho might react and this is how Sieun may react. It you think anything different do let me know.

Also what do you think about this chapter name. Honestly I thought this was so cute yet freaking possessive like yeahhhhh totally possessive.

And I was considering posting this to Wattpad too. Because now when I actually see all the chapters and the length of chapters, also the upcoming chapters.... I think it could turn into a book. So might do that too. Let's see.

This chapter is also pretty long. I hope you won't fall asleep while reading it.

Enjoy.

The sky outside the law building was smeared with grey.

Soft rain tapped against the windows — not heavy, just constant.

The kind of rain that made time feel slower.

The kind of rain that sounded like background music to thoughts you didn’t want to have.

Suho sat on the cushioned bench by the window, across from Sieun.

Their bags were at their feet. Umbrellas leaned against the wall, dripping faintly into a half-folded napkin under them.

Sieun was writing.

Elbow propped neatly, collar still buttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms — a crisp, pale blue dress shirt under his light black cardigan. The cuff of his silver watch peeked out whenever he shifted his wrist.

He looked like he belonged in this quiet space — law books open, notes spread, hair slightly damp from the walk inside.

Suho couldn’t stop staring.

He looks so calm.

So focused.

So beautiful.

And he’s not mine.

 

He hadn’t stopped thinking about what Juntae said yesterday.

“He thinks maybe he misjudged you.”

At the time, it hadn’t even hit him.

But now?

Now the words gnawed at him.

What does that even mean?

That he thought I’d show up and never did?

That he waited for me, and I let him down?

Was I someone he trusted... and then didn’t anymore?

The soft hush of rain against glass made it worse.

Like the world had gone quiet just to let him hear how loud his guilt was.

Sieun turned a page. His fingers brushed over the text gently, annotating in neat columns. His brows furrowed just slightly, his lip pulled in thought.

Suho sat across from him. Still. Watching.
He wanted to say something — anything.
He reached for the bottle of water and handed it to Sieun before he could ask.

Sieun blinked. “Thanks.”

And that was it.

No smile. No warmth.

Just polite.

And that hurt more than if he’d ignored him completely.

He used to smile when I did that.

Suho adjusted his seat subtly.

Scooted half an inch closer, pretending to reach for his own notes.

His leg brushed against Sieun’s knee under the table.

Sieun didn’t react.

Just shifted slightly.

Gave space.

He’s pulling away.

Even if he doesn’t mean to.

Even if he’s just being himself.

But Suho felt it.

He felt it in the way Sieun didn’t glance at him anymore.

Didn’t lean over and mutter about how stupid the textbook sounded.

Didn’t even tap his pen absentmindedly against Suho’s hand the way he used to — back when silence between them felt full.

Now?

It felt hollow.

Like Sieun was there… but had taken a step back emotionally.

And Suho?

He was drowning in rain that wasn’t even touching him.

He waited for me for two years.

Without asking for anything.

And I thought I had time.

But what if he finally stopped waiting?

Suho’s fingers tightened around his pen.

I need to hold on.

I need to be close.

Because if I lose him now—

I don’t think I’ll know how to breathe without him.

 

The room around them was quiet.

The soft patter of rain against the long glass panes filled the silence like a second heartbeat.

 

Books lined the walls. Tables were half-full — law students with coffee-stained highlighters and tired eyes.

He hadn’t spoken in the last twenty minutes.

Sieun didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did — and chose not to react.

His pen moved steadily, highlighting in a soft grey shade, pausing only to flip a page or adjust his sleeve.

Suho watched him like he was trying to memorize the outline of a life he was scared of losing.

Say something. Say anything.

But the words stuck.

Right behind his teeth.

What if he said the wrong thing again?

What if Sieun didn’t look at him the way he used to — not with frustration, but worse?
With indifference.

And then—

The door slammed open.

“YOOOOOO—!”

Gotak.

 

His umbrella barely folded, drops still falling as he stomped in dramatically.
Baku followed, holding two brown paper bags high above his head like he just stormed a castle.

“Spicy Gimbaps! Saved from doom!”

Sieun’s pen paused.

He looked up.

Juntae stepped in behind them, adjusting his hoodie like someone who’d just accepted he was going to be wet for the rest of his life.

“You’re the doom,” he said to Baku, dry.

And for the first time in two hours—

Sieun’s shoulders relaxed.

Just slightly.

Gotak dropped into the seat beside him like a rock.

“God it’s freezing. Why is the law building so serious? Even the temperature’s judging me.”

Baku unpacked food at lightning speed, pulling out napkins, hot dogs, and two extra coffees.

“Guess who got you your sad black coffee, princess?”

He placed it in front of Sieun with a grin.

Sieun blinked.

Then reached out.

“Thanks.”

His voice was quieter than usual, but softer.

A tiny smile twitched at the edge of his mouth.

Suho saw it.

The way the room shifted.

The way Sieun’s spine eased, how the corners of his mouth almost curved.

And he felt—

Jealous.

Not of the gimbap.

Not of the jokes.

NOT OF BAKU.

But of the fact that they could still make him laugh.

I used to be that person too.

He cleared his throat. “Are those the spicy ones?”

Baku tossed him a grin. “You want to suffer with us?”

Suho smiled. “Absolutely.”

He bit into one.

Too fast.

Burned his tongue instantly.

Coughed.

Baku cackled. “My man jumped in without checking the water!”

Sieun glanced at him — briefly.

Suho looked away quickly, laughing too loud.

Only Juntae noticed.

 

.
.
.

 

The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had softened — more of a hush now, a whisper through the trees beyond the glass.

Inside the living room, laughter still echoed — the boys mid–pancake war, Gotak and Baku threatening each other with hot chocolate like it was a weapon.

Suho stood in their shared room. The room he shared with Juntae. Stirring his own mug slowly.

One hand rested on the cool metal of the windowpane, his forehead tilted slightly forward, breaths steady and slow.
Behind him, soft footsteps.

Juntae.

Suho didn’t turn.

“What did he really say to you that day?”

The words came out quietly.
Not accusing. Not begging.

Just… tired.

Juntae leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded.

Didn’t respond.

Suho turned to face him. “Juntae.”

Still nothing.

The silence stretched — too long to be comfortable.

Finally, Juntae glanced at him sideways.
“What do you think he meant?”

Suho blinked. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“No, Suho. You do know.”

Suho’s brows furrowed.

“He said… maybe he misjudged me.”

Juntae nodded once.
“Yeah. That’s what he said to me.”

Suho’s voice was softer now. “But why?”

Juntae straightened slightly. He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t look mad.
But his gaze?
It was sharp.

“You know what you did.
Even when I told you to stop.”

Suho blinked again, slower this time.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
“You mean… you think he thinks I like her?”

Juntae didn’t respond right away.
Just watched him.
And then—
He laughed.
Not loud. Not mean.
But low. Disbelieving.

“Like who, Suho?”
Suho frowned.

“Sohye. You think he thinks I like Sohye?”

Juntae took a step forward.
“Who were you flirting with?”

That landed like a stone.

Suho froze.
His breath caught.
“I—”

 

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Juntae said, voice calm. “Because you didn’t just do it once. You did it again. And again. Right in front of him.”

 

“While he was trying to hold space for you.”

 

“While he was thinking of birthdays. And late nights. And new homes.”

 

“What birthday–”

Suho’s voice cut in.

“And you were—”

Juntae stopped mid sentence.

Suho’s replied. Quiet. “I wasn’t flirting.”

Juntae tilted his head.

“Then what were you doing?”

Suho had no answer.

Because suddenly?

His entire chest felt cold.

He wasn’t just playing a game.

He was pushing Sieun.

Testing him.

Trying to see if he’d break.

And he did.

And Suho?

Didn’t even notice when it happened.

It stayed quiet long after the voices from the living room faded.

Only the rain filled the space between them now — tapping against the window panes like it was trying to soothe something that couldn’t be touched.

Suho stood still.

Juntae, a few feet away, still watching him with that maddening calm — the kind that meant he knew.

Knew things Suho was just beginning to see clearly.

“I wasn’t…” Suho started, voice small. “I didn’t mean for it to be flirting.”

Juntae tilted his head slightly, eyes steady. “Then what was it?”

Suho opened his mouth.
Stopped.
Tried again.
“I just…”

His chest felt tight. Like if he kept the words in any longer, they’d cut him on the way out.

“I just wanted him to notice.”

Juntae’s face didn’t change.

Suho laughed once — humorless, broken.
“I wanted him to react. I wanted him to look at me like— like I mattered.”

He exhaled hard, stepping back until he hit the wall behind him.

Let his head fall against the wall back, looking up at the ceiling like the truth might hurt less if he didn’t say it while looking forward.

“I didn’t know how to ask him to stay.
So I… tried to make him jealous.”

His voice cracked on the last word.
“I just wanted him to hold on.”

Juntae was quiet.

Too quiet.

And then—

He spoke.

“He already was.”

Soft. Steady.

Like the sound of rain hitting leaves.
“Suho, he was holding on the whole time.”

 

Suho swallowed. Didn’t move.

 

“He held your bag when you couldn’t walk.
He memorized your pill schedule.
He made you eat. Sleep. Breathe again.”

 

Juntae’s voice didn’t rise.
But every word hit like a fist.

“You didn’t lose him when he got quiet.
You lost him when you didn’t see that he never let go.”

 

Suho sank down slowly, knees folding, back sliding down the wall until he sat on the cold floor.

 

Hands covering his face.
Not crying.
But not breathing either.

The room smelled like old paper and fresh rain.

Dim yellow light buzzed overhead, flickering faintly. Water streaked down the windows like time was passing slowly — too slowly for someone who couldn’t move.

 

“Maybe…”
He swallowed.
Voice quiet.

“Maybe he’s better off with someone else.”

Juntae didn’t answer right away.
He leaned back, arms crossed.

Watched Suho for a long moment.
Suho didn’t look up.

 

“She understood him,” he said, softer now. “Sohye. She said everything I should’ve said.
Things I never even knew he needed to hear.”

Juntae finally spoke. Calm. Precise.
“So?”

Suho blinked. “So maybe she’s the right person. Not me.”

“Why? Because she said the right words first?”
Suho didn’t answer.

 

“You think love is a script?”

 

That hit like a slap.

Juntae took a breath.
Legs stretched out. Shoulders loose.
He wasn’t comforting.
He was grounding him.

“You always talk about how he waited for you.
How he never gave up.”

Suho nodded faintly.
“He didn’t.”

 

“Then why can’t you do the same?”

 

Suho flinched.

 

“Why are you giving up now?”
“Why does he always have to be the one who stays?”

 

Suho looked down at his hands.
They were shaking.
Not visibly. Not wildly.
But enough.

 

“I’m scared.”
It was barely a whisper.
But it was honest.

 

“I waited two years to wake up and be with him again.
And I didn’t even notice when he started walking away.”

 

“Now he’s smiling at someone else.
And I don’t know what to do with that.”

 

Juntae leaned back against the wall.

 

His voice was steady, even.

 

“Then you fight.”

Suho didn’t move.

 

“You stay.”

A beat.

Then:

“Because that’s what he did.”

 

.
.
.

 

It started simple.

 

Late afternoon. Rain still ticking against the windows.

The common area of their apartment warm with lamplight, the kettle bubbling on the stove.

Suho sat curled up on the floor, hoodie pulled over his head, knees tucked under his chin.

Juntae sat cross-legged on the couch, sipping his weird chamomile tea like a therapist with a thesis.

Gotak and Baku were on the rug — Gotak draped across the beanbag like a dead fish, Baku upside down off the armrest of the couch like a crime against gravity.

 

The room was quiet.

Warm light.

It felt... peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Then—
“So,” Juntae said, setting his cup down lightly, “Suho thinks Sieun’s better off with someone else.”

The room exploded.

“WHAT?!”
“BACK UP.”
“NO THE HELL HE DIDN’T.”

 

Gotak’s beanbag made a scraped sound loudly as he shot up. Baku nearly spilled the remaining fish cakes. Suho groaned and pulled his hoodie over his face like a blanket of shame.

“Don’t start,” he mumbled from inside the fabric.

“Start?” Baku echoed. “Oh, we’re way past start, babe.”

He turned to Gotak dramatically.

“But you know what? I agree with him.”

“You traitor—” Suho peeked from under his hoodie, betrayed.

“No, no, he’s got a point,” Gotak said with a sage nod. “Sieun deserves someone amazing.”

 

“Someone stupidly hot,” Baku added. “Like — eyes-you-can-drown-in hot.”
“Someone who makes him laugh, you know? Properly. With his nose scrunched.”

Someone who tucks his hair behind his ear and calls him 'love',” Gotak said dreamily.

“Someone who reads case law with him and then kisses him between citations,” Baku added with a fluttering sigh.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS?!” Suho squawked.

“Who kisses his neck when he’s stressed.”
“Who has hand tattoos. Just for the aesthetic.”
“Who smells like danger and vanilla.”
“Who does yoga and can carry him like a princess.”

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS—A FANFICTION?” Suho yelled.

“Someone who calls him baby and means it.”
“Someone who opens car doors and shuts up during legal dramas.”
“Someone who knows how much milk to add without asking—”

“ENOUGH!” Suho snapped, red in the face. “You guys are—insane.”

But they were just warming up.

“Call Sieun 'babe' and kiss him in your hoodie,” Gotak said.

“Stop,” Suho whispered, looking visibly sick.

“Use your towel,” Baku grinned.

“STEAL YOUR PILLOW SPOT.”

“ENOUGH,” Suho exploded. “I GET IT.”

Gotak grinned. “Do you though?”

Suho flopped back with a whimper.

“I hate you all,” he muttered.

“Not as much as you’d hate someone else kissing him,” Baku said casually.

Suho made a strangled noise. Juntae sipped his tea, calm as a monk.

Then—

Gotak sat down again slowly. Face serious. Voice low.

“...You know what’s gonna suck?”

Everyone looked at him.

Even Suho froze.

Gotak leaned forward, like he was about to tell a campfire ghost story.

“The voices.”

“...What?” Suho blinked.

“The voices,” Gotak whispered again. “Like before.”

Juntae tilted his head.
Baku paused, blinking.
Suho’s eyebrows drew together.

“What voices?” Baku asked finally.

Gotak whipped around to him. Smacked his shoulder.
“You seriously forgot?! THE MOANING.”

Dead silence.

Then—
“OH GOD.” Baku gasped, horror dawning. “THE DORM NEIGHBOR?”

“YES,” Gotak cried. “Every night. Like clockwork. 1:17 AM. We never knew his name, but WE KNEW HIS SINS.”

“He had the loudest girlfriend,” Baku whispered, shaking his head.
“That girl sounded like she was in a drama.”

“No,” Gotak corrected. “A porno drama.”

“‘Don’t stop,’” Baku mimicked in a high-pitched voice.
“‘Right there, oppa—’”

“SHUT UP!” Suho yelled, face crimson.

“Every bed creak. Every headboard bang. Every scream of passion echoing through those thin plaster walls—”

“We couldn’t even sleep,” Gotak said, hand to chest like a war survivor. “We’d lie there in our blankets. Eyes wide open. Listening to two people have the time of their lives while we died a little more inside each night.”

“YOU ARE SICK!”

 

“AND NOW—” Baku declared, eyes sparkling with evil, “that’s going to be Sieun.”

“WHAT?!” Suho squawked. “NO—WHAT THE HELL—”

“One day,” Gotak said seriously, “you’re gonna be sitting in this exact living room. Right here. Trying to rewatch your dumb action movies. And from that room—”
He pointed toward Sieun’s bedroom.
“You’re gonna hear it.”

“Don’t—” Suho whispered.

“The creaking.”
“The gasps.”
“The moaning.”

“STOP.”

“Our Princess—singing symphonies.”

“OH MY GOD—”

“And we won’t be able to say a DAMN THING.”
“Because HE bought THIS HOUSE!” Baku said.
“This is his kingdom. His bed. His walls. His bedroom acoustics!”

“His future boyfriend will be a GOD.” Gotak added dramatically.
“A king. A man of talent. We’ll call him ‘brother-in-law’ with RESPECT.”

Juntae, barely breathing through his laughter, repeated, “Brother-in-law??”

“YES,” Gotak said. “Brother. In. Law. The man who will ruin your sleep. And Sieun’s back.”

Suho finally SNAPPED.

He launched a pillow so hard it hit Gotak square in the face.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU.”

“What for? We’re just telling you the truth!”

“YOU’RE MANIFESTING A CURSE!”

“And guess what?” Baku said with a gleam in his eye. “Our brother-in-law isn’t gonna be a scaredy-cat like you. He’s gonna kiss Sieun in public. Moan his name with pride. Steal your towel. And your future.”

Suho SHRIEKED.

And then—
HE CHARGED.

“BAKU YOU DEAD MAN—”

Baku yelped and took off running.
Gotak screamed and tripped over a shoe.
Juntae rolled onto the floor, tears in his eyes.

Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked.

But Suho didn’t care.

He was yelling, chasing, slamming into the couch trying to grab Baku.

“GET BACK HERE AND TAKE IT BACK.”
“NEVER! MOANING RIGHTS ACTIVATED.”

Suho grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it across the room again, hitting Baku square in the face.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU.”

“What?! For loving our Princess?”

“FOR INVENTING THIS NIGHTMARE.”

“Get used to it!” Gotak shouted. “He’s gonna have a boyfriend who kisses his collarbones and moans his name in French!”

“THE HELL HE WILL!”

“Our Princess is very pretty, Suho!” Baku screamed while running.

“So of course our future brother-in-law gonna do whatever he wants if the Princess allows it!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

CRASH. A lamp nearly tipped. A sock flew. Someone screamed. Juntae laughed so hard he rolled off the couch.

 

And just when things couldn’t get worse—

Sieun’s door opened.

And he stood there.

Blank face.

Hair messy.

Glasses slightly tilted.

“…What the hell is going on?”

Dead silence.

Suho froze mid-pounce.

Baku flopped on the floor, wheezing.
Gotak ducked behind the curtain.
Juntae pretended to be unconscious.

“...Nothing,” Suho said, panting.

Sieun stared at them.

Then sighed.

“Keep it down.”

He shut the door again.

A second later, a muffled cough.

“…Hope he didn’t hear the moaning part,” Gotak whispered.

Suho collapsed on the floor.

And Baku cackled like a villain.

 

The room was still vibrating from laughter.

Suho was now flat on the carpet, trying to recover from the gang’s onslaught.

Juntae was sipping tea like he’d summoned this entire situation with a single sentence.

Gotak was pretending to dramatically wipe away a tear.

Baku was already re-enacting the moaning noises with alarming accuracy.

And then—

Sieun walked past the hallway silently, completely unaware of the chaos inside. Calm, expressionless, beautiful as always.
He glanced around, spotted whatever he’d come for, and without a word, turned and walked back to his room. Completely unaware of the chaos unfolding inside.

The room fell silent for just a breath.

And then Suho SNAPPED.

“YAH—”

He lunged upward, as if propelled by pure determination, nearly slipping on the carpet in his rush to bolt toward Sieun's room.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?!” Gotak yelled, grabbing his ankle and pulling him back like he was rescuing him from a ledge.

“LET ME GO—” Suho shouted, clawing at the floor. “I NEED TO TALK TO HIM.”

“NOPE. YOU LOST THAT RIGHT WHEN YOU SAID HE DESERVED SOMEONE BETTER.”

“You better sit down before you embarrass yourself harder,” Juntae added casually.

Baku crouched down beside him, tilting his head. “You get it now, right?”

Suho blinked at him, breathing heavy.

“That’s your future,” Baku said, voice dropping lower, teasing. “If you let him go. You think you’re jealous now?”
He leaned closer.
“Just wait ‘til you hear it.”

Suho blinked again, not following—until—

Gotak slid beside Baku and whispered, like he was telling a campfire ghost story. AGAIN

“The voices.”

Suho frowned. “CAN YOU JUST STOP IT—?”

“The voices,” Gotak repeated, with a haunted expression.

 

“The moaning.”

Suho’s brain short-circuited. AGAIN.

Baku joined in instantly, nodding like a prophet. AGAIN.

“Imagine it. Our sweet cold-faced Sieunie—moaning for someone else.”

“Whispering ‘do it again’ to a man that’s not you—”

“Moaning into their hoodie—”

Suho screamed. AGAIN.
He threw a pillow at Baku so hard the man fell backward laughing.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU JUST STOP SAYING THIS SHIT!”

“We’re being realistic,” Gotak replied, offended. “We’re trying to prepare you for emotional damage.”
“You need to level up.”

“Because right now?” Baku said, brushing the pillow off his face.
“You’re the guy who lost his future husband to a sexy barista with a cat.”

“A SEXY BARISTA WITH A CAT?!”

“Oh yes. That man will hold Sieun’s umbrella while looking cool in a turtleneck.”

“Shut the hell up!” Suho shouted, dragging his hand down his face. “I get it, okay?! I GET IT.”

The room quieted.

Suho sat there, panting.

Then he whispered, almost to himself—

“That needs to be me.”

Gotak froze. Baku leaned in. Juntae raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Gotak asked, grinning.

Suho clenched his fists.

“That. Needs. To be ME.”

His voice was intense now. Dead serious.

“It's going to be me.”
“I’m going to be that someone better.”
“No more backing down.”
“I’m going to KISS HIM.”

The gang collectively gasped like they were watching a drama finale.

“I’M going to make him moan.”

The room imploded.

Baku dropped to the floor. “OH MY GOD.”
Gotak grabbed a cushion to scream into.
Juntae choked on his own spit.

Suho flushed deep red but pushed forward, louder now—

“I’m going to make him mine. I don’t care what I have to do for it. I don't mind if I have to be his wife. I don’t care if I have to wear a dress—”

“YOU IN A DRESS??” Baku shrieked.

“CALL ME PRINCESS-IN-LAW I DON’T CARE,” Suho shouted, flailing a hand.
“HE NEEDS TO BE MINE. AND MINE ONLY.”

“OH MY GOD I’M GETTING MARRIED TOO,” Gotak shouted.
“TO YOUR ENERGY. I LOVE THIS.”

“OUR BROTHER-IN-LAW HAS ASCENDED!” Baku yelled.
“WE’RE PROUD OF YOU!”

“We’ll help you plan the wedding!” Juntae grinned.
“Baku can be the flower boy!”

“I WILL.”
“I’LL THROW GLITTER IN THE SHAPE OF SIEUN’S FACE!”

Suho collapsed on the floor, dramatically.
“I hate all of you,” he groaned.
“But I’m still going to do it.”

“That’s our brother-in-law!” they all screamed in unison.

 

.
.

 

The rain had softened to a mist.

Outside the window, everything was bathed in a grey wash, and inside, the apartment was quiet for once. Baku and Gotak had disappeared into the kitchen. Juntae was half-dozing, book open on his chest.

Suho now sat on the couch.

Shoulders tense. Hands fidgeting with the edge of a blanket thrown over his legs.
Still thinking about the teasing. Still thinking about the way it hurt to laugh at the idea of someone else in Sieun’s life.

He heard footsteps.

Soft. Familiar.

And then—

Sieun sat down next to him.

Not touching. Not too close.

But close enough that Suho could feel the warmth of his arm through the fabric of his sleeve.

They sat like that for a moment.

The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable.

And then—

Sieun cleared his throat.

“Hey…”

Suho turned, instantly alert.

“Yeah?”

Sieun’s gaze stayed forward, focused on nothing.
His hands were folded in his lap, thumbs rubbing together, slow and steady.

“I… I wanted to talk to you yesterday,” he said.

Suho leaned in slightly, every part of him on alert.
“Okay. About what?”

Sieun hesitated.
His eyes flicked down. Then toward Suho.
He opened his mouth—
“I—”

Suho blinked. Waiting.
Heart racing.
He’s going to say it. Finally.
But then—
Sieun’s lips closed again.
His eyes dropped.
He looked away.
And said instead—
“It’s nothing. Just about that trip.”

 

Suho’s face fell. Just slightly.
“Trip?”

Sieun nodded, voice even.
Too even.
“For the academic credits. I told you at the beginning of the semester. I'm going. Just wanted you to know.”

Suho opened his mouth — ready to ask more.
But—
Sieun’s phone rang.
Sharp. Unapologetic.
He looked at the screen.
“Appa,” he muttered.

He stood.
“Be right back.”

And walked out of the room.
Leaving Suho sitting there.
Chest full of words.
Eyes still on the space where Sieun had almost said something.
Almost.
And then didn’t.

 

The apartment smelled like warm clothes and something sweet Baku had probably burned in the microwave. The rain outside had slowed, misting softly against the glass — not loud anymore, just a breath on the windows.

Suho sat hunched over the armrest of the couch, staring at the empty hallway Sieun had disappeared down.
His heart still hadn’t slowed.
He could still hear it — the way Sieun said “I—”
and then backed down like the words betrayed him.

The boys drifted back into the room.
Baku nudged Suho’s ankle with his socked foot.
“You good?”

Suho didn’t answer.

Gotak dropped beside him. “Go talk to him, man.”
Suho finally looked up. “He’s on the phone.”
Juntae leaned against the wall, arms folded.
Eyes calm. Knowing.
“Still. Go.”
“He started to say something, right?” Gotak added. “Then didn’t.”

Baku raised a brow. “So maybe he’s just waiting for you to finish what he can’t.”
Suho stood up slowly.
Not rushed.
Just quietly determined.
“Yeah… okay.”

The hallway was dimly lit, golden, quiet. The kind of light that made the world feel slower — like everything in it deserved to be noticed.

 

Suho walked down the hall.
Soft footsteps.
Breath measured.
He stopped at Sieun’s door — slightly ajar.
He could hear the faint voice from inside — crackling, through a speaker.
“—I think you’ll really like them. You’ll be surprised.”

It was his dad.

Suho blinked.

Just as Sieun walked into view.

Fresh shirt, soft beige, black trousers. Hair still damp at the edges, pushed back slightly.
He was rolling up his sleeves, finishing his buttons — simple, clean.

 

Beautiful.

Suho’s stomach dropped.

Where are you going looking like that?

 

“Hey—” he said, stepping forward without thinking.
His voice came out quieter than he meant.
Sieun turned, surprised.
Still holding his phone. Still on speaker.

“Hmm?”

Suho blinked.

“Where… where are you going?”

Sieun paused, looking down at his phone. Then stepped forward and turned off the speaker.

“Appa wants me to meet someone.”

Suho’s chest tightened.
“Meet who?”

Sieun shrugged slightly. His voice was casual. Too casual.
“He didn’t say. Just that I’d be happy to meet them.”

He reached for his keys.
Grabbed his umbrella.
And without looking back—
He walked toward the door.
Suho didn’t follow.
Didn’t speak.
He just stood there, frozen.
Watching the boy who had waited for him…
Walk out the door looking like someone anyone could fall in love with.
And knowing, for the first time in his life—

He might not be the one Sieun’s coming back to.

 

.
.
.

 

The sky outside was a dull, early morning grey. Rain still whispered gently against the window panes, casting blurry shadows across the floor. The room was quiet. Still.

Suho stirred.

Not suddenly. Not with a gasp. Just… slowly.

His eyes didn’t open right away.
He just lay there, curled around an octopus plushie. The scent on the sheets had shifted: rainwater, fabric softener… and something fresh. Something familiar.

And then he remembered.

 

The whisper.

“You really are impossible.”

 

Then, just as the chill began to sink in, he felt the gentle weight of a blanket being draped over him — quiet, careful, almost like a secret.

 

And the hand — soft, careful — brushing back his bangs.

 

His chest squeezed.

You came back.

He blinked once, eyes adjusting to the light.

The bed beside him was empty.

But the corner of the blanket was folded down. Fresh. Touched.

Sieun had slept there.

Just not for long.

Suho sat up slowly, blanket still pooled around his waist, hair ruffled from sleep. The plushie fell into his lap, and for a second he clutched it tighter — like it could replay the memory for him if he just held it close enough.

The door creaked softly.

Sieun stepped in.

Plain white t-shirt. Black sweatpants. Damp towel around his neck. Probably back from his morning rinse.

He paused in the doorway, surprised to see Suho awake.
“...You’re up.”

 

Suho didn’t speak at first. His voice was caught somewhere between his heart and his throat.

Sieun looked away, adjusting the towel.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you last night. I just—”

 

“I wasn’t asleep,” Suho whispered.

Sieun stilled.

Turned back.
Their eyes met.

“I mean— I was,” Suho corrected quickly, pushing the plushie aside. “But... I wasn’t. I heard you. The blanket. What you said.”

Sieun’s lips parted slightly.

But he said nothing.

The silence stretched between them like something sacred.

Suho stood — slowly — feet bare against the cold floor.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked softly, trying not to sound like it mattered too much.

Sieun shrugged, casual, but his eyes stayed on Suho’s face.
“It was fine. Appa introduced me to someone from his company. Friendly. Professional.”

Suho nodded. “So not…”

“Not a date,” Sieun said, his voice calm.

Suho breathed out.

He didn’t realize until then how long he’d been holding his breath.

Sieun folded the towel, dropped it over his desk chair.

“You slept in my bed.”

 

Suho flushed lightly. “I didn’t mean to. I was just... waiting.”

Another pause.

Sieun didn’t respond immediately.

Then, quiet:
“I know.”

Suho’s heart did something strange in his chest.

Then Sieun added—
“You always end up here eventually.”

 

The rain had faded into a soft mist outside.

The room smelled faintly of sleep and soap. The kind of stillness that wrapped around the bones — not uncomfortable, just... waiting.

Sieun stood near the desk, towel over the chair, hands loosely tucked in the pockets of his sweatpants.

Suho, still standing near the bed, blanket slipping slightly off his shoulder, stared at him — eyes open, vulnerable, voice low.

“I don’t want to end up here eventually anymore…”

Sieun blinked. Just once.

Suho's fingers clenched the edge of the blanket.

“I want to start here.”

 

Sieun didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move.
Just stared — that soft, quiet kind of stare that said he was listening, but also processing. Like the words were still unfurling inside him.

 

Suho took a breath.
Tried not to let it shake.

“I just… I’m too dependent on you.”

 

His voice cracked on the last part — not broken, but real.
“We’ve been living together since I woke up. It’s been three years.”

 

He looked down at his hands.
“You don’t understand what that means for me.”

 

Sieun’s expression didn’t change.
But the silence wasn’t cold. It was weighty.
Like he felt every word Suho couldn’t say yet.

 

Suho looked up again. Eyes wide. Honest.

“The whole point of putting my room on the far end of the apartment was so I wouldn’t get disturbed, right? So I could sleep well. So I'll heal.”

 

Sieun nodded once, slowly. “That was the idea.”

Suho stepped forward, voice rising just a notch — still soft, still trembling.
“But I’m not healing there.”

Sieun blinked.
“I can’t sleep. I lie down and I stare at the ceiling. I count the walls between us. I listen for your footsteps even when you’re not home.”

 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I don’t feel safe there.”
“I don’t fall asleep unless I’m near you.”
“I got used to your voice. Your presence. The way you brush your teeth too long. The way your blanket always ends up half on my side.”

 

He looked at him.

Looked through him.

 

“I need your presence to feel safe enough to fall asleep.”

Sieun stared.
Still unreadable.
Still unmoving.
But now — there was a flicker in his eyes.
A tiny crack in the stillness.
And that was enough to keep Suho talking.

 

“You don’t get it, do you? You were my home before I knew I’d lost everything else. You kept showing up even when I didn’t. You waited. Even when I couldn’t speak.”

 

His breath caught.

 

“And now you’re pulling back.”

Sieun’s lips parted slightly.

But still, no words.

Suho stepped forward again — just one step. Just close enough.

“I’m not trying to trap you. I’m not asking for anything you haven’t already given me.”

“But please... don’t make me sleep in that room again.”

 

The silence after Suho’s last words wasn’t heavy.

It was quiet.

Still.

And somehow—safe.

Sieun didn’t speak.

Didn’t move toward him.

Didn’t touch him.

But he looked at Suho with the kind of gaze that didn’t ask for explanations anymore.
A gaze that said:

Okay. I heard you.

 

Then, wordlessly, he lifted the edge of the blanket on the bed — just a little.

Just enough to say: You can stay.

Suho stepped forward.

Slowly.

He curled up on the mattress again, but this time without hesitation. He turned to face Sieun, eyes flickering toward him, unsure.

But Sieun just moved to the other side of the bed.

Sat down.

Back straight.

Arms folded into the blanket.

He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t smile.
But he didn’t close himself off either.
They sat like that for a while.
And then—

Sieun exhaled.

“You talk too much when you’re emotional.”

Suho blinked.
And then — broke into a grin.

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Sieun didn’t reply.

But the corner of his mouth twitched — barely.
And that was enough.

 

.
.
.

 

The apartment was loud again.

Gotak’s music blasted from the kitchen. Baku was balancing a plate of toast on one hand and a cup of coffee on the other.

Juntae leaned against the counter, sipping black coffee with the expression of a man regretting ever agreeing to live with athletes.

And then—

Suho walked in.

Sleepy eyes. His nightshirt sleeves covering his hands.

Right behind him?

Sieun.

Fresh shirt. Same calm face. Holding two mugs.

One for himself.

And one—

He handed it to Suho.

Casually. Like it was nothing.

But the room froze.

Gotak’s toast hit the plate.

Baku gasped dramatically.

“He LIVED.”
“He CAME BACK.”
“AND HE BROUGHT A CUP.”

Juntae raised his mug. “Morning, lovebirds.”

Suho flushed. “Shut up.”

Sieun sat down calmly. Bit into a slice of toast. Chewed.

“You guys are louder than usual.”

Baku: “WE MISSED THIS.”

Gotak clutched his chest. “I feel like the air is breathable again.”

Juntae smiled into his mug. “Balance is restored.”

And Suho?

He looked over.

And Sieun smiled at him.

Small. Real. Quiet.
Not flirty. Not teasing.
But warm.
Present.

And Suho smiled back.
Because this time?
He knew what it meant.

 

.
.
.

 

It had been raining on and off all week.

The kind of late monsoon weather that left behind damp benches, foggy glasses, and slippery staircases.

Suho hadn’t left Sieun’s side once.

From the moment they stepped out of the apartment that morning, Suho had been attached — casually, but clearly. His shoulder brushed Sieun’s on every step. He held the umbrella over both their heads, even though Sieun had his own in his bag.

During class breaks, Suho hovered.

During library hours, he sat across with a book he didn’t read.

During meals, he fetched the tray. Carried both. Always sat on Sieun’s left.

Always within reach.

And Sieun?

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t push him away.

He just... accepted it.

Like the clinginess was rainwater on his shoulder — familiar, constant, a little messy but not worth drying off.

Gotak and Baku were losing it.

By 4 PM, after their last lecture, they were gathered on the stone benches near the quad.

Suho and Sieun sat close, sharing earbuds — Sieun half-listening to a podcast, Suho pretending to do the same but mostly just watching his side profile.

Juntae sipped from a juice box like this was his evening drama.

Gotak whispered, “I think Suho’s gonna start breathing on his behalf next.”
Baku: “He already is. Watch. Sieun blinks? Suho adjusts.”
Juntae: “This is lowkey romantic. Highkey codependent.”

 

Sieun stood up.
“I’ll be back. Just need to return the notes to Prof. Min.”

Suho blinked. “I’ll come.”

Sieun shook his head, soft. “I’ll be back in five.”

He walked off without waiting.

 

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Suho stood up.

“He should’ve come back by now.”

 

Baku groaned. “Maybe he stopped to tie his shoelaces and got recruited into another seminar.”

Gotak, trying to lighten the mood: “Want us to go check if he tripped into a portal?”

But Suho’s brows had drawn together. Jaw clenched slightly.

Without a word, he started walking.

The others followed.

Not joking anymore.

 

They spotted him near the back courtyard — the one where the old fig tree leaned low over the path.

 

The sky was bruised lavender by the time Suho reached the courtyard.

 

Sieun was standing near the edge, speaking to someone.

 

A girl.

 

He barely heard the others behind him.

Didn’t hear Baku mutter “oh shit,” or Gotak’s whispered “wait wait wait—”

His eyes were locked.

On Sieun.

And Sohye.

She was standing a little too close. Laughing into her palm. Hair curling at the ends from the rain. Her cheeks were pink. Her voice was soft.

And Sieun—

He was smiling.

That slow, faint, real smile Suho hadn’t seen in days.

His fingers twitched.

That smile is mine.

Without a word, Suho reached them.

Sohye turned, blinking in surprise.

“Oh, hey, Suho—”

But Suho didn’t stop.

Didn’t glance at her.

Didn’t even pause.

He just reached out.

And took Sieun’s hand.

Firm. Certain.

Sieun turned, startled. “What—?”

Suho didn’t say anything.

Just started walking.

Hand still locked in his.

They didn’t get far.

Right past the corner garden, someone popped up with impeccable timing.

Jiyun.

 

Of course.

“Suho!”

 

He kept walking.

“Hey—Suho, I’m talking to you!”

 

No answer.

 

“Are you ignoring me? You didn’t even reply to my messages—”

 

She stepped in front of them, blocking the narrow walkway.

Suho stopped.

Sieun blinked.

The gang—who had followed a safe distance behind—froze instantly.

Jiyun tilted her head.

Faux-innocent. That practiced pout.
“Come on, don’t be like that—”

And then—

Suho looked up.

Expression blank. Voice calm.

But sharp.

“Just fuck off.”

Silence.

Jiyun recoiled like she’d been slapped.

Even Sieun blinked,

The gang?

Trying.

Not.

To.

Laugh.

 

Baku bit his sleeve.
Gotak dropped his phone. Juntae muttered “Oh my god” under his breath and turned around like he couldn’t watch.

Jiyun stammered something, but Suho had already stepped around her.

Still holding Sieun’s hand.

Still walking.

Eyes forward.

Inside his chest?

A storm.

Don’t talk to him.

Don’t look at him.

Don’t make him laugh like that.

That’s mine.

He wasn’t thinking.

 

He just wanted to go home.

 

Lock the door.

 

Pull Sieun in.

 

And finally say it:

 

You’re not allowed to give those smiles to anyone else. Not anymore. They belong to me.

 

They walked in silence.

 

At least, Suho and Sieun did.

Behind them?

 

Complete chaos.

Gotak was fake-coughing into his hoodie sleeve.

“S-Simp alert.”

Baku was whisper-shouting, “Code red. Repeat: Code. Red. Someone get a leash.”

Juntae was calm, but with that smirk that meant he was absolutely taking mental notes for later.

But Suho didn’t react.
He didn’t even blink.
His entire focus?
The warmth of Sieun’s hand in his.

 

Jiyun had vanished behind them.

Or maybe she hadn’t — Suho didn’t check.

Didn’t care.

All he could think about was how Sieun always went still whenever she appeared. Not tense.

Not scared. Just... quiet. Like some invisible wall went up.

Why does she always find the exact worst time to show up?

Why do you always pull away when she’s near me?

I hate it. I hate this. I just want to go home.

He didn’t speak the whole way to the main road.

Didn’t explain himself. Didn’t apologize.

Just held Sieun’s hand tighter.

And Sieun let him.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t tease.

Just walked beside him like nothing was strange.

Like this was normal.

They reached the bus stop.

Cold metal bench. Yellow glow from the streetlight. Rain-soaked pavement gleaming beneath their shoes.

The others sat down behind them, still whispering.

“He’s not even blinking.”
“His grip hasn’t loosened in ten minutes.”
“If Sieun has to sign something, Suho’s going to hold the pen for him.”

 

Suho still said nothing.
Just kept standing.
One hand in his hoodie pocket.
The other still clutching Sieun’s.

The bus arrived in a hiss of brakes and damp air.
They boarded in silence.
Found two seats together in the back row.
Suho didn’t let go.
Not even for a second.
He tugged Sieun gently into the window seat.
And sat beside him.
Their hands — still intertwined — resting between them on the shared seat.
Sieun didn’t comment.
Didn’t pull away.
He just settled in, leaned his head slightly back, and let the soft glow of passing traffic light up his cheekbones.

Suho stared out the window.
Jaw tight.
Heart louder than the engine.
I’m sorry I didn’t do this earlier.
I’m sorry I let other people take up the space that was meant for you.
He didn’t say it.
But his hand tightened just a little.
And Sieun’s thumb moved. Just once. Lightly. Against his.
Not a message.
Not a promise.
But… something.

 

By the time they reached the apartment, the sky had darkened fully.

The gang threw themselves into their usual places—Juntae at the table with his notes, Gotak and Baku half-fighting over the same packet of snacks.

Suho still hadn't let go.

It wasn't until Sieun stepped away to place his bag on the desk that Suho finally released his grip.

But his mind was far from calm.

He stood still in the living room, breathing a little too deeply, fists twitching with leftover tension.

Sieun watched him.

Quietly. Calmly. As always.

The gang?

Still far too amused.

"Are we gonna talk about the fact that Suho turned into a leash-wielding wolf today or?"

"Did he actually say anything to Jiyun or did his energy do all the talking?"

"I swear he growled. Like, silently. But we all felt it."

Suho rolled his eyes and disappeared into the bathroom.

He took a long shower.

But it didn't help.

He came out twenty minutes later, towel over his head, tshirt clinging to his shoulders, and dropped wordlessly onto the couch.

Still. Brooding.

The gang threw popcorn at him.

"You okay there, demon prince?"
"Is he plotting murder or marriage? I can't tell."

Suho glared. "I dare you to keep talking."

They laughed. Loudly.
But he wasn't joking.
Not really.

His thoughts were spiraling.

He wanted to chain Sieun to him.

Not out of control. Not violently.
Just his.

He wanted to keep him right there. Safe. Close.

He wanted a mark on him. Several. Bite marks along his neck. One at the back, where his collar would just barely cover it.

Visible. Undeniable.

He wanted people to see.

To know.

That Sieun was already claimed.
That he was out of reach.
Already someone else's.

 

Already Suho's.

 

Across the room, Sieun sat at the dining table, study notes open, pen tapping lightly on the edge of the paper.

The light above him caught in his hair. His shirt was too loose again, collar wide at the neck. Exposing the curve of his throat.

Suho stared.

Jaw tight.
Mind full.
Heart louder than anything.

Then—

Sieun looked up.
"You okay?"

Suho didn’t answer.
He just stared.
Long.
Steady.
Possessive.

Sieun raised an eyebrow.
"What?"

Suho leaned forward.
Voice low.
"What were you talking about?"

Sieun blinked. "When?"

"Back there. With her."

Sieun tilted his head slightly, pen still in hand.
"Sohye?"

Suho didn’t reply.
He just waited.
Eyes sharp.
Breath slow.

"We were talking about internship stuff. She asked if I knew anyone from her department, I said no."

Suho narrowed his eyes.

The gang snorted.

Gotak: "He's spiraling again."
Baku: "He's going to turn green and smash the walls."
Juntae: "Let him. He needs it."

Suho growled, "Do you all want to die today?"

Sieun sighed.

"I'm so done with all of you," he muttered. Not annoyed. Not tired. Just... amused.

Then he added, casually:
"By the way. I’m leaving next weekend."

Suho blinked. "What?"

"The academic trip. I told you already."

Suho sat up, eyebrows furrowed.
"You didn’t say you were actually leaving this soon……."

Sieun stood up to stretch.
His phone buzzed.
He picked it up, answering as he walked toward the hallway.

"Yeah, Appa. I just told Suho. Yeah. Germany. Yes, I have my passport. I’ll double check the itinerary."

Suho froze.
Germany?
His stomach twisted.

"When were you going to tell me it was Germany?!"

 

Sieun paused in the hallway, still holding the phone.
"I just did."

 

Suho stood slowly.
Heart pounding.

The gang watched him.

Juntae exhaled. "Here we go again…”

 

The hallway light cast a soft glow on Sieun’s back as he leaned into the phone, still murmuring to his dad.

“Yes, I packed the forms. Yes, I’ll email them. No, I haven’t booked the return flight yet—”
Suho just stood there.

Barefoot on the wooden floor.

Fists clenched.

The word Germany kept ringing in his ears like a warning siren.

He could hear Gotak in the background, whispering,
“He’s gonna snap.”

Baku added, “Like, emotionally or romantically?”

Juntae: “Both. Definitely both.”

 

But Suho didn’t say anything at first.
Just watched Sieun talk.
So normal.
So calm.
Like going away for two weeks — maybe more — was just part of the schedule.
Like it didn’t mean Suho would be alone again.

 

Sieun turned back into the room, still holding the phone.
“I’ll call you later, Appa.”

 

He hung up.
And then noticed.
Suho was still standing, breathing slightly heavier than before.
The gang had all gone silent.
Just watching.
Waiting.

 

“What?” Sieun asked finally.

 

Suho’s voice was quiet.
Almost too quiet.

 

“When were you going to tell me?”

 

Sieun blinked. “I told you last time. About the credits. You nodded.”

 

“No,” Suho said, stepping closer. “You said you are going on a trip. You didn’t say you were leaving the country.”

 

“Does it make a difference?”

 

“Of course it makes a difference!”

 

It came out sharper than he intended. He stopped himself. His jaw flexed.

 

Sieun looked down at his phone for a second. Then back up.
“I was going to tell you today.”

“And you just forgot?” Suho asked bitterly.
Sieun’s eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed even.
“No. I just didn’t think I owed you a countdown.”

 

That hurt.
And Suho took one step back.
But then stopped.

 

“Don’t go.”

 

The words slipped out before he could stop them.
No drama.
No shout.
Just raw. Honest. Cracked.

Sieun froze.

The room was dead silent.

Even Baku and Gotak sat up straighter.

Sieun’s voice was quiet.
“Why not?”

 

Suho’s breath caught.

His hands shook.

“Because I won’t be okay.”

 

The room was quiet.

Still.

The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from silence — but from the weight of too many emotions hanging in the air at once.

Sieun didn’t speak.

Not right away.

He just looked at Suho.
Calm. Steady.
Unmoving — but not distant.

Like he’d been waiting for Suho to say something real this entire time.

 

“Don’t go,” Suho repeated, softer now. “Please don’t go.”

 

Sieun’s gaze dropped for a second. Then rose again.

 

“Suho.”

 

Just his name.
That alone almost broke him.

 

“Did you…” Suho paused. Swallowed. “Did you forget?”

 

Sieun tilted his head slightly. “Forget what?”

“My birthday.”

The words sounded so small.

But they landed heavy in the middle of the room.

Baku straightened up.
Gotak leaned forward, suddenly alert.
Juntae stopped breathing.
Sieun said nothing.
For a long moment.
Then he quietly answered—

 

“No.”

 

Suho’s brows furrowed. “Then why…?”

Sieun looked at him. And then quietly—

“I just thought… whether I was here or not, it wouldn’t make any difference. You said you were spending it with her.”

The room spun.

Suho blinked. “With who?”

Sieun’s voice was still calm. No accusation. No edge.

“Jiyun.”

Suho took a full step back.

“What?”

“You told her. When she asked about your birthday. You said, ‘I’ll be spending it with you.’”

Suho stared at him.

Like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

 

“I—what? No, I didn’t. I mean… I didn’t mean that.”

 

Sieun didn’t flinch.
Didn’t argue.
Just blinked.

 

“You said it.”

 

Suho ran a hand through his hair, frustrated now — but not at Sieun.
At himself.

 

“Sieun… why would I spend my birthday with some random girl?”

 

“Why would I spend it with someone else—”

 

His voice broke.
His eyes flicked up.
Right into Sieun’s.

 

“—when you guys are here?”

“When everyone is……here”

 

“When you… are my everyone.”

 

The silence afterward was louder than any scream.
Sieun stared.
Still calm.
But the tips of his ears had gone pink.
His eyes, always distant, softened just slightly at the edges.
The gang?
Dead silent.
No teasing now.
No laughs.
Just watching.
Just listening.
Because they’d never heard Suho sound like that before.

Suho was still standing in the middle of the room.
He hadn’t moved since the words left his mouth.
The silence that followed didn’t need to be filled.
No one dared speak.
Not Baku.
Not Gotak.
Not even Juntae.

Suho’s voice cracked.

“You guys are my family.”

 

He looked down as he said it.
Like he didn’t want to see how it landed.
Like he was scared it wouldn’t be enough.
But he meant it.
Every word.

Sieun didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t drop his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Quiet. Steady.

No excuses.
Just those two words.
And for Suho… that was worse than anger.
His shoulders curled inward, slightly.
He looked like he might fall apart from the inside out.

 

“How could you think that?”

“How could you think I’d go to her? That I’d spend my birthday with someone who means nothing—when I’ve only ever—”

 

He stopped.
His throat closed up.
He tried again.

 

“Do you really think so little of me?”

His voice was hoarse now.
Too full.
Like there wasn’t enough space in his chest for everything that wanted to come out.
Sieun finally looked away.
Only for a second.
But that second said everything.
Guilt. Realization. Restraint.

 

And then—
“Suho…”

His name again.
But softer.
Not as a correction.
Not as a warning.
Just…
An apology in a single breath.

 

Suho sat down slowly.
Like the weight of it all had finally caught up with him.
His eyes were glassy now.
He didn’t blink.

 

“You’re the only one who stayed,” he whispered.

“And you really thought I’d leave you behind?”

Suho’s voice was trembling now.
Not loud.
But loud enough that every word felt like it hit the floor and echoed back at them.
He wasn’t yelling.
But somehow, it still felt like a shout.

 

“You should’ve asked me.”
No one moved.

 

“If you thought something was off—if you really thought I’d changed or started acting weird—you should’ve asked.”

 

He looked around.
Eyes landing on each of them.
Even Juntae.
Even Baku.

 

“Why did you even think I would go to her?”

 

His voice cracked again.

“Yeah, okay—I said something stupid. I say a lot of stupid things. You all know that.”

His eyes flicked to Juntae.

“You’re smart.”

To Sieun.

“You’re smarter.”

And then—

He turned to Gotak.

“Even Gotak would’ve asked.”

Gotak blinked, unsure if he was being praised or insulted.
Suho’s gaze landed on Baku last.
“And Baku—”
Baku held up a hand. “Don’t. I’m emotional. I might cry.”
No one laughed.
Not even Baku.
Because Suho didn’t smile.
Didn’t soften.

“I told them I didn't mean that”

 

“Why would any of you believe that I’d spend my birthday with some random girl?”

 

Stillness.
Total.
Even the air felt heavier.
Juntae looked like he might speak—then didn’t.
His lips parted, but no words came out.
His gaze was down now.
Not ashamed.
But like he wished he’d done something different.
Sieun sat still, elbows on his knees, hands folded.
And then—
Quietly.
Barely audible.

He said:

“I didn’t think she was a random girl.”

 

Suho froze.
“What?”

 

Sieun looked down at his own hands. Twisting a ring he didn’t wear.
“She didn’t look like a random girl.”

 

And there it was.
The thing Suho hadn’t even thought about.
The way she smiled.
The way she claimed space beside him.
The way Suho, trying to act normal, had said the most careless thing in the world—and Sieun had looked away.
Suho’s heart dropped.
He took a step closer.
Voice lower now.

 

“She was nothing, Sieun. Nothing. I didn’t even know what I was saying.”

 

Sieun didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Just listened.

The room felt colder.
Not because of the weather.
Because of the way Suho suddenly stopped breathing.
Sieun’s voice was barely a whisper.

 

“I thought you liked her back.”

 

Suho blinked.
His mind — blank.
Not just blank.
Spinning.
The kind of spinning where thoughts tumbled too fast to make sense.
What?
He took a step back — just a small one.
You thought… I liked her?
You thought I liked Jiyun?
You thought I liked her back?
His throat felt dry.
His mouth opened — closed — then opened again.

 

“Wait—”

His voice was soft. Too soft.

 

“You thought I… liked her?”

 

Sieun didn’t look at him.

 

Not out of guilt.

 

Just… quietness.
Like he’d already processed it. Moved on from it.
But Suho hadn’t.
Not even close.

He turned, suddenly.
Looked at Juntae.
Who had been silent the whole time.

And Juntae?
Already looking at him.
Eyes soft.
Expression unreadable, but knowing.
This is it, Suho realized.
This is what he meant.
This is what he was talking about — when he said Sieun said he misjudged me.
Sieun thought… I actually liked someone else.
And Suho’s chest ached.
Burned.
Like something inside had been cracked open.
Not with anger.
But with sorrow.

He turned back to Sieun.
His voice was calm now.
Painfully calm.
Like every word was stitched together with careful breath.

 

“Sieun…”

 

Sieun finally looked up.
Eyes meeting his.
No defenses.
No masks.
Just waiting.

 

“I don’t like her.”

 

Suho took a slow step forward.

 

“I really, really don’t like her.”

 

His voice dropped lower.
But more certain.

 

“Why would you think that?”

 

Sieun didn’t answer right away.
Didn’t blink.
Just looked at him.
And in that moment, Suho saw it.
The self-doubt.
The way Sieun wasn’t hurt because he was betrayed.
But because — for once — he’d let himself believe in something more.
And thought he’d been wrong.
Again.

Suho’s hands were trembling now.

Not in anger.

Just… devastation.

He took another step forward. Then stopped. His voice was quiet—too quiet.

“Why would you even think that?”

Sieun didn’t answer.
So Suho asked again.

“Why would you even think I liked her?”

His eyes searched Sieun’s face. Desperate. Disbelieving.

“I’ve never—never—acted that way with her.”

He swallowed.

“Wait…”

A beat.
Suho blinked.
A flicker of something passed through his expression. Confusion. Realization.

 

“You said … I liked her…”

“Back.”

He looked up slowly.

His voice came out as a whisper:
“What did you mean by ‘back’?”

 

Sieun blinked once.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t lie.

“Because she told me.”

Suho froze.

“What?”

Sieun shifted slightly. Fingers curling in a fist.

 

“She told me… that she liked you.”

 

Suho’s stomach dropped.

 

“Okay…”

 

“And,” Sieun added quietly, “she said… you liked her back.”

 

The words hit Suho like a wave crashing straight through his chest.
For a second, he forgot how to stand.
He had to blink twice just to focus again.

 

“She said that?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“And you believed her?”

 

Sieun didn’t look at him.
Just shook his head, slow. Regretful. But not defensive.
Suho’s voice cracked.

 

“But why?”

“Why did you think I liked her back?”

This time—Sieun looked up.
Really looked at him.
And it was that same expression.
The same one Suho had seen the day he first woke up and saw Sieun beside his hospital bed.

 

Soft. Quiet. Honest.

 

“Because…”

 

“Because you looked different.”

 

Suho blinked. “Different?”

Sieun nodded once.

 

“You were smiling.”

 

“The way you blushed when she complimented you…”

 

He hesitated.

 

“It looked real.”

 

“It looked like… something else.”

 

“Like you were happy.”

Suho’s world shattered.
He almost took a step back again.
But his knees wouldn’t move.
His throat tightened.
His lips parted, then closed again.

 

“You…”

He blinked.

“You thought I was happy?”

“With her?”

With her.

Some girl who didn’t even know him.
And the boy who had waited for him—
The boy who had bandaged his wounds, whispered to him in a coma, fed him soup and ,hope—
That boy thought Suho had moved on.
To a smile from someone else.

 

If only Suho could tell him — that he only blushed because Sieun gave him that tiny side-eye. That just catching Sieun looking at him made his chest feel warm. That every small, unintentional cute thing Sieun did made his heart flutter like a fool. IT made him happy. SIEUN MADE HIM HAPPY.

 

“Sieun…”

Sieun’s voice was so calm it almost hurt.

 

“She said… I should keep my distance.”

Suho blinked.

“What?”

Sieun kept talking. Not like he was accusing anyone. Just… reciting something he’d already internalized.

“That I was… hogging your time. Your attention. That you only stayed close to me because we live together.”

 

“She said I was suffocating you. That maybe you wanted space. And I wasn’t giving it.”

Suho stared.
Wide-eyed.
Barely breathing.

Of course Sieun believed that.
Just because of the same words Suho said in the past—

 

“You should’ve asked me.”

His voice was shaking now.

“You’re smart. No—you’re the smartest.”

His tone sharpened.

“You should’ve known she was lying.”

Sieun blinked.

“I didn’t.”

“You should’ve asked me to stay away from her—if she said something like that to you!”

 

“How could I do that?” Sieun murmured.

 

“How could I just… interfere in your love life?”

 

And that—
That was it.
The final straw.
Because for Suho, that wasn't even a misunderstanding anymore.

 

That was delusion.

 

He yanked his hair with both hands and let out an exasperated, guttural shout.

 

“The FUCK, Sieun?!”

 

Baku: “Oh no.”

 

Gotak: “He’s entering the fifth stage of breakdown.”

 

Juntae: staring with dead eyes “He’s so dramatic.”

 

Suho spun in a slow, devastated circle, still pulling at his hoodie like it was suffocating him.

 

“WHAT love life?!”

 

“I have NO. Love. Life.”

 

“Whatever I have left is yours!!”

 

“My WHOLE life is yours!!”

 

He stopped pacing.

 

Pointed at Sieun like he was about to recite a legal will.

 

“You could sell me to the black market. Auction me off to some sketchy underground bidding war. And I wouldn’t even blink.”

 

“That’s how much authority you have over me.”

 

Sieun just blinked.

 

Suho was full red in the face now.

 

Meanwhile—

 

Baku leaned back into the sofa, cackling.

 

“Can we rewind to the part where he offered to be sold?”

 

Gotak was slowly cracking his knuckles. “Do we… teach that girl a lesson? Just hypothetically.”

 

Suho: “YES.”

 

Juntae: “This is exactly what I said would happen. But no one listens to me. Ever.”

Notes:

Hope you liked it. I feel I don't blame Suho. I don't feel hatred or dislike towards him even tho he did all those dumb things. Maybe I'm biased but it is what is. He is just too much in love. And people make dumb mistakes in love. I would say he was little late to understand what he actually did.

Since you guys always make my day with your lovely comments and are so nice to me.... I'm gonna give you something.... In the upcoming chapters there are going the be flashbacks...... From before like way before.... When they were still in high school..... Which will define what actually made Suho to fall in love with Sieun this deeply. Can't wait to post that.

Hope you liked it. Let me know your thoughts.

Chapter 31: Take Me With You

Notes:

So it will be getting heavier from now on.

Also I post around 10-11 PM according to Indian Standard Time. In very rare cases I post at other time. If you subscribe to the story, you will get notification on your mail every time I post a new chapter. So you don't have to continuously check if I posted an update or not.

Happy reading.

Suho wasn’t breathing properly anymore.

He was pacing the living room like he might punch the wall.

Or cry.
Or collapse.

The gang had gone quiet again.

Even Baku, who just a moment ago had been dramatizing Suho's meltdown like a soap opera, was now watching with furrowed brows.

Because this wasn’t funny anymore.
Suho turned on his heel.

Looked at Sieun with fire in his eyes.

“She—”

“That annoying, manipulative….bitch….made you think I didn’t want you near me.”

His voice cracked again. But not from weakness. From outrage.

“She told you…..YOU…..to give me space?”

He let out a bitter, humorless laugh.

“I don’t need space.”

He stepped forward.

Hand clenched into a fist, barely stopping himself from throwing it into the wall.

“I would never need space from you.”

He pointed, breathing hard now, like his chest couldn’t contain the weight anymore.

“She doesn’t even know what you did.”

His voice lowered—more raw now.

More broken.

 

“She doesn’t know how you waited for me.”

 

He was looking at Sieun now. Directly. Unblinking.

 

“She doesn’t know you sent me messages every day while I was unconscious.”

“She doesn’t know you came to see me even when the doctors said I might never wake up.”

 

“She doesn’t know how you looked after Halmoni like she was your own grandmother.”

 

His eyes were red now. But he wasn’t blinking.

 

“She doesn’t know you stayed when everyone else gave up.”

 

“She doesn’t know how you helped me walk again when I said I couldn’t.”

 

“How you kept feeding me when I stopped eating.”

 

“How you told me to fight. Every. Fucking. Day.”

 

He wasn’t yelling anymore.
His voice was low now.
But sharp.
Like a blade pressed to the edge of something soft.

 

“She doesn’t know you never let me fall into depression.”

“How you—”

His voice faltered.

“How you took my responsibility when I couldn’t handle my own life.”

Sieun looked frozen.
Not out of fear.
Not even out of shock.
But like he didn’t know someone had noticed all of that.
Like he never expected Suho to remember.

Suho’s voice dropped lower.
More fragile.
Almost trembling now.

“What would I have done if she made me lose you?”

He didn’t say "if I lost you."

He said “if she made me lose you.”
Because that’s what this was.
A wedge.
A lie.
A thread someone pulled at until it snapped the connection between them.

Suho ran a hand down his face.
Still staring at Sieun.

“You are not just someone I live with.”
“You are not just someone I study with.”
“You are not just there.”
“You’re everything.”

The room was silent again.
But not heavy this time.
Just… quiet.
Still.
The kind of silence that follows after a storm.
Where everything is wet, but clean.

Sieun finally spoke.
Soft.
Calm.
But not distant.

“I’m sorry.”

Suho blinked.

“I’m sorry, Suho.”

His voice broke just a little on the name.

“I’m so sorry… sorry.”

He wasn’t crying.
He wasn’t panicking.
But the weight of his regret hung in the air like mist.
Like rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

Suho stared at him.
His heart — aching.
And then—
He moved.
Two steps forward.
Arms opening before he even realized it.
And he pulled Sieun into him.
Tight.
So tight.
Like he was terrified someone might pull him away again.

Sieun didn’t resist.
Didn’t freeze.
He just…
Let himself be held.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Suho buried his face in Sieun’s shoulder.
His voice was muffled.
But every word was clear.

“And you’re not scary.”

Sieun blinked. “Huh?”

Suho pulled back just enough to look at him.

His hands still on Sieun’s shoulders. Firm.

“You’re not scary.”
“You don’t look scary.”
“You’re the softest person I’ve ever known.”
“If you were scary, you wouldn’t have, like, three fanclubs.”

Sieun blinked again.

“...What fanclubs?”

From the couch—
Baku gasped.

“YOU DIDN’T KNOW?!”

Gotak slapped the armrest. “They literally hand out flyers.”

Juntae, deadpan: “I think two of them have matching hoodies.”

Suho, eyes still on Sieun:
“They call you ‘the quiet princess.’”

Sieun: “…”

Baku, nearly crying:
“There’s a LINE to sit next to you in the library, your majesty.”

Sieun looked so done.
But not in the frustrated way.
Just… overwhelmed.
The corners of his mouth twitched.
A tiny sigh escaped him.
And then—
He smiled.
Really smiled.
Small.
Soft.
And real.

Suho stared at it like it was the first time he’d seen the sun after a long winter.
He dropped his forehead to Sieun’s.

“She’s just jealous,” he whispered.

“Because you’re… you.”

Sieun didn’t reply.
Didn’t need to.
He just stayed there — forehead to forehead, like nothing else mattered.
And for a moment—
Nothing else did.

 

.
.

 

They ended up at their usual spot near campus — a small pocha tent by the riverside. The plastic tarp was slightly fogged from the grill smoke inside, but the air outside was cool, fresh after the drizzle.
The kind of night that made your breath cloud and your food taste better.

They sat at a round silver table under a bright orange tent light.

Fish cake soup simmered in the middle, a fresh plate of tteokbokki steaming beside it.

Chopped scallions. Two metal kettles — one for warm soup, one for soju.

Sieun sat beside Suho.
Baku and Gotak across. Juntae nursing a bowl of hot odeng like it was sacred.

“Crisis resolved,” Baku said, stretching. “Suho, don’t be dumb again.”

Suho pouted, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands.

“I wasn’t dumb.”

Gotak snorted. “You howled like a wolf and tried to offer yourself to Sieun like a sacrificial lamb.”

Suho: “That was romantic.”

Sieun, sipping soup: “That was clinical psych territory.”

Everyone laughed.
It felt normal again.
Warm. Familiar.

Suho leaned back in his chair, finally breathing like he had lungs again.

The orange glow of the streetlight mixed with the pocha’s cheap fluorescent bulb, giving everything a hazy, late-night golden hue.

Sieun was beside him, cheeks pink from the warmth, hoodie hood pulled halfway up.

Every few minutes, Suho passed him chopsticks or poured soup into his cup without saying anything.

Sieun didn’t thank him. Didn’t need to.
They just... moved in sync again.
And Suho—
He was smiling.
Really smiling.
Until—
That ache came back.
Soft. Sudden.
Like something tugged gently inside his chest.
Something’s missing.
He glanced around the table.
Everyone was there.
Juntae was telling Gotak to stop adding gochujang to everything.
Baku was licking red sauce off his chopsticks like a raccoon.
Sieun was slowly chewing on a rice cake, looking mildly unimpressed by everyone.

What is it, then?
Why do I still feel like I’m missing something?

His gaze flicked down.
Their knees were touching under the table.
But that wasn’t it.
His fingers brushed Sieun’s by accident. Neither of them flinched.

Still—that wasn’t it.

You're here. You're right beside me.
But something’s still not… whole.
And for the first time in a while—
Suho didn’t know how to fix it.
So he just sat there.
Chopsticks in one hand.
Sieun beside him.
Steam curling up from the soup.
Laughter around him.
And an ache in his chest that had everything to do with love…
…and the one thing still left unspoken.

 

Baku stood up, half-standing on his stool like he was about to give a speech.

“Tonight,” he announced, dramatically raising his soju cup, “we celebrate the reunion of our emotionally constipated main leads!”

Gotak clinked his spoon to his cup. “To healing! To tears! To Suho not offering himself on the black market again!”

Juntae, pouring soup like a disappointed single dad:
“Can we go one night without trauma dumping?”

Suho: “You guys suck.”

Baku: “We’re literally the only reason you’re still functioning.”

The table was chaos.
The tteokbokki was too spicy.

Gotak was hiccuping from chugging warm soup too fast.

Sieun sat there eating his fish cake in peace while Suho kept sneak-glancing at him every 7 seconds like he was checking if he was still real.

Baku noticed.
Of course he noticed.

“Bro.”

Suho blinked. “What.”

“Stop looking at him like that. You’re radiating ‘just got my boyfriend back after a coma’ energy.”

Juntae sighed. “Technically that happened. That’s just... his natural look now.”

Gotak wiped his mouth dramatically.
“It’s giving: ‘If he breathes near someone else, I will lose it again.’”

Suho narrowed his eyes. “You’re not wrong.”

Sieun blinked.

Looked at him.

“Did you say something?”

Suho: “Nothing, hyung.”

Sieun: narrows eyes suspiciously

Meanwhile—

Baku had moved on to stealing pieces of chicken from everyone’s plate while giving relationship analysis.

“Listen. It’s very simple.”

“Sieun is a tsundere with mild trust issues and deep abandonment trauma.”

“Suho is a clingy puppy with rage problems and a savior complex.”

“The rest of us are just supporting cast who suffer.”

Juntae didn’t even look up.
“Why do you sound like you wrote this into a webtoon pitch?”

Gotak: “Don’t give him ideas, he’ll do it.”

Suho, still smiling, kept leaning closer to Sieun every few minutes like he forgot how to sit straight.

And then it hit him again.
That weird tug in his chest.
That something’s missing ache.
He looked at the food.
The friends.
The street light glinting on the plastic tarp.
Sieun beside him, quietly munching on odeng.
Everything was fine.
Everyone was laughing.
And yet–

Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?
He stared into the spicy broth.
His brain lagged like a buffering livestream.
I’m here.
I’m with him.
Everything’s fine.
So why do I feel like I’m not done yet?

Baku, meanwhile, was absolutely not helping.

“Suho looks like he’s about to cry into the soup.”

Gotak: “Maybe he’s overwhelmed by love.”

Juntae: “Or realizing he hasn’t said anything important yet and it’s eating him alive.”

Sieun: blink blink chew chew

Suho: panics internally in three languages

 

They barely made it out of the pocha before Suho was already clinging to Sieun again — arms looped lazily around his shoulder like he was about to piggyback ride him across Seoul.

“Why are you walking so fast?” Suho whined.

“Because I want to reach home,” Sieun replied flatly.

“What if I get lost in the three steps behind you?”

Sieun sighed audibly.

Juntae: “He’s been possessed by a koala spirit.”

Gotak: “No, it’s that clingy octopus again. He’s back.”

Baku: “Can we PLEASE get him an emotional support Sieun plushie so he stops using the real one?”

Suho: “I’m right here, you know.”

Sieun: …..…..

By the time they made it upstairs to the apartment, Suho was still glued to Sieun’s side — shoulder to shoulder, hand brushing his hoodie sleeve like he needed to make sure Sieun didn’t disappear between the elevator and the front door.

Sieun unlocked the door.
Suho barged in like it was his room, not theirs.
He dropped his bag.
Didn’t even stop to talk.
Straight into Sieun’s room.
The rest of the gang just trailed behind, already knowing where this was going.

Ten minutes later, Suho emerged from Sieun’s bathroom.
Hair damp.
Face fresh.
Mood: utterly pleased with himself.

But what really got everyone’s attention?

He wasn’t wearing his own sleep clothes.

He was wearing Sieun’s.
Oversized faded grey shirt — the neckline slightly stretched from age.
Loose plaid pajama pants cinched around his waist like they didn’t quite belong to him.
He walked into the room like a cat that just marked the entire territory.

And then—

Flopped straight onto Sieun’s bed.
Spread out.
Face-first.
Then rolled dramatically onto his side with a loud, soul-deep sigh.

“Finally.”

The gang stared.
Like, really stared.
Juntae slowly set down his water bottle like something sacred had been violated.

“Wait—”

Baku: “Bro, are those—”

Gotak: “No. No. He didn’t—”

Juntae: “You’re wearing Sieun’s pajamas?”

Suho: casually flipping over and hugging Sieun’s pillow
“He wasn’t using them.”

Baku choked on absolutely nothing.

“THAT’S NOT HOW CLOTHES WORK—”

Gotak: “YOU HAVE YOUR OWN.”

Suho: “They don’t smell like him.”

Baku nearly fell off the bed laughing.
Juntae looked like he aged four years in thirty seconds.

Sieun walked in.
Towel slung over his shoulder.
Paused.

Took one look at Suho — curled up like a cat in his clothes, on his bed, on his pillow — and blinked.
No shock.
No anger.

Just that same unimpressed expression of a man who’s seen this chaos too many times and still keeps living with it.

Suho grinned at him, shameless.

Sieun stared.
Then turned and walked toward the cupboard like nothing had happened.

Suho: “DON’T YOU DARE IGNORE ME!”
Sieun didn’t flinch.
Didn’t stop.
He opened the drawer, pulled out a clean shirt, and calmly said:

“You stretched out the collar.”

“It was already like that.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It’s a style.”

“It’s my shirt.”

“Not anymore.”

Sieun gave him a long, slow side-eye and walked into the bathroom.

Baku sat on the floor, clutching his stomach from laughing.

“HE SAID ‘not anymore.’”

Gotak collapsed into the couch.

“Someone stop him before he wears Sieun’s uniform to class.”

Juntae: flatly “That’s probably tomorrow’s plan.”

Suho, still hugging the pillow and smiling like an idiot:
“You’re just mad none of you have his shirt.”

 

The bathroom door clicked open.

Steam poured out.

And Sieun walked in, towel slung across his shoulders, wearing fresh sleepwear — not that Suho noticed.

Because Suho was still sprawled across the bed like a satisfied cat.

His head was buried in the pillow.
One arm tucked beneath his cheek.
Legs diagonally flung across the blanket like he owned the furniture and the person it belonged to.

He looked up with a lazy, smug grin.

“Finally. You done? Let’s sleep.”

Sieun paused.
Stared at the scene in front of him.
His bed.
His shirt.
His everything.
Occupied.
By the problem.

Suho waited for the usual routine — Sieun quietly joining him, silently allowing the cuddles, turning off the lamp and settling in.

But this time—

Sieun walked across the room.
Picked up his extra pillow from the corner chair.
And turned around.

Suho blinked.

“…Wait.”

Sieun moved to the door.

“Where are you going?”

Sieun didn’t pause. Just answered, coolly:

“To your room.”

“MY room?!”

Sieun opened the door.

“To sleep.”

Suho sat up instantly, limbs flailing like an angry toddler.

“Whyyyyy?! Why are you doing thisssss?!”

Sieun turned back.
Expression unreadable.
Voice calm.

“Someone told me I need to give people space.”

A pause.
Then—

“I think they were right.”

Door closes.
Silence.

 

“Jiyun you VAMP”

 

Baku, in the hallway:
“Damn. That was cold.”

Gotak: “Is it weird I felt that physically?”

Juntae, sipping water like a therapist:
“Maybe he’s learning boundaries.”

Suho shouted: “Boundaries are fake. I reject them.”

He flopped back into the bed.
Face up.
Blanket tangled in his limbs.
Sieun’s scent in his nose.
His shirt on his skin.
But… no Sieun.
No Sieun.

He stared at the ceiling.
The silence was louder than any noise in his head.
And then—
Very softly—
He muttered:

“I’m going to ruin her.”

No one responded.

Even the wind outside the window paused.
Because he meant it.

With every fiber of his clingy, heartbroken being.

She told him to stay away from me.
She made him doubt me.
She made him LEAVE THE BED.

He rolled to the side. Clutched the pillow tighter.

Still in Sieun’s clothes.
Still curled in his space.
But somehow—

Still missing something.

What is it?
Why do I still feel like there’s a hole in my chest, even now?

 

The apartment was bathed in soft yellow light.

Baku sat in the creaky swing chair by the window, slowly swaying.

A packet of spicy shrimp chips lay half-open in his lap, forgotten.

Gotak yawned, stretching like a bear cub.
“I’m going to bed. My back’s turning into soup.”

He started walking toward his room.

Baku’s eyes widened. He bolted upright.
“WAIT.”

Gotak stopped mid-step. “What?”

Baku held out his palm like a prophet.
“It’s coming.”

Gotak blinked. “What is?”

Baku leaned forward dramatically, the swing chair creaking dangerously.

“The show.”
“The event.”
“The chaos finale of the night.”
“Let’s just wait a little longer.”

Gotak grinned.
“You think it’ll happen soon?”

Baku smirked. “Very soon.”

“Patience, my dear. Patience.”

 

Inside Juntae and Suho’s room:-

The light was off. Only the bedside lamp glowed faintly.

Juntae lay in bed, scrolling lazily on his tablet, hair slightly tousled, looking like he had aged 30 years tonight.

The door creaked open.
He glanced up—

Saw Sieun standing in the doorway.
Blank-faced. Holding his pillow.

Juntae blinked.

“Are you… sleeping here?”

Sieun nodded, voice monotone.
“I’m giving him space.”

Juntae burst into laughter.

“You’ve got five minutes.”

“He’ll be here. Causing trouble.”

Sieun just shook his head and quietly slid under the blanket.

Juntae shut the tablet, turned off the lamp, and rolled over with a mutter.

“You guys exhaust me.”

The room went dark.
Soft breathing. A moment of quiet.
Sleep began to settle.

 

Back in the living room:-

Baku was still in the swing chair, now fully reclined like a villain in an old drama.

Gotak sat on the armrest of the couch, arms folded, eyes narrowed in anticipation.

“So when?” Gotak whispered.

Baku crunched a chip slowly. “Give it… three…”

“Two…”

“One…”

The hallway creaked.

 

Enter Suho.

Holding his pillow.

Hair disheveled from rolling around alone. Shirt — still Sieun’s — half falling off his shoulder.

He looked like a feral toddler who’d been separated from his stuffed animal.

He paused in the hallway like a confused cat.

Baku and Gotak peeked around the corner, eyes wide like excited raccoons.

“He’s coming,” Baku whispered.

Gotak: “Target locked.”

 

Inside Juntae’s room:-

Juntae had just drifted off.
Peaceful. Eyes closed.
Then—

Suho appeared.

Standing by the bed.
Staring.
Staring.
STARING.
Juntae opened one eye slowly.
Saw the silhouette.
Sighed.

“Oh, for f—”

Before he could finish, Suho had already picked him up.

Bridal style.

“WH—”

Suho carried him like a sack of potatoes to the foot of the bed.

“Here, take your pillow.”

Juntae: dropped with dignity loss.

Suho returned to the bed like a conqueror, plopped his own pillow beside Sieun, and dove under the blanket like a missile.

Sieun just stared.

Expression: This again.

Suho smiled like a lunatic.
Sieun turned.
Tried to get up.

“Where the hell are you going?” Suho gasped.

He latched on.
Like. A. Koala.
Arms and legs around Sieun.
Head buried into his shoulder.

Sieun: sighs dramatically.
“Let me go.”

Suho: “Never. Not after you left me.”

He giggled.
Like a menace.
Sieun tried to wiggle free.

Suho just tightened.
“You’re sleeping right here. With me. Where you belong.”

From the hallway—
Baku and Gotak were crouched outside the cracked door, holding popcorn in mugs.

Baku:
“He clings like he’s reenacting a Titanic scene.”

Gotak: “He’s fully lost it.”

Suho yelled over Sieun’s shoulder:
“HEY JUNIE — shut the door when you leave!”

Juntae, still standing at the foot of the bed, pillow in one hand, soul broken:
“I hate it here.”

 

As the door clicked shut behind him—

Suho cuddled deeper into Sieun’s neck and whispered like he was narrating a k-drama:
“No more space. Space is for the lonely. We are now one being.”

Sieun groaned into the pillow.

 

Outside—

Baku and Gotak toasted their mugs.

“To chaos.”
“To love.”
“To cuddles and emotional instability.”

Suho’s muffled giggle echoed from the bed like a gremlin finally home.
There was peace.
There was chaos.
And there was no more space between them.

 

The blanket rustled.

The room was warm — soft yellow glow from the nightlight, cool breeze from the cracked window, and Suho practically welded to Sieun’s side.

They were lying face-to-face now.

Suho’s arm thrown across Sieun’s waist like a seatbelt.

“Let’s sleep like there’s no tomorrow,” Suho murmured dramatically, already half-lost in the cotton softness of Sieun’s shirt.

Sieun blinked slowly.
“I need to study.”

Suho gasped like he was personally betrayed.

“Study?! It’s Friday night Tomorrow is Saturday! The weekend! The sacred time of rest and snack exploration for us!”

Sieun: “Not us. You.”

Suho buried his face deeper into the pillow. “Come ooon…”

 

But Sieun was already drifting off — eyes closing, breaths slow and even.

Suho adjusted slightly.
Stared at his profile.
Watched the flutter of his lashes, the soft curve of his lips.

Then — in a whisper —

“Hey, Sieun.”

A soft hum.
“Hmm?”

“I feel like I’m forgetting something…”

Sieun’s voice came back low, slurred with sleep:
“We can think in the morning…”
“Now sleep.”

Suho smiled.
Eyes fluttering shut.

“Okay… my princess.”

He pulled him closer, arm tightening slightly.

Sieun: “Tsk.”

But… he didn’t pull away.
Just let out a soft breath—
And finally slept.

Outside the door — chaos continued.

Gotak leaned against the hallway wall, stretching his arms.
“It’s done.”

He nodded to himself like a job well done.
Baku sat cross-legged, finishing off the last of the popcorn with a satisfied crunch.

“Mhm. Classic fairytale ending.”

They were about to leave when—

Juntae appeared.
Hair messed up.
Blanket over his shoulder.
Expression: Done with everyone.
Eyes: Murderous.

 

“No,” he said flatly.

Gotak blinked. “What?”

Baku: “Wait… why are you still up?”

Juntae’s voice dropped into that low, slow tone of someone about to lose it.

“That idiot is missing something.”

Gotak: “Woah Juntae!! I never expected you to call that idiot an IDIOT.”

 

Baku: “...But what kind of something?”

Juntae narrowed his eyes.
The glow of the hallway light made his smirk menacing.

“I don’t know.”
“But now I want revenge.”

 

He laughed.
Low. Quiet.
The kind of laugh that made both Baku and Gotak immediately scoot two inches back.

Gotak:
“I’m not even involved.”

Baku: “I’m emotionally supportive but legally separate from this.”

Juntae turned slowly, heading toward the kitchen.

“You should definitely stay awake.”
“It’s going to get interesting.”

 

Living Room — 12.57

The apartment had settled.
Rain tapped gently outside. The hallway was quiet.

Gotak was curled on the armchair, legs folded like a bored cat.
Baku was scrolling through memes, occasionally grinning to himself.
And then…

Juntae returned.

Blanket around his shoulders.
Two bags of snacks in one hand.
Cans of soda in the other.
He dropped it all on the table like he was opening a field command center.

Baku blinked. “You’re still up?”

Juntae didn’t respond.
He sat. Unwrapped a choco pie slowly. Took a long sip of soda.
Gotak leaned in.

“What are you planning?”

Juntae’s eyes glittered like a villain at 2x speed in a drama finale.
He pulled out his phone.
Opened a folder.
Typed. Swiped. Opened gallery.
Then—

He started sending photos.

Click.
Send.
Click.
Send.
Click click click click.
Send.

“Is that…” Baku squinted. “Germany?”

Gotak leaned over. “Dude. Are you sending him... vacation photos?”

Juntae’s smirk widened.

“Not just any photos.”
“The Rhine. Berlin. Cute cafés. Mountain trails.”
“You know. All the places Sieun is going.”
“Without Suho.”

 

Then Juntae whispered:

“Ahn Suho…”
“Now. You. Wait.”

He tapped one last time.
Countdown begins.

“Five…”

“Four…”

“Three…”

“Two…”

“One.”

 

Inside the bedroom:

Suho had finally, finally gotten comfy.
Tucked perfectly into the warm crook of Sieun’s shoulder, his cheek smooshed against soft cotton and softer skin.
Blanket all kicked down to his waist like he didn’t care, one leg flopped over Sieun’s thigh, hugging him like a needy little koala.
Sieun was fast asleep.
Mouth parted the tiniest bit. One hand curled under his cheek like the sweetest thing alive. His lashes fluttered with every breath.
He looked like a baby angel.
Suho’s baby angel.

And Suho?
He was almost asleep too.
Eyes heavy. Lips relaxed. Heart so full he could cry.
He’d waited all day for this.
Just him and his Sieunie. No interruptions. No noise. Just warmth and heartbeat and love.

Then—

Bzzt.

Suho ignored it.
Just a fluke. Nothing could ruin this.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

Suho’s eyes shot open.

His mouth dropped open in utter betrayal.
A tiny gasp.
He blinked slowly, like he couldn’t believe the universe just did that to him.
Then came the pout.

“No… no no no…”
He whined softly, voice all hushed and sleepy and devastated.
“Who dares… who actually dares…”

He snatched his phone off the table with one hand, the other still wrapped protectively around Sieun’s waist.

“WHO has the audacity to buzz me while I’m cuddling my Sieunie?! Like—do you even have a heart??”
He tapped the screen with a dramatic glare.
Sleepy, offended, and very, very done with the world.

He peeked over at Sieun — still asleep, thank god.
Suho softened instantly.

“Look at him,” he whispered, like it hurt. “Sleeping like a baby peach. And you wanna ruin this for me?”

He gave the phone one last angry pout.

 

He unlocked the screen.

Gallery. Open. Germany. Germany. Germany. More Germany.

Mountains.
Street markets.
Pastries.
Airplane wings.

Juntae…

Juntae did this.
He kept scrolling.
The Brandenburg Gate.
A picture of schnitzel.
A map with "3-week itinerary" in red.

“No…”

He looked at Sieun.
Peacefully sleeping.
Like a traitor.

Suho blinked.

Wait.
The trip.
The. Trip.
THE GERMANY TRIP.

His brain went through all stages of grief in two seconds.
Then—

He. Remembered.
Sieun.
Leaving.
3 weeks.
On Suho’s birthday.
And he hadn’t processed it until right this fucking second.

 

“Hey”

 

“Hey wake up”

 

“Sieun”

He screamed.
“YEON SIEUN!!!”

 

thump
Something hit the wall.
Then once again—

“HEY YEON SIEUN!!”

 

Gotak nearly fell off the armrest.

Baku dropped a chip and grabbed his chest.

Juntae sipped calmly, already smiling.

“Aaand... action.”

Baku dropped his drink from laughing. “IT HAPPENED—”

Gotak screamed, “HE’S AWAKE—HE’S SO AWAKE—”

Juntae sat back smugly.
Hands behind his head.

“Good.”
“Let the panic begin.”

 

Inside the room.
Sieun stirred.
Eyes squinting, lashes fluttering.
Face pressed to the pillow, still barely conscious.

“...What…”

Suho hovered above him like a thundercloud made of panic.
His voice cracked with urgency.

“Sieun. You have to cancel it.”

Sieun blinked.

“Cancel...?”

Suho grabbed his shoulders. Shook him lightly.

“The trip. The Germany thing. That... vacation of betrayal.”

Sieun stared at him blankly.
Then blinked again.
Very slowly.

“It’s 1 a.m.”

“Exactly!” Suho shrieked. “You have so much time to cancel it!”

Sieun tried to roll over.
Suho blocked him with a knee.

The gang, now crouched outside the door, was in silent hysterics.

Gotak: “This is the best night of my life.”

Baku: “Do you think if we livestream it, we’ll get sued or blessed?”

Juntae: “Both.”

Suho stood up. Paced once. Then dove back to Sieun’s side and hovered above him like a dramatic anime second lead.

“Just text them now! Email the professor! Say you’re dying! Say you’ve got tuberculosis! Say—”

Sieun mumbled.

“We’ll talk in the morning…”

He started rolling over again.

Suho yelled:
“THERE MIGHT BE NO MORNING IF YOU LEAVE ME—”

Sieun groaned.

Then without warning—

Pulled. Suho. Down.

Hand to the back of Suho’s head, one smooth motion.

Suho’s cheek landed against Sieun’s chest.

Heartbeat soft under his ear.

The room went still.

Suho froze.

Sieun—voice sleep-heavy and slow—murmured:

“Let’s talk… in the morning…”
“Sleep.”

Suho lay there.
Stunned.
Sieun’s hand was still resting on his head.
Warm.
Comfortable.
A little too perfect.

Outside—

Gotak whispered:
“He just got body-slammed into a cuddle.”

Baku, biting his knuckle to keep from laughing:
“He’s being forcefully snuggled into silence. Iconic.”

Juntae, still sipping soda:

“The idiot deserves it.”

Gotak: Stop calling that idiot an idiot. It doesn't suit you”

Back inside—

Suho exhaled.
Softly.
He didn’t want to admit it…
But the panic started to fade.

Sieun’s hand was still there.
Light.
Protective.

The smell of his shampoo still fresh from the shower.
And somehow, even though nothing was resolved—
Suho felt calmer.
Just a little.

“...Okay,” he whispered, defeated.
“But I’m not giving up.”

Sieun was already asleep again.

Suho grumbled into his shirt.

“Just wait. I’m getting that ticket cancelled before dawn.”

 

.
.
.

 

The next morning

Sunlight crept in through the curtains.
Soft, golden.
The room was warm — too warm for what was happening in Suho’s chest.

He’d woken early.
Earlier than usual.
Still curled beside Sieun.
Still in his shirt.
Still wrapped in last night’s panic.

Only now…

The weight of it had settled deep in his bones.
He was silent.
Careful.
He stared at Sieun’s face — calm, still asleep — and he didn’t move.
Not for minutes.
Not until the ache got too loud to ignore.

Eventually, when Sieun began to stir—
Suho reached for his phone.
Opened his laptop.
Browsed flights to Germany.

Googled:
“Is it illegal to bring someone on a study program without them enrolled?”

“Emergency visa applications Korea to Germany”

“Can you cry your way through customs”

Then he closed the laptop.
Looked down.

And quietly whispered:
“Hey.”

Sieun blinked awake.
“Mmm?”

Suho sat up, blanket around his shoulders.
“Please cancel it.”

Sieun rubbed his eyes.
“Huh…?”

Suho looked like he was trying not to beg but failing anyway.
“The trip. Cancel it.”

 

Sieun blinked at him slowly.
Still half-asleep.
“Suho…”

 

Suho looked away.
“I know I’m being dumb, but—just don’t go.”

 

The gang, now awake in the hallway, paused.

They’d come to watch another episode of “Koala Suho Melts Down,” but—

This wasn’t that.
This wasn’t loud.
It was quiet.
And worse.

“If you can’t cancel it…” Suho’s voice wavered—

“Then… then take me with you.”

Sieun blinked again.
Still confused.
Still trying to process if this was a joke.

 

“What…?”

 

“Take me with you.”

 

“I’ll book the flight. I’ll sit on the floor of your room if I have to. Just—just take me.”

 

Baku stopped chewing.
Gotak stopped laughing.
Even Juntae’s face dropped slightly.

Because now Suho looked…

Small.

He sat there in a hoodie that wasn’t his, hair messy, blinking way too fast.
“It’s not really possible,” Sieun said, quietly.

 

Suho nodded.
Pressed his lips together.

“Right.”

He swallowed.
Voice dropping.
Eyes fixed on his lap.

 

“So what am I supposed to do?”
“How am I gonna be okay without you?”

 

Silence.
The gang didn't dare breathe.
Sieun looked at him.
Really looked.

And then—

Softly. Calmly. Gently.
He said,

 

“You will be okay.”

 

His voice held no doubt.
No shakiness.
Just belief.
Like he meant it.
Like he needed Suho to believe it, too.

 

.
.
.

 

Let’s go somewhere,” Sieun said softly.

Suho looked up from where he sat, curled slightly on the couch — shoulders slouched, arms hugging a pillow like a shield. His eyes were blank. Tired. Somewhere far away.

“Where?” he asked, barely moving.

Sieun stood there in the doorway, hands hidden in his sleeves. He didn’t move either. Just looked at him. Quiet. Watching in that careful way he always did — as if Suho might break if he breathed too loudly.

He shrugged. “Somewhere.”

A pause.

“Somewhere... where you’ll have fun.”

It didn’t sound natural coming from him.
Like the word fun had dust on it.
Like it wasn’t made for someone like Yeon Sieun.

But he said it anyway.
Because Suho had been quiet lately.
Not in the usual way.
This was different.

This was the kind of quiet that filled a room like cold air.

So Suho blinked up at him. And something in his chest cracked — just a little.
Because Sieun had noticed. Of course he had.

“…Okay,” Suho whispered.

 

They didn’t go far.
Just far enough.

A small riverside rest stop a few stations out.
Concrete steps facing the water.
A row of vending machines humming lazily.
Tall reeds swaying like sleepy dancers.

And the gang came too.

Because Sieun knew Suho wouldn’t really laugh unless they were there.
Unless there was noise. Chaos. Familiarity.
Unless it felt like home.

So Baku carried snacks — two bags of chips and a half-eaten chocolate bar.
Gotak brought a football for no reason at all.
Juntae dragged his heavy tote full of comics and soda and portable speakers.

They made it a thing.

A mess of laughter and limbs and voices calling over each other.

They sat on the warm concrete steps.
Plastic bottles rolling between them.
Baku kicking at Suho’s foot just to annoy him.
Gotak humming some song off-key.
Juntae arguing with the vending machine.

And Suho… smiled.

At first it was faint.
Then a little stronger.
And then —
he laughed.

Something light and boyish that made Baku’s eyes widen like he’d seen a ghost.
Gotak immediately threw a chip at him. “Who is this and what did you do to our broody raccoon?”
Suho groaned and shoved him sideways, still laughing.

Sieun sat beside him.
Not saying much.
Just watching.

And the wind picked up.
Ruffling Suho’s hair.
Making him squint up at the sky like it was the first time he remembered it existed.
The reeds danced in the breeze.
The river glistened.

And for a moment —
Suho looked free.

Not weighed down.
Not scared.
Not holding it all in.

Just a boy with his friends, sunlight on his skin, wind in his hair —
and Sieun right next to him, quiet and steady like always.

Sieun didn’t smile. Not really.
But his chest ached in the softest way.

Because this was why he said it.
“Let’s go somewhere.”

And this —
this was worth every word.

 

Suho was close to Sieun.
Too close.
Knees touching.
Shoulder turned toward him.
But he wasn’t saying anything.
Wasn’t even eating.
He just… sat there.
Staring at nothing.
Breathing too slowly.
His fingers kept twitching against his jeans like he wanted to reach out.
Like he didn’t know if he still had permission.

Sieun didn’t look at him.
But he didn’t move away, either.

Then—

“I’ll be right back,” Sieun murmured.

Suho looked up immediately.
“Where are you going?”

Sieun offered a vague nod toward the hill.
“Dad called. I’ll just talk for a bit.”

He walked off.
Phone in hand. Shoulders relaxed.
Hair catching the light in that way Suho always noticed.
Suho didn’t take his eyes off him.
Even as he got smaller in the distance.
Even as he vanished behind the trees.
He kept staring like something might break if he looked away.

And that’s when it shifted.
The air changed.
Juntae, who had been quiet this whole time, finally spoke.

“He wasn’t going, you know.”

Suho turned slowly.
“What?”

His voice wasn’t defensive.
It was just… confused.
Still small.
Still heavy.
Juntae looked straight ahead.

“The trip. Germany. He wasn’t supposed to go.”

 

Suho blinked.
Once. Twice.

 

“He... what?”

Gotak nodded, fingers tapping a bottle cap.

“Yeah. He already made up his mind. Said he wasn’t gonna submit the form.”

“He looked really sure saying that.”

 

Suho’s throat felt dry.
He swallowed.

“But… he... he did.”

 

Baku leaned forward slightly.
Still quiet, but his tone was a little sharper.

 

“Yeah. The sane day.”

“After you very casually said, ‘You celebrate every birthday with your friends. You can spend one birthday with someone else.’”
“Like yeah you didn't mean that we all know but …. that's what happened”

Silence.
Even the wind paused for a second.
Suho just sat there.
Still.
Slowly folding into himself.

Gotak, trying to ease it, said—

“Hashtag no big deal?”

But even he didn’t laugh.
Because Suho wasn’t laughing.
He looked...
Lost.

Like something inside him had disconnected and hadn’t returned.
His eyes didn’t blink much.
His fingers started shaking — not visibly. Just slightly.
Just enough.
Did I do this?
Did I make him think I didn’t care?
Did I say the one thing that made him leave me?

Then footsteps.
They turned.
Sieun was coming back.
Phone in his pocket.
Hands loose by his sides.
Expression unreadable.
He sat down.
Quietly.
In the same place.
Right next to Suho.
Like nothing had happened.

But Suho turned.
Fast.
Leaning in.
Hand brushing Sieun’s arm, barely holding.

“Sorry.”

Sieun blinked once.

“For what?”

Suho looked at him.
Paused.
Tried to breathe.

“Just... for everything.”

A second passed.
Then two.
Sieun looked back at him.

“Me too.”
“Sorry.”

And that was it.
No dramatic hug.
No loud sobs.
Just two boys sitting side by side.
Both sorry.
Both quiet.

And four others — sitting near, but not speaking.

Not teasing.
Just there.

Feeling every inch of what was unsaid.

Notes:

Juntae may seem out of character some. But I think the personalities of Baku, Gotak, Suho will definitely rub on him. It's been long time they all are together. I do think his personality can change. Like he is the same Juntae. Kind, adorable, considerate. But now he can be naughty too. Especially to Suho. He can make jokes, tease others. He is still the same Juntae as before. But with his friends he is different.

Chapter 32: Stay With Me A Bit Longer

Notes:

So I'm back. Yes I'm alive. And I know I'm late. But I'm here now. And it took alot of time to write and edit this chapter. I've given my everything to this. It's literally everything. The fluff, comfort, chaos, heartwarming and fluttering and of course angsty too. I think some of you not gonna like the way this chapter ends. But please know it was absolutely necessary and to work out the things I already planned, the ending was really need to happen.

I edited and wrote extra parts while listening 'I like you alot x Arctic Monkeys'. This is the best AND perfect song for me.

I think the vibe of the chapter matches with it. At least for me. In case you want to listen it to while reading the chapter, the full name of the song is 'music_to_watch_boys_to_-_lana_x_arctic_monkeys___“I_like_you_a_lot”_best_part_looped___slowed_reverb'

It's an edited version.

https://youtu.be/R4WQt0ilE48?si=X4gi-qmmTSC5pyL9

This is the link.

Happy reading.

The sky was clean.

Clear.

But the air? Tense.

 

Students moved around, heading to lunch, to class, to the stairs near the garden.

That’s where Suho was standing.

Back straight.
Eyes narrowed.
Jaw locked.

In front of him — Jiyun.

Caught mid-laugh with two of her friends before Suho stormed across the plaza like a thundercloud with purpose.

Baku, Gotak, and Juntae were trailing him.

“What’s the plan?” Baku whispered.

Gotak: “There is no plan. This is emotional warfare.”

Juntae didn’t speak.
He just walked. Silent. Focused.

Suho stopped right in front of her.
The entire courtyard shifted.
You could feel it.
That crackle of something about to go off.

Jiyun blinked, confused smile still on her face.

“Oh—Suho? Hey, wha—”

 

“You’re a liar.”

 

His voice was low.
Firm.
No stuttering.
No drama.
Just fury.
Jiyun flinched.

“What…?”

 

“You lied to him.”

 

People had stopped moving now.

You could feel the stares.

The ones who knew something had happened.

The ones who had no idea but were now invested.

Suho stepped closer.

 

“You told him I needed space.”
“You said he was suffocating me.”
“You made Yeon Sieun—”

“Of all people—”

“Believe he should back off.”

 

Jiyun’s face drained of color.

 

“Suho, I— I didn’t mean—”

“You told him I liked you.”

 

Suho’s voice rose — not shouting.

Just loud enough to shake the air.

“You made him think I wanted you.”

 

Gasps.

Actual gasps.

A couple heads turned at that.

She reached out.

“I—I just misread it, okay? I thought— I didn’t know he’d take it like—”

 

“You don’t get to mess with someone like that and call it a mistake.”

 

“You have no idea what he’s done for me.”

 

“You have no idea who he is.”

 

Jiyun shrank back slightly.
Her friends were whispering behind her now.

 

“He waited for me.”

 

Suho’s voice cracked — just for a second.

But he kept going.

“For two years.”

 

“He sent messages every day when I was in a coma.”

 

“He talked to me when I couldn’t speak.”

 

“He took care of my grandma like she was his family.”

 

“He taught me how to walk again when I didn’t want to move.”

 

“He kept me alive when I didn’t want to be here.”

 

The silence was deafening.

Jiyun looked stunned. Pale.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I—I didn’t know—”

 

“Exactly.”

Suho stepped back, shaking his head.

 

“You didn’t know. And you still opened your mouth.”

 

“Stay away from him.”

 

He turned, the gang behind him like a wall.

Juntae gave her a final glance — quiet, cold.

“Next time, think before you talk about someone who matters.”

 

.
.
.

 

It started small.

A whisper near the vending machine.
Two students exchanging glances in the hallway.

One whispered line:

“Did you hear what Ahn Suho said?”

“About Yeon Sieun?”

“No… what?”

 

“He said… he waited for him.”

 

“For two years.”

 

By lunch, it was everywhere.

Sieun’s name was floating through the air like incense smoke.

“He took care of Suho’s halmoni.”

 

“He talked to him every day while he was unconscious.”

 

“He helped him walk again.”

 

“I heard he cooked for him every night for months!”

 

“He fixed him.”

 

In one corner of campus:
“He's like a boyfriend straight out of a drama.”

 

“The devotion. The quiet loyalty. The tragic pining.”

 

Another group:
“He waited two years. I can’t even wait two hours for a text back.”

 

And by the library steps:
“Do you think he’s single?”

 

“What if I just... sit near him during study hall?”

 

“What if I fake a coma.”

 

Meanwhile, Suho…

 

Was sitting at lunch with his tray untouched.

Chopsticks in hand. Face frozen.

Watching two girls glance over at Sieun across the cafeteria.

One was blushing.

The other was literally fanning herself with a worksheet.

 

“This backfired,” he muttered.

Gotak was sipping banana milk beside him, eyes twinkling.

 

“Backfired? Bro, you did a full-on broadcasted K-drama confession and turned him into a campus myth.”

 

Baku, chewing aggressively:
“I heard someone say they’d willingly fall into a coma just to get texts from him.”

 

Juntae didn’t even look up from his book.
“You created a fanbase. Congratulations.”

 

Suho buried his face into the table.
“I don't understand it. I literally exposed my whole heart and soul out there—told them how he took care of me, stayed with me, practically raised me from the dead—” He looked up, betrayed. “And they STILL think they have a chance?!”

 

Juntae: “Nope. You made him the main character.”

Gotak: “Now everyone wants a turn.”

 

 

Across the room—

Sieun was quietly reading.

Oblivious.

Still, completely, utterly unaware of the chaos.

He blinked when a second-year walked up and handed him a thermos with pink stickers on it.

“It’s ginseng tea. For… your loyalty.”

He stared at it.

Then at her.

Then back at the thermos.

“...Thanks?”

She ran away blushing.

Suho slammed his chopsticks down.

“No. No. I can’t do this.”

“They think he’s free.”

“They think he’s available merchandise.”

“They think I gave a reference letter for dating Yeon Sieun.”

 

Baku lost it.

Collapsed into Gotak’s lap.

Juntae just calmly flipped a page while trying to not laugh.

“Don’t worry,” he said without looking up.

“He still goes home with you.”

 

Some time later Sieun was standing quietly in front of his locker, organizing his books, unaware that he was under siege.

A girl from psychology — pretty, well-spoken, older-year — approached with a shy smile.

“Hey, Yeon Sieun, right? I heard you’re good with finance law… do you think I could ask you something sometime?”

Sieun blinked.

Nodded.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Then—

 

“HYUNG!!”

 

Suho.

 

Arrived like a hurricane.

Slammed his locker.

Somehow sparkled.

 

Wrapped an arm around Sieun’s waist from behind and leaned in so close his chin practically touched his shoulder.

 

“What’re we talking about? Sharing legal opinions? Study dates? Wedding plans?”

The girl blinked.

Visibly alarmed.

 

“No—just a question—?”

 

Suho tilted his head.
Too polite.
Too deadly.

 

“That’s sweet. But he’s fully booked. With me.”

Sieun: “What—?”

The girl: leaves in a full sprint.

The gang, observing from behind a bulletin board.

Baku: “Is this a crime? Because I feel like I just watched a crime.”

Gotak: “That girl’s going to develop intimacy issues.”

Juntae: “Suho’s like one step away from marking Sieun with a sharpie.”

 

Later on the way to class, a group of undergrads smiled at Sieun as he passed.

A few whispers.

One bold one said aloud—

“He’s even more pretty in person…”

Suho, walking behind with the gang, froze mid-step.

 

Turned around.

Started walking backwards just to glare at them as they walked away.

“They’re children. Literal children,” he muttered.

 

Gotak: “They're third-years, Suho.”

Suho: “Children.”

 

In the cafeteria Sieun was reaching for a drink in the vending cooler when a tall guy from sports management grabbed the same one.

 

Their fingers brushed.

Suho dropped his tray.

“That’s it.”

Stormed over.

Grabbed a different drink, opened it, slammed it in front of Sieun.

“Drink this.”

“I didn’t want—”

“DRINK. THIS.”

 

The sports guy walked away, laughing awkwardly.

Sieun blinked.

“What’s wrong with you today?”

 

Suho, eyes darting:
“Just low blood sugar.”

 

In the background–

Baku: “What if we dressed up like bodyguards and followed Sieun too?”

 

Gotak: “Would that make Suho worse or better?”

 

Juntae: “There is no better.”

 

Study Bench under the Trees–

 

Sieun was peacefully reading.

Suho sitting next to him — so close they were nearly fused at the shoulder.

Every time Sieun shifted, Suho followed like a magnet.

Not talking.

Not studying.

Just watching.

Like a human firewall.

Then a boy from literature walked past, dropped a small wrapped box near the bench and said softly—

 

“It’s nothing. Just snacks. For your care.”

He scurried off.

Suho opened the box before Sieun could say a word.

Inside: mini choco cakes and a note.

“To the boy who waited for his friend … that’s beautiful.”

 

Suho: “I am going to scream.”

 

He actually started hyperventilating.

 

Sieun: “Are you okay?”

 

Suho: “No. I’m broken.”

 

Gang nearby, filming it now.

Baku: “He’s going through a villain origin story in real-time.”

Gotak: “This is better than dramas. This is drama plus trauma.”

Juntae: “...And he still hasn’t confessed.”

 

When they were going home.

 

The tension snapped.

 

Sieun finally pulled Suho aside.

 

The air was cool. Orange dusk.

 

“Suho.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What’s with you today?”

 

“What do you mean?”

Sieun gave him a long, unreadable look.
“You’ve been… weird. Following me. Guarding me. Acting like a cat with one toy.”

 

Suho blinked.

“It’s a loyalty thing.”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Suho:
“I’m fine.”

 

Just then, a girl from the art department walked straight up to Sieun with a folded paper in her hands, cheeks pink.

She bowed.

“This is… nothing weird. Just something I wrote. Thank you for existing.”

 

And she ran away.

The paper?

A handwritten letter.
Delicate cursive.
Poetic.

 

“There’s something haunting about your stillness.
I don’t know what it is, but it feels like home.”

Suho nearly choked on air.

The gang?

Stunned.

Gotak: “She... thanked him for existing.”

Baku: “That’s not a crush. That’s a whole religion.”

Juntae: “Let’s go. Suho’s gonna commit a felony in public.”

 

Now — Evening at home

 

Everyone had showered.

Soft shirts. Pajamas.

Rain outside, light tapping against the windows.

The apartment glowed yellow with warm lighting.

They were all in the living room.

Sieun sitting on the floor near the coffee table, legs folded neatly, earphones in both ears.

Gotak lounging on the beanbag.

Baku lying on the couch like a lizard.

Juntae flipping through a notebook.

Suho sat opposite Sieun.

Freshly showered. Hair damp.

A bit too quiet.

Everyone was laughing softly at some story Baku told.

Suho wasn’t laughing.

He was just… watching Sieun.

Eyes half-hooded.

Sieun looked tired but peaceful — hair slightly messy, hoodie a little big, sleeves falling past his knuckles.

He looked beautiful.
So familiar.
And Suho felt the ache rise again.

 

He got up and went towards the gang. Sat down. Buried his face into his hands with a groan.

 

“Why isn’t anyone afraid of me?!”

 

The others barely reacted. Gotak stretched. Baku yawned. Juntae didn’t even look up from his notebook.

 

“I told everyone how he took care of me, how he waited for me, how he—how he loved me. They’re supposed to back off!”

 

Juntae: “Nope. You made him the main character.”

Gotak: “Now everyone wants a turn.”

 

Juntae (dryly, still flipping a page):
“Also, you never said he loved you.”

Suho blinked.
Lifted his head slowly, hair a fluffy mess.

“What—?”

 

Gotak, mid-chew, pointed with a half-eaten biscuit.
“Yeah, actually. You didn’t say HE LOVED YOU. You said how he waited for you, how he took care of you, how you felt safe”.

 

Suho gaped.

 

Juntae (calmly):
“You told the whole campus he changed your life. That he stayed by your side. That he made you feel seen. That no one else mattered.”

 

He pushed up his glasses and met Suho’s eyes with surgical precision.

 

“You didn’t say you’re in love with him. But you absolutely told everyone how hopelessly, painfully, desperately IN LOVE YOU ARE.”

 

Suho’s jaw dropped.

 

Baku, laughing way too hard now:
“I thought it was romantic, honestly. Like... I almost clapped.”

Gotak, slapping the pillow next to him:
“It felt like watching a K-drama scene—but only one of you had the script.”

Suho turned crimson.

“No— That’s not—I didn’t say I’m in love with him—!”

 

Juntae (nodding thoughtfully):
“You didn’t say it. But trust me. Everyone heard it.”

Baku added, grinning,
“Even the guy fixing the elevator looked emotionally compromised.”

Suho buried his face again with a groan.

“I need to move schools.”

 

But suddenly Gotak started grinning like a devil on a mission.

“So… Sieun’s not really taken, right?”

 

Suho’s head jerks up.
“What?”

Baku ready as ever says,
“I mean, you just said that you didn't say YOU are in LOVE WITH HIM. So that means it's just… you know, vague affection and life-altering devotion.”

Juntae (flipping through his notes):
“Right.”

Suho:
“WHAT IS THIS, A COURTROOM?!”

Gotak (dead serious):
“Just making sure. Because if Suho isn’t in love with him, and they’re not in a relationship, then…”

 

Baku:
“…then Sieun is totally free to date whoever he wants.”

 

Suho’s pupils dilate like a cat spotting a predator.

 

Gotak, smirking:
“Like… whoever he wants. Even that guy who helped him pick up books outside campus the other day.”

 

Baku gasps dramatically.
“Oh no. The one with the earrings? The hot one?!”

 

Suho (hoarse):
“You all have a death wish.”

 

Juntae (calmly):
“They’re testing your limits.”

 

Gotak (grinning):
“And I’m enjoying it.”

 

Suho throws a cushion at Gotak. It misses.

Sieun glances up at all the noise, deadpan as ever. Removes one earphone.
“…Are you okay?”

Suho turns to him, face burning red.
“DO I LOOK OKAY TO YOU?!”

Sieun: “You look like you're overheating. Should I bring water?”

Gotak (to Baku, whispering):
“He’s gonna explode. He’s gonna explode.”

Baku (whispering back):
“On God, this is the best show I’ve ever watched.”

 

Suho doesn't answer. He pouts and looks the other way.

 

After staring for a while Sieun puts back his earphone and continues his work.

 

Gotak, slouched deep into a beanbag, tossed a popcorn in the air and caught it in his mouth.

 

“Then…..should we start looking for a girlfriend for Sieun?”

 

Baku, lying upside down on the couch with a face mask half on, immediately chimed in:

“Why look? Just line up the whole law department and ask Sieun to stare at them for 10 seconds. Whoever he blinks at is officially our sister-in-law.”

 

Juntae, calmly.

“Or brother-in-law. Don’t limit the field.”

 

Laughter.

Except from Suho, who had been sipping hot cocoa — and now looked personally attacked.

He set his cup down like a man placing a sword on the table.

“Shut up. All of you.”

 

The room paused.

Suho’s voice was low, serious, deadpan.

“He’s mine. You all shut up.”

 

Baku gasped dramatically.
Hand to his chest like he’d just been shot.

“But you just said you’re not in love with him.”

 

Suho pointed at him with unholy fury.

“I’m giving you one final warning. Just shut the hell up.”

 

Gotak wheezed.
Baku collapsed backward off the couch in hysterics.

Chaos.

But then—

Juntae finally looked over at Suho.

 

He was curled into the corner of the couch, damp hair slipping into his eyes, quietly pretending to scroll through his phone.

But his gaze kept drifting.

Again and again — back to Sieun.

Sitting on the floor, legs tucked neatly under him. Hoodie too big. Quiet. At peace.

That calm expression Suho had memorized a thousand times.
And missed.
Every day.

He didn’t even realize how obvious he was being.

Until—

Juntae spoke up, eyes sharp despite the calm.

“…Suho.”

Suho blinked, startled. “Huh?”

Juntae’s voice softened.

“I’m sorry.”

Suho frowned. “For what?”

Gotak and Baku paused mid-talk, curious.

Juntae glanced down for a second, then looked Suho in the eye.

“…For those photos. And the texts. That night.”

The room stilled for a moment.
Suho’s lips parted, but no words came out.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Juntae said gently.

“It wasn't my intention.”

“I was just mad you woke me up… to go crawl into MY bed. Beside Sieunie.”

 

Suho short-circuited.

 

“I—” He stumbled. “It’s okay… I didn’t mind. Actually…”

 

Suho flushed, red rising from his ears.

 

“He actually—I mean—he hugged me to sleep after that anyway so…”

 

He ducked his head, voice quieter.

 

“…It was the best sleep I’ve had in forever. I fell asleep to his heartbeat.”

 

The room exploded.

 

Gotak let out a yell.

 

Baku screamed into a pillow.

 

Suho groaned and pulled the hood of hoodie over his head.

 

“Why did I say that out loud—!?”

 

Blush. Full body. From ears to toes.

 

Juntae just smiled quietly to himself.

 

Baku rolled off the couch again.

 

“YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THAT AND EXPECT US TO BREATHE NORMALLY.”

 

Juntae, flipping another page:

“Too late. He’s basically a K-drama now.”

 

And across the room, Sieun looked up again.

 

“…You’re talking about me again, aren’t you?”

 

Gotak, absolutely done:

“STOP BEING SO CALM ABOUT EVERYTHING—YOU’RE THE PROBLEM.”

 

Suho didn’t answer.

Because his face was buried in shame.

 

But his heart? Loud. And full.

 

After a moment—
Quietly—
He asked:

“When are you going?”

Sieun looked up from the cup of warm tea in his hands.

Blink.

“Day after tomorrow.”

Suho nodded.

Then tried again.

“And when… are you coming back?”

Sieun paused for a moment.
Soft voice.

“After your birthday. Just by a day.”

Suho’s eyes dropped to the floor.
He nodded again.
Didn’t speak.
Just twisted the string of his hoodie in his fingers.

The silence grew thick.
Until—

“Do you really have to go?”

It came out quieter than he expected.

The gang stilled slightly.
No one interrupted.

Sieun looked at him for a long moment.

“........hmm.”

 

Suho met his eyes. Barely.

“Can’t you… cancel it?”

Sieun breathed in.
Looked down into his cup.

 

“You’ll be okay.”

“The guys are here.”

He gave the smallest smile.
Like he was trying to comfort a child.

 

“Three weeks will go like three days.”

 

Suho didn’t smile.

He looked like he was trying to swallow something sharp.

“Not for me.”

No one said anything.

Even the rain outside felt like it had lowered its volume.

Gotak gently passed Baku a chip without a word.

Juntae closed his notebook.

Sieun looked at Suho again.
Suho was still fiddling with his sleeves.
Still not looking up.

And quietly—
Sieun said:

 

“You held on… for two whole years.”

 

“You’re strong.”

 

Suho shook his head.

 

“I was scared every day….. even when I was unconscious”

 

“I didn’t know if I’d ever wake up. But at least I was somewhere close to you.”

 

Now he lifted his eyes.
And for the first time in hours, really looked at Sieun.

 

“Now I’ll be awake.”

“And you won’t be here.”

 

“That’s... scarier.”

 

The room stayed quiet.
Not heavy.
Not dramatic.
Just soft.

Sieun didn’t know what to say.
And for once—
The gang didn’t say anything either.

 

.
.
.

 

Sieun stepped onto campus with his usual quiet, composed air.

Plain hoodie, black backpack, no eye contact.
But something was off.

People were… nodding at him.
Smiling.

One guy from photography bowed slightly as he passed.

Sieun blinked.
“...Was that for me?”

 

Behind him, Suho trailed like a ghost with a superiority complex.
He saw it too.

 

And hated every second.
“What the hell is this…”

 

Gang joins up moments later.

 

Baku: “Bro. Are you seeing this?”

Gotak: “He’s walking like a saint and people are treating him like a war hero.”

Juntae: “All we’re missing is violin music and doves flying in slow motion.”

Then it started.

Someone from literature walked up and handed Sieun a post-it.

He glanced at it.
Handwritten:

“You’re not scary. You’re thoughtful.”

 

Another girl walked by, stuck a chocolate to his locker door with tape.

“Thank you for waiting for the one who is close to you.”

 

Sieun: “...What is happening.”

 

Suho: (muttering)
“A cult. We’ve summoned a cult.”

 

At lunch:
Sieun sat at the usual table.

Someone from psychology dropped a lunch box in front of him.
“I made something for you.”

 

Suho, from across the table:

 

“He doesn’t like spinach—”
Sieun: “I do, actually.”

 

Suho: stares at the rice like it insulted his family.

Later—library hallway

Three girls handed Sieun a small handmade booklet.

“It’s full of quotes that reminded us of you. Strong, quiet characters with big hearts.”

 

Baku (to Gotak):
“They made a personality zine for him.”

Gotak:
“That’s fanfic level admiration.”

Suho: ripping invisible hair from his scalp
“I’m losing him to public affection. So this is how idols feel.”

 

Things escalated at an alarming pace.

By mid-afternoon—

Someone spray-chalked “Yeon Sieun is NOT scary. He’s just emotionally guarded and that’s HOT.” on the sidewalk.

Another pinned a flier:
“Group meditation in gratitude for Yeon Sieun. Bring your own tea.”

 

Sieun just stood there. Staring. Holding a pen like it was his only lifeline to sanity.

 

Juntae approached him.
“So. How’s fame treating you?”

 

Sieun blinked. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Juntae nodded. “That’s what makes you iconic.”

 

Meanwhile, Suho was in shambles.

Every time someone smiled at Sieun, a piece of his soul disintegrated.

 

Gotak: “I think he’s going to glue himself to Sieun’s back.”

 

Baku: “Don’t give him ideas.”

 

Suho: “I can hear you. And yes, I might.”

And then the final straw.

At their lockers, a girl walked by, looked Suho dead in the eye and said:
“You’re lucky.”

Suho blinked. “Huh?”

 

“To be so close to him.”

And walked off.

Suho just—

Dropped his water bottle.

Looked at the sky.

“Oh no. Oh no no no.”

“He’s becoming an institution. A campus-wide moral compass.”

 

“I know that girl was right but now it feels like I’m dating a concept. I’m dating an idea.”

 

Juntae: “You’re not dating him.”
Suho: “Not with that attitude, I’m not!”

 

Back at home, that night.

 

The gang retold the whole day to Sieun like a dramatic press conference.

 

“You received fan mail, snacks, emotional labor, a goddamn quote book.”

 

Sieun, sipping tea:
“I didn’t ask for any of it.”

 

Suho, sulking:
“Yeah, well, you inspired it.”

Baku: “Bro, you're gonna be on t-shirts next week.”

Gotak: “They’re calling you ‘Campus Husband Material.’”

Sieun: “That’s too long.”

Suho, dramatically pulling his hoodie drawstrings tight:
“He’s too powerful. And he doesn’t even know it.”

 

.
.
.

 

Night settled gently over the apartment.

The windows were slightly open, letting in a soft breeze — just enough to ruffle the edge of the curtains. The world outside had gone quiet, city lights twinkling like distant stars. But inside?

 

A quiet kind of magic was unfolding.

 

Lofi music drifted lazily through the room — warm and wistful, like the aftertaste of a memory.

Juntae’s little blue Bluetooth speaker played it on a loop, tucked beside his leg like a quiet secret.

And Juntae?

He was somewhere else entirely.

Eyes closed, head tilted slightly back, a small smile soft on his lips.

He mouthed the lyrics — slow and reverent — like every word was a stitched-up scar.

His fingers tapped against his knee, in sync with the beat.

Head swaying, just a little — the way every quietly emotional lofi lover does when Lana’s voice comes on.

Not named. But known.

That voice that always sounds like longing left out in the sun too long.

The kind that makes you want to fall in love. Or ruin your life.

Or both.

 

And Juntae was gone. Drifting through it like it was a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of.

 

Behind him, Gotak leaned in close to Baku, whispering with a soft smile.

 

“Who hurt him?”

 

Baku snorted, still watching Juntae in awe.

“It’s always the quiet ones listening to sad girl anthems…”

 

Gotak nodded solemnly.

“He’s on his fifth loop.”

 

Juntae didn’t hear a word.

Didn’t even blink.

He just kept tapping his fingers, mouthing those lyrics like a prayer only he understood.

 

On the carpet nearby, sprawled out dangerously close, sat Baku and Gotak. Too close.

So close their knees kept brushing and neither of them was moving.

They weren’t talking to Juntae.

They weren’t watching Suho, who had long since disappeared into Sieun’s room and hadn’t returned.

 

They were originally absorbed in a tattered old magazine that lay open across both their legs.

Or at least… pretending to be.

“This new photoshoot is so dumb,” Gotak muttered, trying to sound casual. “He looks like he just walked out of a washing machine.”

 

“That’s literally the concept,” Baku replied, too quickly. “It’s called distressed urban drip, you uncultured tree frog.”

 

“No, it’s called bad lighting and wet hair,” Gotak shot back, biting his cheek to hide a smirk.

 

They were arguing. Like they always did.

Except…

 

Their shoulders kept nudging.

Their eyes flicked toward each other just a second too long.

And neither of them turned the page.

They were both looking at the same actor.
But maybe they weren’t looking at the magazine at all.

 

There was something in the air between them.

Something not said yet — but almost ready to bloom.

 

A story starting to write itself.

 

Maybe not tonight.

 

Maybe not this second.

But it was there.

 

Two idiots too proud to say anything.
Too soft not to fall.

 

And under the yellow living room light, with lofi playing like a heartbeat in the background… a new story was quietly being born.

 

One look. One nudge. One quiet smile.
That’s how it always starts.

 

In Sieun’s room.

A suitcase sat half-full on the bed.

Three neatly folded shirts.
A travel pouch of toiletries.
An open ziploc of charging cables.
A book tucked spine-up at the corner.

Suho sat on the floor.

Back against the bed frame.
Legs stretched out, knees lazily bent, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fingers again.

 

He could hear the song playing outside on a loop.

 

Sieun stood by the closet.

He didn’t speak as he pulled a soft gray knit sweater off the hanger.

Folded it quietly.
Placed it next to the others.

Suho watched.

He hadn’t spoken since they left the living room.

He just kept glancing at the clothes like they were weapons aimed at him.

Every time Sieun added another piece —
Suho’s fingers curled a little tighter into his sleeves.

He wasn’t trying to be dramatic.
He just didn’t know how to stop it from hurting.

“Do you want me to roll the shirts?” Suho asked suddenly, voice small.

Sieun looked up.
Then nodded.

“Yeah. That’d save space.”

Suho got up. Sat on the bed.
Picked up one shirt.
Started rolling it neatly, like he’d done it before.

Sieun watched for a second.
Then turned back to the closet.

 

They worked in tandem — shirt, roll, zip, fold — like something sacred.

 

“Take the navy coat,” Suho said, breaking the silence.

Sieun glanced over.

“It’s heavy.”

 

“It looks good.”

 

Sieun didn’t answer, but he pulled it out anyway.

Laid it on the bed.

 

“You’re not going to wear that blazer, are you?”

Suho asked next, eyes narrowing at a checkered thing Sieun had half-pulled from a drawer.

“Why not?”

 

“Because you wore it on the worst day of your life.”

 

Sieun raised an eyebrow.

“When was that?”

“That time I beat you at chess.”

Sieun blinked.

“That never happened.”

 

“Okay, but if it had, that’s what you’d be wearing.”

 

Sieun let out a soft breath.

Something dangerously close to a laugh.

Suho heard it.

Felt it like a reward.

Then he asked.

“Do you think people in Germany will stare at you too?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

“You sure? You’re kind of an international-heartthrob looking.”

 

Sieun gave him a tired side glance.

 

“Suho.”

 

“What? You’re gonna walk into that seminar and people are going to drop their pens like, ‘Who is this tragic-eyed law prodigy with museum painting hands?’”

 

“That’s not a real sentence.”

 

“It’s a prophecy.”

They packed in silence for a while after that.

Sieun folded.

Suho commented.

Sometimes gently.

Sometimes uselessly.

And in between, he watched—

 

The way Sieun folded socks in pairs.

The way he packed his books with the spines up, like they’d get hurt otherwise.

The way he tucked his passport between two t-shirts.

Everything neat.

Intentional.

Like him.

Eventually—

“Do you need help with anything else?” Suho asked.

 

“You already folded all the sweaters.”

“I have more sweater-folding skills to offer.”

 

Sieun paused.

Then handed him one of his hoodies.

 

“This one’s yours.”

 

Suho blinked.

 

“Huh?”

 

“You left it in my room. Thought you might want it back.”

 

Suho stared at it.

It was dark blue.

Slightly stretched at the sleeves.

Smelled faintly like Sieun’s detergent.

 

“I did. But now I want it again.”

 

He hugged it to his chest.

 

A pause. Then—

 

“You can wear it … if you miss me.”

 

He said it simply. No sarcasm. No tease.

Just real.

 

Suho looked down again.

 

“Then I’ll wear it every day.”

 

Another silence.

 

Sieun shook his head and zipped the next compartment.

 

In the doorway, the gang was peeking in.

 

Gotak (whispering): “It’s like watching someone quietly fall apart.”

 

Baku: “He’s hugging a hoodie like it’s a childhood pet.”

 

Juntae: “Don’t interrupt. He’s in the grief nesting stage.”

 

They left.

 

To give them privacy.

 

Something which Suho needed very much right now.

 

The suitcase was mostly done.

 

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of Sieun’s desk lamp.

Sieun pulled the zipper gently across the top flap.

Clicked the lock into place.

Suho looked at it like it had swallowed a piece of him.

“Do you think it’ll snow?”

“Maybe.”

“Send me a picture if it does.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Of you. Not the snow.”

 

Sieun didn’t answer.

 

But his shoulder nudged against Suho’s for half a second longer than necessary.

 

Time passed.

The suitcase got fuller.

But so did the ache.

Eventually—

Sieun opened a drawer.

Pulled out a small black pouch. His cologne.
He stared at it for a second.
Then held it out.

 

“If you want... you can spray this on the hoodie”.

 

Suho didn’t take it at first.
Then slowly reached for it.
Held it gently like it might shatter.

 

“Thanks.”

His voice broke a little.

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed now.

The suitcase was zipped halfway.
His backpack sat ready near the door.

 

He just leaned forward. Rested his elbows on his knees.

 

“Or maybe it’s going to rain there? I don't know how the weather works there.”

 

Sieun looked over.

 

“Probably.”

 

“You like that, right?”

 

“...Yeah.”

 

Suho smiled faintly.

 

“Then I hope it rains every day…. So you think of home.”

 

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed now.

The suitcase was zipped halfway. His backpack sat ready near the door.

It was quiet.

Only the yellow glow from their night lamp lit the room. The window was slightly open, letting in a soft, chilly breeze.

Outside, the city lights blinked in silence—

 

Far in the distance, faint lines of ocean lights shimmered faintly like they were breathing.

 

Sieun looked out the window. And after a long silence, he spoke.

 

“You didn’t have to do that, you know…”

 

Suho turned his head, eyes slowly lifting to take in Sieun’s side profile. The gentle slope of his nose. His lashes casting soft shadows on his cheek. His expression calm, unreadable, like always. And so beautiful it made Suho ache.

 

Sieun’s voice came again, quiet.

 

“Saying all that stuff… to her.”

 

Suho blinked, tension rising in his chest. “You knew?”

 

Sieun gave a slight nod, still staring out at the lights. “I heard people talk.”

 

There was a beat of silence. Then, he said softly, “Thank you. It means a lot.”

 

Suho shook his head quickly. Voice low. Raw.

 

“Don’t be. I’m lucky to have you in my life.”

 

That made Sieun pause. He turned slightly, looking at Suho now. Really looking. His gaze steady, searching. His brows furrowed just a little—that way they always did when he was focused on something.

 

And Suho felt it. His heartbeat stuttered.

 

Because Sieun was looking at him like he was trying to understand something. To figure him out. To see inside him.

 

Suho held his gaze. Couldn’t look away even if he tried.

 

Sieun spoke again, his voice softer. “Why would you say that?”

 

Suho swallowed. Voice hoarse.

 

“Because it’s true.”

 

He couldn’t breathe. Not when Sieun looked at him like that. Eyes calm and unreadable and endless.

 

Just like a deep ocean.

 

Suho wanted to fall into them. He wanted to get lost in them and never be found again.

 

His eyes dropped — slowly.

 

To the soft curve of Sieun’s lashes, fluttering ever so faintly.
To the faint pink blooming at the tip of his ear — like maybe, just maybe, Suho’s words had made him blush.
To the delicate collarbone peeking beneath the stretched neckline of his worn shirt, one side slipping just off his shoulder in a way that made Suho forget how to breathe.

 

When had he gotten this close?

Sieun’s bangs were fallen over his eyes. His nose, small and perfect. His lips, slightly parted. Pink. Soft. They looked better these days—Suho had been shoving chapstick at him every night.

He was so damn pretty it hurt.

And suddenly Suho's eyes locked onto his mouth. A heartbeat. Another.

He wanted to kiss him.

He wanted to close the distance and lose control. He wanted to pin him down onto his own bed and memorize every inch of him. Touch every part of him Sieun hadn’t even explored yet.

But he didn’t.

He leaned forward slowly—gently—and rested their foreheads together.

His eyes fluttered shut.

His heart was racing so hard he could feel it in his ears.

Just one tilt. And their lips would touch.

Would Sieun kiss him back? Would he push him away? Would he even let Suho stay this close?

Suho didn’t ask all of that. He just whispered, barely able to get the words out:

 

“You’ll miss me, right?”

 

His voice cracked. “Miss me… Please miss me.”

 

And maybe…
just maybe — the song playing softly outside their room gave him the courage to say it out loud.

Because somehow, it felt like everything had shifted. Like the world had slowed to give them this moment.

The soft, dreamy voice drifting through the apartment like a lullaby made of desire and loneliness —

 

I like you a lot…

 

It wrapped around them like velvet. Dangerous. Tender. Intimate.

 

So intimate.

And Suho?

He felt all of it.

Felt it in the way Sieun didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look away.

Just let Suho stay that close — their foreheads touching, breaths shared, skin barely brushing.

The song was playing outside the room.

But something else was playing between them now.

And it was louder than everything else.

There was no answer.

Not in words.

 

Sieun didn’t answer.

 

Just… looked at him. Eyes calm. Breathing steady. Their foreheads still resting together in the dim golden light.

 

Then—

 

He exhaled.

 

A soft, barely audible sigh.

 

Like he was finally relaxed.

 

Like he was… home.

 

And for Suho, that was enough.

 

His heart felt like it was being held in gentle hands. Like something fragile but safe. Something treasured.

 

So he leaned forward.

 

Very slowly.

 

And wrapped his arms around Sieun.

 

Just once. Soft. Close. No rush. Like it wasn’t about passion. Like it was about belonging.

 

He buried his face in the crook of Sieun’s neck. His arms tightened just slightly — enough to feel his warmth, to memorize the shape of him.

 

Sieun didn’t move.

 

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. He just let Suho hold him.

 

It took Suho’s breath away — every time.

 

How someone so closed-off. So careful. So guarded.

 

Still let him in.

 

Still let this happen.

 

He felt Sieun’s chin rest lightly against his shoulder. The soft brush of his hair.

 

And that was it.

 

No words.

 

No questions.

 

Just presence.

 

Just comfort.

 

Just the quiet, steady thump of a heartbeat pressed against his chest — grounding him.

 

Suho’s eyes fluttered shut.

 

His voice was no more than a breath against Sieun’s collarbone.

 

“You still hate hugs… don’t you?”

 

Sieun was quiet for a moment.

 

Then a tiny nod.

 

Suho smiled into his neck.

 

“But you still let me do it anyway…”

 

Another pause.

 

Then — so soft he almost missed it —

 

“You’re the only one who gets to.”

 

Suho’s throat tightened.

 

His hands curled tighter into the fabric of Sieun’s shirt.

 

“You spoil me too much.”

 

Sieun didn’t reply.

But his hand reached up.

And gently rested against Suho’s back.

Not a pat.

Not a tap.

Just… there.

Warm. Steady. Soft.

And for Suho — that was everything.

 

He had never felt a song this close before.

 

He’d listened to music like everyone else.
He liked some. Skipped most.

 

None of them had ever… sunk in.

 

But now —
with Sieun this close,
with their foreheads brushing,
his arms wrapped around that familiar waist —
maybe yes.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe it was the magic of that voice, that dreamy, aching voice floating through the walls —
like the hum of the sea, like the heat of a first kiss, like the kind of longing that makes you stupid and brave at the same time.

 

It made Suho want to stay right here.

 

To close his eyes and press his forehead to Sieun’s and never move.

 

To tighten his arms around Sieun’s waist like a lifeline.

 

To breathe in the quiet scent of Sieun’s neck — soft, warm, familiar.

 

To bury himself in the silence between heartbeats and hold it forever.

 

To never let him go.

 

And just like that —
with that song still playing low and slow through the apartment,
with Sieun resting calmly in his arms,
with his heartbeat spilling out like a confession he didn’t have words for —

It became Suho’s favorite song.

He didn’t even know its name.

Didn’t need to.

 

Because it played during this.

 

And that made it his forever.

 

Sieun moved first.

 

No sudden motion. No words.

 

Just turned slowly.

 

Reached for the lamp.

 

“We should sleep.”

Suho nodded.

 

But he didn’t move yet.

 

Just stared at the suitcase.

 

As Sieun reached over to switch off the light—

 

Suho whispered—

 

“Can I… slip something inside?”

 

Sieun blinked.

 

“Like what?”

 

Suho smiled a little, eyes tired.

 

“A secret.”

 

Sieun considered it.

 

Then—

 

“As long as airport security doesn’t arrest me for it.”

 

Suho smiled faintly.
“Deal.”

 

Sieun reached out and flicked the night lamp off.

 

The golden light faded, replaced by the dim wash of city glow slipping through the window. Just shadows now. Silhouettes.

Quiet.

 

Suho could still feel his warmth beside him. The space between them didn’t feel like distance — it felt like permission. Like a moment suspended in time.

 

And that night, after Sieun fell asleep —
Suho quietly unzipped the front pouch of the suitcase.

 

Slipped in a folded note.

One sentence.

No name.

Just ink on paper:

 

“Come back to me, even if I never ask you to.”

 

.
.
.

 

2 Days Before The Departure

 

The city was warm that night.

 

Not too humid. Not too chilly.

One of those evenings where the streetlights looked gold instead of white.

They’d gone out for dinner — all five of them.

A quiet, local place.

Cushioned booths. Rice bowls and bubbling soup.

Laughter over dumb jokes and stolen bites.

But Suho hadn’t laughed much.

He sat beside Sieun.

Chopsticks moving automatically.

Eyes drifting every few minutes to Sieun’s side profile.

Every time Sieun lifted his cup of barley tea —

Every time his bangs fell a little into his eyes —

Suho watched.

Said nothing.

 

“Suho, you okay?” Baku asked at one point, reaching for more kimchi.

“Yeah,” Suho replied. “Just full.”

 

But his bowl was still half-full.

Gotak noticed.

So did Juntae.

They exchanged a look.

No one said anything.

Not yet.

 

They walked back slowly.

The rain had stopped earlier in the day, and now the sidewalks were dry.

Streetlamps reflected in puddles like melted stars.

Sieun walked ahead.

Hands tucked in pockets.

Suho followed beside him.
One step behind.

Not talking.

Just… there.

Close.

Sometimes their arms brushed.

But Suho didn’t hold on.

Didn’t grab his sleeve like he wanted to.
He just stayed close enough to feel the warmth.

 

Behind them—

Gotak whispered to Baku:

“He’s following him like a puppy.”

Baku: “Like a ghost that hasn’t figured out he’s dead.”

Juntae: “He just wants to stay close to the scent of goodbye.”

 

They reached the edge of the block.
Street quiet. Trees rustling gently.

Suho looked ahead.

Then glanced over.

“Hey…”

Sieun turned.

“Hm?”

 

“Do you think… you could take a leave tomorrow?”

Soft. Hesitant.

Sieun blinked.

Then paused.

“I can’t.”

Suho didn’t react.
Didn’t pout.
Didn’t sigh.

He just nodded.
Slow.

Like he already knew the answer.
But hoped for a different one.

 

“You really have to go?” Suho asked softly.

Sieun didn’t look at him.

He kept his eyes on the sidewalk.

“Yeah. I need to go in the morning. They want original documents for verification. And the coordinator said something about signing the travel insurance papers.”

 

Suho nodded once.

Then stayed quiet for a bit.

Hands tucked in the front pocket of his hoodie, fidgeting.

“It’ll take the whole day?”

Sieun shrugged.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

 

Sieun looked at him.

Studied him for a second.
Then looked forward again.
Spoke quietly.

 

“I can come home early, though.”

Suho blinked.
Looked up.

“Yeah?”

Sieun nodded.

 

“If I get everything done quickly…”

 

“I’ll finish my work and come straight home.”

 

Suho looked at him now.

Carefully.

“Really?”

Sieun nodded.

 

“What about lectures?”

 

“I can skip lectures for a day. Just need to finish the official stuff.”

 

Suho didn’t answer immediately.
He was watching the road ahead, but his eyes didn’t focus on anything.

 

Then—

 

“Then I’ll take you.”

Sieun’s brows furrowed slightly. He turned.

 

“What?”

 

“Tomorrow. I’ll take you to campus.”
“On my scooter.”
“I will give you a ride.”
“And I’ll wait.”

 

“Then I’ll bring you back home.”

 

Sieun blinked.
He slowed a little.

 

“It’s fifteen minutes away.”

 

Suho just shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
“I still want to. It's five minutes away on my scooter. We will come back home ten minutes early.”

 

From behind, the gang picked up on the silence.

Baku, with zero subtlety:
“WE SUPPORT THIS MOTORBIKE ROMANCE.”

 

Gotak:
“JUST GIVE US THE KEYS, WE’LL TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME.”

 

Sieun turned, expression flat.

But the side of his mouth twitched — barely — in the shadow of something like amusement.

 

He looked back at Suho.
Voice steady, if mildly sarcastic.

 

“So what exactly are we going to do after I come back?”

 

Suho glanced at him.

Held his gaze.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile.

Just said—

“I don’t know.”

 

That’s when Baku and Gotak kicked in.

“We could build a blanket fort and cry.”

 

“We could make cinnamon toast and trauma-bond.”

“Board games. Pain. Betrayal.”

“Go grocery shopping like a domestic couple—”

But Suho spoke again.

Soft.
Too soft to ignore.

 

“I want to stay home.”

 

All the voices stopped.

Even the wind seemed to hush for a second.

Suho looked straight ahead.

Voice even now. No stutter. Just quiet conviction.

 

“I just want to spend time at home.”

 

Sieun turned his head.
Looked at him.
No teasing now.
Just calm understanding.

And after a beat—

He nodded slowly.
Looked forward again.

And said:
“Let’s do that.”

 

Suho let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

And then gently — softly —
he bumped his shoulder against Sieun’s.

Like a question.
And Sieun?
He bumped back.
Just slightly.
Like an answer.

Behind them—

Baku whispered, quieter this time:
“Did you see that?”

Gotak nodded.

Juntae: “He asked for the moon. Got a single star. Still smiled like it was enough.”

 

Baku: “He's not gonna survive the airport.”

 

Gotak: “I think I’m gonna cry before Suho does.”

 

Juntae, walking behind with hands in his pockets, glanced toward Suho.

He didn’t say anything.
But the softness in his eyes had faded into something more tender.

More worried.

He could see it.

In the way Suho leaned a little closer than usual.

In the way he smiled without showing his teeth.

Juntae knew.

 

“He’s holding onto what he knows he’s about to lose.”

 

Back at home.

It was late.

The apartment had gone quiet.

The kitchen light was off.

The rain had started again — light, steady, like a heartbeat against the windows.

 

Gotak and Baku were long passed out on the couch with headphones tangled and an empty bag of chips tucked under Gotak’s arm.

Juntae’s door was closed.

Suho didn’t go to his room.

He stood outside Sieun’s door for a second.

 

Then pushed it open gently.

 

And inside Sieun’s room—

 

The lamp glowed warm.

Curtains drawn. Air little chilly with the scent of detergent and quiet comfort.

Sieun was already curled up under the blanket.

Back to the door. Lamp off.

But he didn’t say anything when Suho walked in.

Didn’t ask why.

Didn’t tell him to go back.

So Suho stayed.

He lay on the far edge of the bed.

Not touching.

Just… close.

Just enough to hear Sieun breathing.

Just enough to smell the familiar detergent.
Just enough to fall asleep.

And when his eyes closed, he thought:
I just want to remember this.

This night. This nearness. This quiet.

In case the next few feel too long.

 

“If you could eat only one thing forever,” Suho said suddenly, “what would it be?”

Sieun blinked, tired eyes shifting toward him.

“Why would I do that to myself?”
Suho snorted.

“It’s a hypothetical. Pick something.”

Sieun thought for a second.

“Kimchi fried rice.”

“It’s easy. Quick. Tastes like home.”

 

Suho nodded, staring at the ceiling.
“That’s fair.”

 

“I’d say ramyeon. But like — the good kind. Spicy. With eggs and green onions.”

 

“You always make it too salty,” Sieun murmured.

 

Suho gasped dramatically.

Rolled onto his side to stare at him.

 

“Excuse me?! You’re offending a national treasure.”

 

Sieun’s lips twitched.

That almost-smile again.

 

“Your water-to-noodle ratio is unbalanced.”
“YOU’RE unbalanced.”

 

They went quiet again.

But it wasn’t awkward.

It was peaceful.

The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

 

After a moment—

“I still can’t believe you forced me to stay with you when I woke up,” Suho said softly.

 

Sieun’s lashes flicked upward.

“You were in a hospital bed, angry at oxygen.”

“Didn’t think you’d survive living alone.”

 

Suho smirked.

“So you moved me in.”

 

“You moved in yourself.”

 

“Semantics.”

 

Suho turned onto his side again, facing Sieun fully now.

His knee bumped Sieun’s under the blanket — soft.

Familiar.
Neither of them moved away.

Suho’s voice dropped a little.

 

“You’re a good roommate.”

Sieun didn’t answer.
Just blinked at the ceiling.

And then—

“You hog the blanket.”

 

Suho grinned.

“You sleep like a corpse.”

“You kick in your sleep.”

“You talk in yours.”

Sieun turned his head just slightly.

“What do I say?”

Suho shrugged.

“Mostly my name.”

“Sometimes your credit card pin.”

 

“Once, you whispered, Baku's laundry is disgusting.’”

 

“That part might be true.”

 

Sieun closed his eyes.
But the corners of his lips lifted.

 

The rain grew steadier.

Suho shifted closer.

This time — touching.

His arm brushed Sieun’s.

Then his chest.

Then his forehead pressed lightly to the curve of Sieun’s shoulder.

He didn’t say anything.

He just breathed in.

Slowly.

Deeply.

Sieun’s scent.

Faint detergent.
Warm skin.
Paper and something clean.

It was grounding.
Like inhaling gravity.

“You okay?” Sieun murmured after a while.

 

Suho nodded against his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

 

“Just wanna stay like this a little longer.”

 

Sieun didn’t move.

Didn’t tell him to go to his own room.

Didn’t shift away.

He just stayed.

Still. Solid.

Like home.

 

Suho whispered one last thing before falling asleep:

“If I stay close enough…”

“I won’t feel you leave.”

 

Sieun didn’t answer.

But in the dark—

 

His hand gently brushed Suho’s wrist.
Just for a second.

Enough to say:
I know.

 

.
.
.

 

The morning after.

 

The room was still dim when Suho opened his eyes.

 

Sieun was still beside him — not tangled up, not pressed close — just there.

Peaceful. Breathing slow.

Suho stayed still.

Didn’t move.

Because even though they’d already agreed—

Even though he was going to take Sieun to campus, wait, and bring him home—

His heart still whispered:
He’s still here. Still mine. Still close.

 

Later they got ready in sync.

Sieun tying his laces while Suho grabbed the helmets.

No questions.

No re-confirmation.

 

No, “Are you sure you want to wait?”

Because they’d already had that talk.

Because Suho was going.
That was the plan.

The gang watched from the kitchen, half-eating toast.

Baku, whispering:
“He won’t even let him walk for five minutes — the bus stop’s just around the corner.”

Gotak:
“He’s turning a campus run into a farewell tour.”

Juntae, staring over his mug:
“He’s just afraid there won’t be enough minutes left.”

 

Outside.

No rain now. Just soft, cloudy morning light.

Suho adjusted the strap of Sieun's helmet like always.

Sieun climbed on without a word.

One arm loosely hooked around Suho’s middle — light, secure.

 

They didn’t speak on the way.

The engine hummed.

The wind moved past them.

And Suho rode slowly — not enough to be weird, but enough to make the ride last.

The morning breeze brushed past them, but his grip was steady. Comfortable. A little possessive, maybe.

Because every time Suho rides now, he remembers.

He remembers how he couldn’t.

After the coma. Even after rehab. After everything.

The scooter used to scare him — not because of the machine, but because of what happened to it.

What someone he once called a friend did to it.

And how that moment — one tiny act of betrayal — broke more than just his ankle.

It broke something deeper.

Even after he healed, he couldn’t bring himself to ride again. He’d stare at the scooter like it was some distant memory. Like it belonged to a version of himself he didn’t trust anymore.

But then…

Sieun.

Sieun, who didn’t push. Who didn’t mock.
Just stood there one day, holding out the helmet with that unreadable expression of his.

Not saying “you should ride again.”

 

Just saying “come on.”

 

And somehow, that made all the difference.

 

Sieun helped him climb back onto the seat.
Helped him balance.

 

Helped him breathe through the fear — over and over — until it didn’t hurt anymore.

 

Until riding felt like freedom again.

 

Until Suho could ride with him on the back.

 

And now, as the morning light spills softly across the quiet streets, and the engine hums beneath them, Suho finds himself thinking:

 

Where would I even be right now… if not here with him?

 

What would he have become — if Sieun hadn’t pulled him out of that dark place with nothing but quiet patience and that same old expression that said “I’ll wait.”

 

Suho didn’t want to think about that version of himself.

 

Because this version — the one riding slowly, the one with Sieun’s arms gently around him —

This version is finally okay.

 

And he owes it all to him.

 

At College.

 

Suho didn’t even pretend to leave.

He parked under the tree near the front gate.

Sat sideways on the scooter seat.

Phone out. Earbuds in — not playing anything.

He scrolled.

Looked up every 30 seconds.

Waited.

 

Two hours passed.

Three.

Suho got up once to stretch his legs.

Then sat back down.
Didn’t complain.
Didn’t sigh.
Didn’t look bored.

Because he wasn’t here to pass time.

He was here to share the hours left.

 

When Sieun came back out —

Hair a little windswept, bag now heavier with printed docs—

He paused at the gate.

Suho was still there.

Back straight.

 

Helmet on the backseat.

 

Like he’d never once thought of leaving.

Sieun walked over.

 

Didn’t ask.
Didn’t comment.

Just handed Suho a small coffee he’d picked up from the vending machine.

Suho blinked.
Took it.

“You didn’t have to—”

 

“You waited.”

 

That was all Sieun said.

 

Then he climbed on behind him.

Suho didn’t move right away.

But when he did—

It was the slowest ride back home he’d ever taken.

 

The front door opened with the usual creak.

Suho kicked off his shoes with a yawn.

Sieun stepped in behind him, tugging off his hoodie, expecting a quiet apartment.

Instead—

They both stopped.

Stared.

 

The living room… was a disaster.

 

But a cozy one.

Blankets were hanging from bookshelves.

Chairs had been dragged into odd angles.

Cushions were stacked like furniture.

Fairy lights were blinking from somewhere, tangled across a half-broken umbrella.

And in the center—

A huge, ridiculous, fully-committed blanket fort.

 

Right in the middle of the room.

 

Gotak popped out first.

Hair messy. A quilt slung around his shoulders like a cloak.

 

“Welcome to The Fortress of Emotional Denial.”

 

Baku followed, proudly holding a tray with mugs of hot chocolate:
“Constructed with trauma, friendship, and too many thumbtacks.”

 

Juntae didn’t come out—he just said from inside the fort:
“Don’t touch the left corner. It’s held together by sheer will and a banana clip.”

 

Suho blinked.

“What is—?”

Baku:
“A distraction.”

“A statement.”

“A final act of resistance against goodbyes.”

 

Gotak, solemnly:
“Also, we didn’t know what else to do while waiting.”

 

Sieun stared.

Expression unreadable.

Then—

“...You used my laundry basket.”

 

Baku (grinning):
“You weren’t using it emotionally.”

Suho just stood there.

Silent.
Moved.
Trying not to show it.

“You guys…”

“This is—”

Gotak:
“Shut up and get in before the roof collapses.”

Thirty minutes later.

Everyone had changed into comfy clothes.

Baku wore a hoodie so big it looked like a sleeping bag.

Gotak had a face mask on for no reason.

Juntae sat criss-cross with a laptop open, pretending not to cry.

 

Suho and Sieun lay side-by-side near the back of the fort.

The heater hummed gently.

A movie played on low volume — some dumb comedy none of them were watching.

Popcorn everywhere.
Socks mismatched.
Hot chocolate half-drunk.

It was perfect.

And slowly, Sieun began to doze off.

First his head dipped forward.

Then sideways.

Then it gently bumped against Suho’s shoulder.

He twitched awake.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Suho shook his head.

Shifted just slightly—

 

And guided Sieun’s head back down, this time resting it firmly on his shoulder.

 

“It’s fine.”

“Stay.”

 

And when Sieun didn’t argue—

Didn’t pull away—

Suho leaned down, pressed his cheek against the top of Sieun’s head.

 

Eyes half-shut.

Arms folded.

Just… breathing him in.

Holding the moment still.

 

The gang stayed quiet.

Gotak paused the movie.

Juntae whispered:
“He’s gonna miss this more than he knows how to say.”

 

Baku replied, soft:
“He’s saying it right now.”

“Just not with words.”

 

No one ruined the silence.

No one joked.

They just sat there.

In that ridiculous fort.

As the day faded outside.

As Suho stayed still.

Afraid that moving might break the moment.

Afraid that letting go would feel like starting the goodbye too soon.

 

They stayed in the fort like that.

The movie played in the background — something actiony and dumb, with too many explosions and zero sense of pacing.

Gotak kept gasping dramatically.

Baku kept throwing popcorn at him every time he did.

Juntae pretended he wasn’t invested but absolutely was.

Suho?

 

He wasn’t watching.

 

He was half-lying down, legs stretched out, shoulder barely brushing Sieun’s.

 

Eyes drifting to Sieun’s face every few minutes.

And Sieun?

Now awake. Because Gotak won't stop gasping.

He was quiet, sleeves pulled over his hands, head tilted against the edge of a pillow now.

Still.

Watching.

But only just.

 

“Someone should make ramen,” Baku muttered during a chase scene. We deserve it. We built emotional architecture.”

 

Gotak:
“I’m not moving. My foot is under four people.”

 

Juntae:
“If I get up, I’m not coming back.”

 

Sieun, calmly:
“There’s leftover broth in the fridge.”

 

Suho, immediately sitting up:
“I’ll make it.”

 

And he did.

 

Five minutes later he returned with a tray, carefully lowering it into the middle of the fort like it was sacred cargo:

Two bowls of instant ramen with egg and scallions.
A third with just broth for Sieun, who wasn’t that hungry.
Chopsticks.
Wet wipes.
One singular slice of pickled radish, which Baku claimed with dramatic betrayal.

They ate together, legs tangled, arms brushing, soft laughter bubbling up now and then.

Sieun didn’t say much, but he sipped slowly, sleeves pushed up just far enough for steam to touch his skin.

Suho stole glances.

Wiped a noodle fleck off Sieun’s cheek without thinking.

Didn’t even get punched for it.

 

After that, it was late.

Really late.

The fairy lights dimmed.

The heater kept humming.

 

Someone burped quietly.

Someone else sighed.

And no one said it — but they all knew:
No one wanted to leave the fort.

Not tonight.
So they didn’t.

Baku lay half on top of Gotak’s foot.
Juntae curled with a cushion like a lifeline.
Suho lay beside Sieun again — but this time, closer.

Their shoulders touched.
Then their arms.
Then slowly, without a word—
Suho scooted even closer.

Sieun shifted in response — not away. Just… adjusted.
Head dropping softly onto Suho’s shoulder.
Eyes closed.

Suho whispered:
“Is this okay?”

Sieun:
“It’s warm.”

That was all.

They fell asleep like that.

 

Five boys, wrapped in blankets and the glow of a space they built together, pretending the world outside didn’t exist.

And for one night —

Just one —

They didn’t say goodbye.

They just said:
“Let’s stay here a little longer.”

 

.
.
.

 

Morning light spilled over the blanket fort ruins — now folded, half-piled in the corner of the living room.

The floor was swept.

The fairy lights were unplugged.

The heater was off.

It was just… quiet…

But inside the quiet, everything was humming.

Suho helped fold the last of the extra quilts.

Sieun packed the last charger into his backpack.

They didn’t say much.

But Suho never drifted more than a step away.

If Sieun moved to get something from the table —

Suho handed it to him.

If Sieun walked to plug in his phone —

Suho followed him.

If Sieun sat —

Suho sat closer than necessary.

 

Eventually—

Sieun checked his phone.
“Appa says he won’t make it in time.”

Suho turned, brows lifting.
“What?”

“He had to go to Busan last minute. Work thing.”

Sieun didn’t sound bitter.

Just… resigned.

“He said sorry. He really wanted to see me off.”

Suho stared at him.
“So he’s not coming to the airport?”

Sieun shook his head.
“No.”

 

Suho blinked.
“Then I’ll hold extra tight.”

 

They didn’t speak after that.

They didn’t need to.

 

Suho followed him the entire time.

When Sieun rolled his suitcase toward the door—

Suho stopped him and grabbed it himself.

When they waited for the cab—

 

Suho sat way too close on the bench outside the apartment.

 

When the gang joined them—

 

No jokes.

No chaos.

 

Just a silent understanding that Suho wasn’t letting Sieun go until he absolutely had to.

In the cab.

Suho sat beside Sieun.

Their arms touched the entire ride.

Suho didn’t even blink when their knees stayed pressed.

He kept glancing at Sieun’s hand.

Like he wanted to hold it.

Like he didn’t know if he was allowed.

Sieun noticed.

Said nothing.

But he shifted his hand closer.

 

Didn’t hold back when Suho quietly laced their fingers together halfway to the airport.

 

Gotak watched from the rearview mirror.
“He’s not going to survive this flight.”

Juntae murmured:
“He’s not even surviving the cab.”

 

Baku, whispering:
“He’s never let go like that before.”

The cab slowed.
Terminal doors ahead.

And Suho’s heart?

It started racing.

Because now —

Now it wasn’t just “someday.”

It was now.

And the only thing holding him together…

Was still sitting beside him.

 

The terminal was bright. Too bright.

White walls. Glass ceilings.

People dragging suitcases. Kids running ahead of parents.

Too much life for a moment that felt like the end of a soft world they built together.

They walked together — all five.

Sieun’s carry-on rolling beside him.

Suho on his left, fingers twitching like he wanted to hold something.

Baku and Gotak carrying his snacks.

Juntae walking slightly behind, quieter than usual.

They stopped near the domestic departures gate.

Sieun had everything.

Passport. ID. Boarding pass.

All that was left…
was this.

Sieun turned to them.

Set his bag down.

Looked at each of their faces — one by one.

His voice was soft. Usual.

“Take care of yourselves, okay?”

Gotak blinked.

Baku immediately sniffled.

“You sound like you're never coming back,”

Gotak said, rubbing his nose.

“It’s three weeks, not military service.”

Sieun gave a faint smile.

Eyes steady.

“Still. Eat on time.”

“Don’t leave wet clothes on the floor.”

Gotak (saluting):
“Yes, General.”

 

Juntae just stared.

Didn’t say anything yet.

His jaw was tight.

Like he was trying really hard to keep it casual.

Trying not to say “I’m going to miss you more than I thought.”

Then Sieun turned to Suho.

Soft. Still.

Suho looked like he’d been holding his breath the entire way here.

Their eyes met.

Sieun gave him the faintest smile. The kind only Suho could read.

 

“Take care.”

Suho didn’t reply.
Just reached out—

Took both of Sieun’s hands in his.

Held them. Firm. Gentle.

 

Like if he let go too fast, it would shatter something inside him.

 

His voice barely above a whisper:
“I don’t want to say it.”

Sieun blinked.
“You don’t have to.”

 

And then Suho moved forward.

Slow. Quiet.

Wrapped his arms around Sieun’s shoulders.

 

Not crushing.

Not frantic.

Just... real.

The kind of hug that said:
I’ll still be standing here when you come back.

Sieun closed his eyes.

Let himself lean in for just a moment longer.

 

And whispered—
“You’ll be okay.”

 

“We’re just saying bye… to goodbye.”

 

Baku, loudly clearing his throat:
“Okay, listen, I have a speech.”

 

“This man—” he pointed dramatically at Sieun, “—has been the backbone of this household. The coffee restocker. The quiet judgment in the kitchen.”

 

Gotak added:
“Also: the one who pays the internet bill on time.”

 

Baku, continuing:
“While he’s away, I demand we maintain a level of dignity—”

 

“Okay I can’t finish that sentence without laughing.”

Sieun blinked.

“Just don’t burn the apartment down.”

Juntae stepped forward last.

Didn’t hug.

Didn’t say much.

Just placed a hand on Sieun’s shoulder.

“Come back safe.”

Sieun:
“Of course.”

And then—

He turned.

Grabbed his bag.

Gave one last look over his shoulder—

Eyes meeting Suho’s.

That look.

It said everything they weren’t ready to say.

He stepped into the gate.

The others didn’t move.
Not yet.

Suho stood still.

Hands open.

Empty.

Eyes on the spot where Sieun disappeared.

Notes:

JUNTAE is one of the sweetest and kindest person ever. So whatever he did, it wasn't intentional. He just wanted to tease Suho or teach a friendly lesson but instead Suho got hurt. It wasn't intentional on Juntae's part.

No one, not a single soul in their friend circle could ever hurt others.

The part where Sieun leaving was felt like he was leaving the country for like forever. But rest assured he is gonna comeback. But until that Suho is gonna suffer and remember all the past things that happened after he woke up.

 

Also I don't post everyday anymore. I so tired these days. I fell asleep instantly the moment my head hits to the pillow. But I try to post after every 2 days. This time it got little late. But you can subscribe to this story. And you will get notifications in your email whenever there will be an update.

Hope you liked the chapter. Let me know your thoughts on it.

I will be posting next chapter very very soon. Until then take care. Good night.

Chapter 33: It's Just a Voice, Right?

Notes:

I can’t tell you how happy your comments make me. The more you leave them, the more motivated I feel to write. So please let me know every single thought you have while reading this fic — literally anything! Even if it’s short or totally random, I’d love to read it. 💬

Also, to the reader whose birthday is on the 23rd — your wish is my command! 🎂💫 I feel so honored that someone asked for an update on their birthday. I’m actually going to mark it in my phone calendar so I get a reminder and won’t miss it!

And to the one who guessed right about Baku and Gotak — yes! I've been dropping hints for a while now. Something is definitely happening. 👀💥

I hope you will love this chapter. Happy reading! 💖📖

The apartment without Sieun.

The front door clicked shut behind them.

No one said anything for a long moment.

Shoes shuffled off.

Bags dropped.

Keys hit the counter.

The usual.

But it didn’t feel usual.

Not today.

Suho walked in last.

Still holding the hoodie Sieun had taken off at the airport security check, forgotten in the rush.

Still had the faint scent of his shampoo.

Juntae, quiet:
“We’re back.”

Gotak:
“You want food? Coffee?”

Baku:
“Suho?”

 

But Suho just… nodded.

Didn’t say anything.

And walked straight down the hallway.

 

He stopped outside Sieun’s room.

Door still slightly open.

Like he’d be back any second.

Suho stood there for a moment.

Then gently pushed the door open with his fingertips.

The room looked the same.

Perfectly made bed.

Hoodie thrown across the chair.

A folded pair of joggers on the desk.

But it felt different.

The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel peaceful.

It felt like pause.

Suho walked in.

Didn’t turn on the light.

Just stood there.

 

Eyes scanning the bookshelf.

 

The charger still plugged in.

 

The tiny cup where Sieun always put spare coins.

 

He placed the hoodie down on the pillow.

Sat on the edge of the bed.

Exhaled slowly.

The silence pressed in.

He didn’t cry.
Didn’t even frown.

He just looked around, like he was waiting for Sieun to walk back in.

Drop his bag.

Say something plain and perfect like—
“You’re in my spot.”

From the hallway—
A quiet voice.
Juntae.

“We’re gonna make tea.”
“Join when you’re ready.”

 

Suho didn’t respond.

Just stayed seated.

Fingers curling into the edge of the blanket.

 

Then — quietly, barely above a whisper:
“Come back soon…”

 

Suho didn’t sleep much that night.

He’d spent most of the evening half-lying in Sieun’s room, legs curled up on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.

The hoodie was still beside him.

The sheets smelled like detergent and faint lemon.

The others had eventually gone quiet.

No movie.
No chaos.

Just soft murmurs in the hallway.

Then silence.

And Suho, still not home in his chest.

 

It was sometime after 3:00 a.m.

The light from his phone dimmed on the nightstand.

 

His eyes were heavy, but they wouldn’t close.

The quiet kept whispering:

He’s gone.

He’s really gone.

Then—

His phone buzzed once.

No ringtone.

Just that small, almost unnoticeable vibration against the wood.

Suho blinked.

Reached out with one hand.

Unlocked.
One notification.

From: Sieunie ⁠♡
[1:42 a.m.]
landed.
plane food sucked.
people talk too much on 14hr flights.
i bought you the chocolate you like.

 

That was it.
No emojis.
No “wish you were here.”
No “I’m safe.”

 

Just… Sieun.

Dry. Tired.

But remembering Suho in the smallest, most intimate way possible.

Suho stared at the screen.

Eyes stinging now.

He hit reply.

Typed something.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Deleted again.

Then finally, with his thumbs slightly trembling—

[1:44 a.m.]
okay.
sleep.
i’m still holding your hoodie hostage.

 

There was no reply.
But he could picture Sieun reading it with that usual calm face.

Maybe lying in a hotel bed, one leg over the blanket, one earbud half-in.

Maybe smiling — just barely.

And for the first time in a whole day–

Suho exhaled.

Fully.

 

The clock read 2:13 a.m.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Even Baku’s usual midnight humming wasn’t drifting from the other room.

Juntae had turned off the hallway lamp.

The fort was long packed away.

And Suho?

Still awake.

He lay on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes.

But sleep didn’t come.

Not because of fear.

Not because of noise.

But because everything still smelled like Sieun.

That lemon-fresh detergent.

That soft paper scent from his books.

That quiet presence in the corner of the room that Suho didn’t realize he leaned on every day.

 

And then the flashbacks came.

Not like memories.

Like whispers.

He sees—

 

Sieun standing in the kitchen at 6:43 a.m.

Tying his hoodie strings with one hand while stirring instant coffee with the other.

Mumbling under his breath that Gotak never buys sugar.

 

He sees—

Sieun curled on the couch, one knee up, book balanced on it.

Wearing Suho’s hoodie because he’d spilled soup on his own.

 

Looking up and saying,

“Your music is too dramatic for 11 a.m.”
while Suho air-conducted a string quartet.

 

He sees—

 

Sieun in the laundry room.

 

Finding Suho’s shirt folded terribly and refolding it without saying anything.

 

Muttering,

 

“If this wrinkles, I’m not ironing it,”
while still smoothing every corner.

 

He sees—

Sieun sitting across from him, half-asleep, saying nothing.

Just breathing.
Just existing.

Like his presence was a language Suho had gotten fluent in without realizing.

 

Suho rolled over on the couch.
Eyes open.
Throat tight.

 

“I don’t know how to be in this house without you in it,”
he whispered to no one.

 

His phone buzzed once again.

Just a weather alert.

But for half a second—

He hoped it was Sieun.

Telling him some random fact.

Reminding him to turn off the stove.

 

Sending him a picture of airport ramen with the caption: "help."

 

But it wasn’t.
And Suho stayed there.

In the echo of what used to be everyday.

 

The room was still.

Suho had the blanket pulled up to his chin now, his face turned toward the window.

He had slipped into Sieun’s room again — quietly, like a habit he never meant to form.

And now, he hadn’t moved in over an hour.

 

Still lying in Sieun’s bed.
Still surrounded by Sieun’s silence.

Eyes open.
But sleep never came.

The door creaked slightly.
Then opened wider.

Juntae’s voice, soft from the hallway:
“Didn’t hear the usual snoring.”
“You good?”

Suho blinked.
Didn’t look back.

“Just… couldn’t sleep.”

Juntae stepped in, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

He didn’t say much.
Didn’t ask permission.

Just sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to pull the blanket.

The moonlight stretched between them.

They stayed like that for a while.

Neither of them filling the space.
Just existing in the quiet.

Until Suho finally whispered:

“He said bye like it was nothing.”

 

“Like he wasn’t even scared.”

 

Juntae nodded once.

Didn’t rush the reply.

 

“He was scared.”

 

“He just didn’t want you to be.”

 

Suho turned on his side.

His body curled in like it was trying to protect something already broken.

Eyes dull.

Voice soft — like it didn’t want to be heard, but needed to be said.

 

“I feel like I’m going to forget his voice.”

 

“Or the way he frowns when he’s concentrating.”

 

“Or that tiny sound he makes when Baku annoys him, but he doesn’t want to fight.”

 

Juntae let out a breath through his nose. It wasn’t a laugh. Just… ache in disguise.

 

“You won’t,” he said quietly.
“Because he never forgot yours.”

 

Suho blinked.

Turned his head slightly — not enough to look, but enough to ask:

“What do you mean?”

 

Juntae leaned forward.
Hands hanging between his knees.
Eyes on the floor.

“There’s something you don’t know.”
“Two weeks before you woke up… Sieun stopped being Sieun.”

 

His voice cracked — just a little.

“He didn’t eat much. Barely talked. Just… sat on the rooftop with your windbreaker pulled over him. The one with the frayed cuff.”

 

“He played that same playlist on loop. The one you always forced us to listen to.”

 

Suho’s throat clenched.
He didn’t speak.

Juntae’s voice got smaller, like the memory still lived in him.

“One night, exactly at 1:47 a.m., he texted me.”

 

A pause.

 

“Just three words.”

 

‘What if never.’

 

Suho’s eyes shut.
Tight.

 

Like he was trying to block it out and hold it in at the same time.

 

Juntae looked up, barely above a whisper.

 

“I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to call him. I wanted to go to him. But I didn’t know how to fix that.”

 

“And then… you did.”

 

“You woke up.”

 

The silence that filled the room was heavy.
Not awkward — just full.
Of pain. Of relief. Of all the things no one had said for too long.

 

Suho’s voice was barely there.

“He waited…”

 

Juntae nodded.

“Yeah.”
“And he’d do it again.”
“You matter that much.”

 

He stood — slowly.
Reached out.
Squeezed Suho’s shoulder once, like he was anchoring him to the world.

He turned to leave.

But Suho’s voice stopped him. Quiet. Croaky.

“Hey…”

 

Juntae turned.

“Thanks.”

 

Juntae smiled, soft and tired.

“You’d do the same for me.”

 

Suho didn’t respond.
He stayed curled up — eyes locked on nothing outside the window.

Then, so quiet it almost didn’t sound like a voice:

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive without him.”

 

Juntae frowned.
Tried to say it gently.

 

“Suho… it’s just three weeks.”

 

That broke it.

 

Suho turned away, fast — like he couldn’t bear to be seen cracking open.

 

“.....You don’t understand…...”

 

“......It’s not just three weeks…….”

 

He laughed — but it was hollow. Almost angry.
His eyes were glassy now, red around the edges.

 

“...You all probably think I’m being dramatic…”

 

“ …Clingy… Like some pathetic kid...”

 

A pause.

 

“...But you weren’t there when I woke up.”

 

“...Not really...”

 

“Even Sieun didn’t know I was awake at first. But the moment he found out…”

 

His voice cracked.

 

“He ran….. You all followed him, yeah… but he ran…..”

 

His hands clutched the blanket like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“After that… he never left….”

 

“Every single time I opened my eyes….he was there.”

 

He swallowed hard.

“When I couldn’t move…. he adjusted the pillows.”

 

“When I couldn’t talk….. he read my texts.”

 

“When I panicked….he held my hand.”

 

His voice dropped.

 

“He stayed up all night just to be there in case I needed water.”

 

“He brushed my damn hair, Juntae….”

 

“He fought with a nurse because she gave me the wrong porridge.”

 

A bitter, trembling laugh.

 

“Do you know how many times I wanted to give up?”

 

“How many times I hated myself for….. waking up?”

 

Silence.

 

His lips quivered. He didn’t wipe his tears this time.

 

“But he made it okay.”

 

“He made me okay.”

 

“Since the day I opened my eyes… I’ve never been alone.”

 

“Not once.”

 

He curled in tighter.

 

“And now you’re all telling me to just be normal? To go back to how things were?”

 

“Like this doesn’t feel like someone cut my lungs out?”

 

“So no, it’s not just three weeks.”

 

“It’s three weeks without the only person who made me feel human again.”

 

“Three weeks without the one person who….. who sat through the worst parts of me….. and didn’t flinch.”

 

He broke. Right there. No noise. Just tears.

The kind that don’t ask for pity.
The kind that mean something’s been shattered and quietly laid bare.

Juntae stood still.
His chest ached in a way he didn’t expect.

 

Then — softly:

 

“…We never thought you were overdramatic.”

 

“We just… didn’t know it hurt this much.”

 

Suho didn’t answer.
Didn’t turn around.
Didn’t have to.

 

But something in him — deep, wounded — finally let go of the thing it had been holding too tightly.

Just a little.

 

.
.
.

 

The room was dark.

Only the moonlight touched the pillow now.

Suho lay curled on his side, blanket tucked under his chin, one hand under his cheek.

 

He hadn’t moved in a while.

Sleep hadn’t come.

His fingers hovered above his phone.
Then tapped it open.

 

Sieun.

The chat was still pinned.

Top of the list.

Always.

But Suho had never scrolled far.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because he didn’t know if he could take it.

But tonight—

In Sieun’s bed, wrapped in his scent—

He needed it.

He scrolled.

Back.

Further.

Past the good morning.

Past the I’m at the hospital today.

Past the “you’d laugh at this.”

All the way to two years ago.

The day after he’d slipped into the coma.

 

The first message:

You’ll wake up.

 

No “hey.”
No panic.
Just that one line.

A promise.

 

He kept reading.

 

I told Halmoni not to worry. I’ll sit with you tomorrow. I’ll bring the rice cakes you like.

Cheek against the same pillow that once waited for Sieun’s silent grief.

He tried to read them all. He couldn’t. He didn’t need to. They were all saying the same thing: I’m still here.

It was almost 3:40 a.m.

Suho sat curled in Sieun’s bed.

Blanket half-pulled up.

Sleeves over his palms.

The only light in the room came from his phone.

The chat was open.

Sieun’s name at the top.

The tiny status below it: Last seen: 12:44 a.m.
But Suho wasn’t looking at that.
He was looking at the number.
Unread messages: 143,221
And that was after he’d read for almost two hours.

He scrolled.
And scrolled.
And scrolled.
The blue unread dots never ended.
Some were one-liners.
Some were paragraphs.
Some were entire day logs.

1:32 p.m.
Just got back from seeing you.
Your eyes didn’t twitch today.
I know that doesn’t mean anything.
But it meant something to me.

1:36 p.m.
There’s a couple in the waiting room arguing over baby names.
The girl wants to name him Suho.
She says it means guardian.
I think I’m going to cry.

1:44 p.m.
I did cry.

The timestamps weren’t daily.
They were minutes apart.
Sometimes seconds.
Like Sieun couldn’t breathe unless he was typing.

1:52 p.m.
I saw your hand move.
Maybe it was nothing.
But I believed in it.
I believe in you.
I believe in you.
I believe in you.

 

1:52 p.m.
I believe in you.
I believe in you.

1:53 p.m.
I believe in you.

Suho dropped the phone for a second.
Eyes burning.
Heart pounding.
He grabbed it again.
Kept reading.

8:01 p.m.
You’re still asleep.
I told the nurse I’d be back in the morning.
But I’ll stay nearby.
I’m not going far.
You’ve been gone long enough for both of us.

The messages never ended.
They came during—
The morning coffee
The train rides
The 3:00 a.m. breakdowns
The silences where no one else was around
The weeks he stopped talking to the others
The days he felt like a ghost

Suho tried to scroll to the bottom.
Just to see how far it went.
But he couldn't.
It crashed the app.
Twice.
When it finally reopened—
He saw one line at the top:
“This conversation is too long. Some messages may not be displayed.”

He let out a soft, broken laugh.
“Of course they are.”
“Of course you filled the whole sky.”

Suho didn’t try again.
He didn’t need to.
Because whether it was the first message or the millionth—
They all said the same thing:
“I was here.
And I was waiting for you.”

He curled into the blanket.
Placed the phone on his chest.
Didn’t turn off the screen.
Didn’t need to.

 

And suddenly his thumb moved on its own. Two years of their messages blurred by, unread. Just... passing. Like everything else.

 

Baku tried to sneak in a Bluetooth speaker to play NCT but I told him you’d hate that. You're welcome.

 

You’re missing a whole semester. Do you know how mad that makes me? I have to explain everything when you wake up.

 

Suho smiled faintly.
His eyes stung.
But he smiled.

 

I wore your hoodie. It’s the only one with sleeves that aren’t enormous.

 

I cleaned your room. Don’t be weird about it.

 

I keep playing that one song. The one you made fun of me for crying to. Now I cry to it more. You win.

 

The doctors still don’t know. I keep nodding like I understand. I don’t.

 

Come back. Just for a second. Just enough to roll your eyes at me.

 

Suho exhaled.
Long. Quiet.
His thumb kept scrolling.
Tears didn't fall.
But they sat behind his eyes, just waiting.

 

Gotak said you’d want me to sleep. I told him sleep feels stupid right now.
If you wake up and you hear this, it’s okay. I wasn’t mad. Not for one second.
Even if you stay asleep forever. I’ll still talk to you. Every day.

 

That one.
That message.
That one knocked the breath out of him.
Suho turned onto his back.
Stared at the ceiling.
Phone resting on his chest.

 

He whispered, barely audible:
“I’m sorry I made you wait.”

 

He kept scrolling until the text blurred.
Until the ache softened.
Until the phone slipped from his hand.

Until finally—
he fell asleep.

 

Breathing slow.

 

And then, finally—
Suho slept.
Not because he was tired.
But because for the first time since the airport,
he felt Sieun’s love still wrapped around him.
In digital ink.
In breathless floods.
In every unread word.

 

.
.
.

 

Late morning.

 

The apartment was still half-asleep.

Kitchen light off.

Hallway quiet.

Heater humming.
But in Sieun’s room—
Suho was wide awake.
Still curled under the blanket.
Still staring at his phone.
Still lost in Sieun’s thousands of messages.
Eyes red.

Thumb frozen on one line:
“If you come back, I’ll buy you a whole bookstore. Or steal one. Whatever.”

His breath hitched.
He tried to blink it away.
Didn’t work.
A tear slipped down.
Then another.
And then—
The door opened.

“Yo, I brought leftover chips—”

Baku stopped mid-step.
Saw Suho.
Phone clutched to his chest.
Eyes glassy.
Mouth pressed tight like he was trying not to sob.
Baku blinked.
Paused.

Then—

“...Am I interrupting a mental breakdown or a rom-com rewatch?”

 

Suho sniffed.
Didn’t respond.
Just rolled slightly toward the wall, trying to hide his face.
Wrong move.

Because that’s when Baku launched the chip bag at him.
Right to the back of the head.

 

“No ghosting me with your sadness. That’s illegal in this house.”

Suho let out a half-laugh, half-snort.
Wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“A very empathetic asshole,” Baku corrected, plopping down at the foot of the bed.

He didn’t ask what Suho was reading.
Didn’t need to.
He knew.

“You went into the archive, huh?”

Suho nodded.

 

“I didn’t even finish one month.”

 

Baku whistled.

 

“You know he wrote you like a blog, right?”

“We used to take bets on how many texts he sent a day.”

 

“Gotak said 100. I said 400.”

“Turned out it was, like, 900.”

 

Suho stared.

 

“Are you serious?”

“Dead. Juntae made a pie chart.”

Baku leaned back on his hands.
Looked up at the ceiling.
Voice softer now.

“He never gave up on you.”

“Even when we kinda did. Even when the doctors did.”

“He never… flinched.”

 

Suho looked down.
Voice barely above a whisper:

 

“I don’t know how to carry that.”

“That kind of love.”

Baku smiled gently.

“You don’t have to carry it.”

“Just… hold it.”

“Like you’re doing right now.”

 

There was a pause.

Then Baku, back to chaos mode:

 

“Anyway, stop crying. He’s not dead.”

 

“He’s just in a time zone where your clingy ass can’t reach.”

 

“Yet.”

 

Suho laughed for real this time.
It cracked in his chest.
But it felt like air rushing back in.
He tossed a pillow at Baku’s head.
Baku caught it.
Snorted.

 

“There he is. Our emotionally constipated octopus.”

 

.
.
.

 

The sunlight came in warm.
Soft golden streaks across the tile.
Mugs half-filled on the counter.
Someone’s sock near the fridge for unknown reasons.
Baku stood in front of the stove like a warrior.
One spatula.
One pan.
Zero experience.

 

“Okay. Hear me out.”
“We make a proper breakfast.”
“As a tribute.”

Gotak, yawning into his hoodie sleeve:
“To whom?”

 

Baku (dead serious):
“To our legally adopted silent father. Who left us.”

 

Juntae appeared from the hallway, rubbing his eyes:
“You mean Sieunie?”

 

Suho, dragging himself in with bed hair and half a voice:
“He’s not dead. He just flew Lufthansa.”

 

They gathered.
Sleepy.
Mismatched pajamas.
But hearts in the right place.

 

“Let’s make pancakes,” Baku announced.

“From scratch,” Gotak added, trying to sound wise.

Suho, flatly:
“We have no flour.”

Baku:
“Do we need it?”

Juntae:
“You mean for pancakes?? Yes???”

They compromised.
Kind of.

“We’ll make toast.”
“Fancy toast.”
“With feelings.”

Gotak started slicing bread.
Crooked. Thick. Unapologetic.

Baku buttered the pan.
Too much butter. Like, way too much.

Suho cut up strawberries in a daze.
Didn’t realize he was smiling until Juntae nudged him.

“You okay?”

Suho nodded once.

“Better.”
“He’d laugh at us for this.”
“Then eat the biggest slice.”

 

They made—
Burnt toast
Over-syruped strawberries
Slightly suspicious scrambled eggs
And one perfectly folded omelet (because Suho insisted “he likes it that way”)

When they finally sat at the table—
Baku raised his mug.

“To Yeon Sieun.”
“May Germany treat him well.”
“And may he never find someone who makes better toast than us.”

 

They all clinked.
Suho included.
And for a moment—
with sunlight on their faces, and terrible toast on their plates—
it felt like he was still there.
Not gone.
Just stepped out for a bit.

 

.
.
.

 

Evening.

The apartment was alive and borderline lawless.

Gotak was deep in an argument with the rice cooker.

Baku was trying to fry something in cola.

Juntae was yelling from the hallway like the house was haunted:
“WHO PUT A TOWEL IN THE FREEZER?!”

 

Suho sat on the floor, back to the couch, hoodie sleeves over his palms.
Quiet.
Distant.
Just… waiting.

Then — his phone buzzed.

Voice message from: Sieunie ♡
0:44

He instantly sat up straighter.

“Shut up,” he said, too softly at first.
No one heard.

 

“SHUT. UP.”

That worked.
The kitchen went silent.
Even the rice cooker beeped politely.
Suho plugged in his earphones.
Pressed play.

Sieun’s voice filled his chest.

“Couldn’t message again yesterday.
Signal here’s been trash. Might stay that way.”

“I’m okay.

“Don’t eat those frozen noodles three days in a row.”
“Tell Baku the next time he leaves eggs out, I’ll haunt him.”
“Tell Gotak the plant is dying because he’s ignoring it, not because of the sunlight.”
“I found that weird chocolate bar you used to steal.
If customs lets me through, it’s yours.”

 

That was it.
Simple. Classic Sieun.
But… something lingered at the end.

A voice.
In the background.
Soft. Female. Familiar.

“Sieun—did you check the bookstore you marked yesterday?”

Then laughter.
Light. Kind.

But it hit Suho like a shadow brushing past the back of his neck.

He replayed it.
Slower.
The voice was gentle.
And weirdly familiar.
Like a hallway you’d walked through once in a dream.

“Do you guys recognize that voice?” Suho asked quietly.

The others blinked.
Juntae raised an eyebrow.

“Whose?”

“At the end. The girl.”

 

They all leaned in, crowded around the phone.
Suho hit replay.
This time out loud.

“—bookstore you marked yesterday?”

Silence.

Gotak:
“That sounds familiar.”

Baku:
“Like someone from our year?”

Juntae, frowning:
“Maybe from campus? One of the literature electives?”

Suho whispered:
“Why does it feel like I know her?”

 

The silence that followed wasn’t loud.
It didn’t scream jealousy.
It hummed confusion.
Just a voice.
Not explained.
Not introduced.
Not mentioned.
Just… there.
In the background of a message that was otherwise full of Suho’s name.

 

And one more thing.
Juntae said it first.

“He didn’t ask about me.”

Everyone looked over.

Suho blinked.
“What?”

 

Juntae’s voice was flat, not bitter.
“He always does.
Every time. ‘How’s Juntae doing?’ ‘Did he fix his dumb lamp yet?’”
“This time he didn’t.”

Suho stared at the message.
The chocolate line was still open on screen.
But he wasn’t reading anymore.
He was listening to that voice.
On repeat.
Trying to find the name behind it.
And for the first time since Sieun left—
he felt like there was a part of this trip
he wasn’t supposed to know.

 

Suho put the phone down carefully.
Like if he moved too fast, something fragile might break.

“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Probably someone
“Some random girl.”

The gang just… stared.

Baku, lying sideways on the couch:
“Totally. Just some random girl who talks to him like they had dinner plans since yesterday.”

 

Gotak, nodding dramatically:
“Happens to me all the time. Strangers just whisper near my phone like we’re best friends.”

Suho’s voice sharpened a little.
“I said it’s nothing.”

They all blinked.
Juntae, calm as ever, folded his arms.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t argue.
Just watched Suho — like he was waiting for him to catch up.

 

Later that night —

The others had collapsed in the living room, half-asleep in blankets and leftover snack wrappers.
Suho sat alone in the kitchen.
Blank mug in hand.
Phone on the table.
Earbuds beside it.
The voice was still in his head.
Not Sieun’s.
Hers.

 

Footsteps.
Juntae appeared.
No words at first.
Just poured himself water. Sat opposite.
Waited.

Finally:
“You’re still thinking about it.”

Suho didn’t lift his head.

“It’s dumb.”
“Just a voice.”
“Just some bookstore thing.”
“She said something about a bookstore.”
“I’m not even sure who it is.”

 

Juntae’s voice was calm.

“But your gut is.”
“Your gut knows that voice. And that it matters.”

Silence again.
Then:

Juntae leaned forward.

“Can I ask you something?”

Suho looked up.
Eyes tired. Guarded.

 

“What?”

Juntae, softly:

 

“If someone made you smile while Sieun was gone—”

“Would you tell him?”

That did it.
Suho blinked.
Then blinked again.
His hands tightened around the empty mug.

“I…”
“I wouldn’t smile like that.”

Juntae, quiet:
“But if you did?”

Suho didn’t answer.
Because he knew the truth.
And the truth felt a lot like panic now.

 

Later that night — after Juntae’s question.

Suho was lying in Sieun’s bed.
Still not touching the other pillow.
Phone on his chest.
The voice still echoing:

“Sieun, did you check that bookstore?”

He opened the chat.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Paused.

You okay?
No. Too basic.
Backspace.

Did you go to the place you said you would?
What place?
He didn’t say a place.
Backspace.

Someone in the background of your message sounded familiar lol.

No lol. There’s no lol.

Backspace again.

 

He stared at the screen.

Typed one last time:

How’s the weather there?
Do you like it?
Eat properly. And don’t forget to come home.

He hovered over send.
Paused.
Then—sent.
Closed the phone immediately.
Buried his face in the blanket.

“What am I doing…”

 

.
.
.

 

The next morning — 9:17 a.m.

 

Suho was on the couch. Hoodie up. Face blank. Phone in hand.

 

His thumb tapped the screen every 45 seconds.

Checking.
Checking again.
Still no reply.

The gang?
Watching him like a nature documentary.

 

Gotak, whispering behind a cushion:
“He’s checking again. That’s 12 times in 10 minutes.”

 

Baku:
“That’s light work. He’s not even scrolling. Just tapping.”

 

Juntae:
“If he taps once more, I’m staging a full-blown emotional kidnapping.”

 

Suho, flatly:
“I can hear you.”

 

Baku:
“Great. We were whispering for dramatic effect, not secrecy.”

 

Then they moved in.
Baku grabbed the phone.
Suho didn’t fight back fast enough.

“Let’s see what the octopus typed.”

Gotak leaned over.
“Did he send a selfie? Did he send a sad emoji? Did he—wait.”

 

“Is that a message about the weather?!”

Juntae facepalmed.

“You’re unwell.”

Suho groaned.

“Give it back.”

 

Baku held it over his head.

“You’re seriously flirting like it’s a weather report?!”
“He’s in Germany, not a weather balloon!”

 

Gotak cackling in the background:

“'Eat properly and come home' — bro, he’s not in the military!”

 

Suho finally snatched the phone back.
Face red.
Not from anger.
From how real this all suddenly felt.

The room quieted a little.
Then:
Juntae, soft again, sitting next to him:
“You sent it?”

Suho nodded.
“He didn’t reply yet.”
“But I didn’t really expect him to.”

 

Juntae looked at him.
“Yes, you did.”

 

.
.
.

 

Midday.

 

Suho was curled up on the far end of the couch again.

This time, hoodie wrapped around his hands, headphones in.

The boys were fake-fighting over a charger in the background.

Then it buzzed.
His screen lit up.

 

Sieunie ⁠♡: Voice message – 0:27

Suho stared at it for a full five seconds before breathing.
Then hit play.

 

Sieun’s voice.
Calm. Crisp. Tired, maybe. But still... him.

“Sorry I didn’t reply earlier. I was in transit most of the day.”
“The weather here’s cold.
You’d hate it.”
“I had that chocolate.
Still not worth the drama you caused when I last bought it.”

A pause.

Then — quietly:
“I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t get used to quiet mornings.”

 

That was it.
No ‘miss you.’
No explanation.
But to Suho?

That line hit.
“Don’t get used to quiet mornings.”

He stared at the screen like it was a memory trying to speak.
And for a second, it was enough.

 

.
.
.

 

Later that evening.

 

Juntae was laughing at something on his phone.
Suho was mid-yawn when Juntae looked up.

“Hey, Suho—someone posted this in the class group chat.”

“They spotted him near Berlin Central.”

 

He turned the phone around.
Suho froze.

The photo wasn’t posed.
Sieun was sitting by a huge café window.
Sunlight hitting his cheek.
Expression neutral. Head tilted slightly.
Eyes lost in whatever book he was holding.
Beautiful. Effortlessly.
His hair was slightly messy.
He looked... soft. Warm. Unreachable.

 

But Suho wasn’t focused on that.
His eyes scanned the photo.
His heart dropped.
In the reflection of the window behind Sieun—
A blur.
Not full. Not clear.
Just part of a shoulder.
A soft coat.
A familiar curve of hair pulled behind one ear.
Just enough.
Enough to remind Suho of a voice.
“Sieun—did you check that bookstore?”

His stomach twisted.
Juntae didn’t notice.
But Suho looked closer.
Paused. Zoomed in.

“No way,” he muttered.

Baku:
“What?”

Suho handed him the phone.
“Tell me I’m overthinking.”

Baku squinted.
Paused.
Then blinked.

“Bro… is that—?”

Suho just nodded.
“I think it’s her.”

Sohye.

 

.
.
.

 

It was nearly 1:00 a.m.
The apartment was quiet again.
Soft rain outside.
That faint buzz of someone charging their phone nearby.
Suho was in Sieun's room.
Lying in bed.
Phone on his chest.
Sieun’s candid photo still open.
He stared at it like it might speak back.
Then—
He opened his messages.

Searched:

Juntae

Typed:
Can I ask you something?

He paused.

Then added:
Privately. Don’t tell the others.

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Then:
Yeah. I’m awake. Want to talk here or in person?

 

Suho just replied:
Here.

 

After a minute, he finally wrote it.

That photo you showed me…
There’s someone in the reflection. I think it’s Sohye.

Another pause. He added:
I’m not mad. I just—
why didn’t he tell me?

 

The reply came after a minute.

 

I don’t know.
But not telling doesn’t mean hiding.
Not always.

 

Suho stared.

 

Then:
But he always tells me everything.
Even small stuff.
Even stupid stuff.
He once texted me when his plant got a new leaf.
So why not this?

 

There was no reply for a while.
Then Juntae sent just one message.

 

Maybe it’s not about what he didn’t say.
Maybe it’s about what you haven’t.

 

Suho didn’t reply to that.
Because it felt… too right.

 

2:17 a.m.
Baku was thirsty.
Dragged himself to the kitchen.

On the way back, he noticed the faintest light leaking from the shared room.
He pushed the door open slowly.

Suho was still awake.
Sitting on the edge of the bed.
Blanket wrapped around his legs.
Phone in his hands.
The same photo still open.
Not zoomed in this time.

Just… open

Staring.

Baku didn’t say anything at first.
Then quietly stepped in and sat beside him.

 

“Still looking at it?”

Suho didn’t respond right away.

Then:
“Yeah.”

Baku leaned back on his palms.
“You waiting for it to explain itself?”

 

Suho gave a tiny laugh.
It cracked.

“Kind of.”
“I know it’s stupid.
It’s just a reflection. A blur.”
“But she was there.”
“And he didn’t say she would be.”

Baku was quiet.

Then:
“Do you want to ask him?”

Suho shook his head.
“No.”
“Because I’m scared the answer will sound normal.”
“And I’ll still feel like this anyway.”

 

.
.
.

 

Past 2 a.m.

The apartment was silent.
The faint whir of the fan.
The sound of Suho’s breath — uneven.
He hadn’t slept.
Not really.
Not since Sieun left.
And when he did drift off, he woke gasping.
Because in his dreams, he saw the day Sieun stopped messaging.
In his dreams, Sieun gave up.

But the messages were still there.
Still unread.
Still untouched.
Lakhs.
When he opened the thread, the app lagged.
It didn’t know what to do with that much love.

143,118 unread.

And he’d been trying every night.

Still nowhere near the bottom.
Because there were days Sieun had sent hundreds. Just as Baku said.
One for every minute Suho didn’t wake up.

 

Tonight, Suho opened one from Year Two.

 

Day 621 – You twitched your left finger.
I told the nurse. She didn’t believe me.
I did. That’s enough.

Another.

Day 622 – If you wake up and you’ve forgotten me, I’ll reintroduce myself.
Hi. I’m the idiot who never stopped talking to your ghost.

Another.

Day 622 – Update: I cried again.
Halmoni said you’d be mad if I dehydrated.
So I drank juice. It was gross.
I finished it.

 

Another.

Day 622 – There’s so much I didn’t say when you could hear me.
So now I’m saying it all.
So if you ever come back, I don’t forget.

 

Suho’s hand shook.
He clicked out of the chat.
Then back in again.
Like he could make Sieun reappear faster.

 

He curled into the blanket.
But it didn’t feel warm.
The silence in the apartment was too still without Sieun’s rustling papers, low hums, the way his footsteps passed by Suho every night at the same time—

“He even paced like clockwork,” Suho whispered.

 

Tonight, he tried to sleep again.
He really tried.
But when he finally dozed off—
The nightmares came.
Sieun turning away at the airport.
Sieun smiling at someone else.
Sieun not texting.
Silence.
And then Suho woke up.
Sweaty.
Shaking.
Alone.

He sat up.
Lit the screen.
Went to the chat.
Clicked randomly.
Didn’t read the date.
Just let Sieun’s message land.

“I was scared today.
More than usual.
So I’m writing you more than usual.
So I don’t drown.”

Suho stared.
And whispered:
“Same.”

 

He lay back down.
Phone pressed to his chest.
Screen glowing against his hoodie.
Still counting the days.
Still failing to sleep.
Still reading lakhs of unread messages from a boy who never stopped waiting—
While he waits now, for just one reply a day.

 

3:17 a.m.
The room was dim.
Desk lamp on low.
Blanket half-kicked to the floor.
Suho sat hunched over his notebook.
Phone beside him.
Open to Sieun’s message archive.
But tonight?
He wasn’t reading only.
He was writing.

 

At the top of the page:

“Sieun’s Trip — Countdown”

 

Underneath, in tight black pen:

Total days away: 21
Today’s date: Day 2
Days remaining: 19

He drew a little square around the number 2.

 

Then scribbled next to it:
“I didn’t sleep again.
Had a dream that you came back early.
It felt so real I cried when I woke up.”

 

“Two days without you.
How the hell did you survive 700.”

 

He reached for his phone again.
Not to message.
Just to feel close.
Opened Sieun’s chat.
Flicked through the unread messages — still in lakhs.
And picked one.
Random.
From the coma days.

 

Day 7 – I folded your hoodie today. You’re not even cold. I just needed to do something that felt like caring.

Suho exhaled shakily.

Then wrote:

“It’s only Day 2.
I’m already folding your side of the blanket like you’re still in it.”

He flipped back to the calendar page.
Circled “Day 2.”
Paused.
Then whispered to himself:
“Just 19 more.
Just 19.
You’ll come back. You promised.”

But he still didn’t lie down.
He didn’t even try to sleep.
Because even on Day 2—
the silence already felt too long.

 

.
.
.

 

Morning. Day 3.

The apartment was noisy again.
Not loud — just... comfortably lived in.
Toothpaste caps clinking.
Kettle hissing.
Gotak swearing at the cereal box for being “empty and dramatic.”

Suho sat on the couch.
One leg tucked under him.
A piece of toast in one hand, barely touched.
He looked okay.
Not happy.
Not broken.
Just... unfinished.

Juntae walked past with a cup of tea.

“You okay?”
Suho nodded.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

A beat later—

Baku shouted from the kitchen:
“Hey, Suho! Did you shut the balcony last night?”

 

Suho blinked.

 

Without thinking, he turned slightly and called out:

 

“Hey, Sieun—did you—”

 

He stopped.
The room stilled for half a second.
There was no Sieun.
There was no reply.
Just the hum of the fridge.
Suho blinked at the floor.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

 

“I forgot.”

 

No one said anything.
Not even Baku.
They just… continued.
Softly.

 

.
.
.

 

Later That Day — 6:23 p.m.

The message came without warning.
Voice message from: Sieunie ♡
0:06

No caption. No greeting. Just those six seconds.
Suho was in the shared bedroom when it landed.
Lying on Sieun’s side of the bed again.
Their hoodie beside him.
He hit play.

 

“Don’t forget to keep the balcony window locked.”

“You always forget.”

 

That was it.
No "hi."
No "I miss you."
Just a reminder.
A tiny, ordinary thing.
And Suho...
Lost it.

 

He didn’t sob.
He didn’t break down.
But his eyes burned.
His breath caught.
Because even now—
Even far away—
Sieun was still taking care of him.
Still remembering what Suho always forgot.
Still making sure the wind didn’t get in at night.
Still anchoring him to the little rituals of being loved.

 

Suho whispered to the screen:
“I locked it. Not last night but today.
You’d be proud.”

 

.
.
.

 

11:58 p.m.
Suho sat in bed, scrolling blankly through a playlist.
The lamp was on.
The room was warm.
But inside?
He was fraying.
He hadn’t written in the notebook.
Not yet.
He thought about it around 7 p.m.
Then again at 10.
Then said: I’ll do it before I sleep.
Now the clock ticked past 12:00.
And it hit him.
He forgot.

He scrambled up.
Threw off the blanket.
Pulled open the drawer.
Notebook. Pen. Calendar.
The last written entry?
“Day 2.”
No “Day 3.”
The square was empty.
Uncircled.
Unacknowledged.
His hands trembled.

“Shit—shit—I’m sorry,” he whispered.
As if Sieun could hear him.
As if not writing it down meant he’d disappeared.

He grabbed the pen.
Wrote:
Day 3: I forgot. I’m sorry. I miss you. I won’t forget again.
Then circled it five times.
And finally…
Breathed.
But sleep?
Didn’t come.

 

.
.
.

 

The next morning.

Everyone was shuffling around the apartment.
Juntae quietly making tea.
Gotak brushing his teeth while talking to himself.
Suho was back at the couch.
Notebook on his lap.
Phone in his hand.
Staring at the last message Sieun sent.
Replaying it in his head.
Baku sat beside him.
Eating chips.

“You okay?” he asked.
Suho nodded, faintly.

“You know…” Baku said after a long pause, eyes still on the ceiling.
His voice was softer now. Not teasing. Just… there.

“He used to message you, right? Every day. When you were out.”

 

Suho blinked.
His hand stilled on the bedsheet.

“What?”

 

Baku sat up slightly, arms looped around his knees.
Still casual. But his voice didn’t quite match his posture.

“I mean… he never stopped. Even when it felt pointless. He just kept sending them.” “Some were long. Some were just one word. But he needed to feel like you were still there.”

 

A beat.

“Maybe…”
“Maybe you should try it too.”

 

Suho looked down at his phone.

“I don’t think he’ll see them.”

 

Baku shrugged, but gently.

“Did you?” “When he sent all of his? Did you see them?”

 

Silence.

“It wasn’t about replies, Suho. It was about staying connected. About not drowning in the silence.”

 

Suho didn’t reply.

He just unlocked his phone.

Opened the chat.

Stared at it for a second.

Then typed:

You’d hate how quiet the room is today.

 

Sent.

Waited.

7 seconds later—

I’m sitting where you usually sit.
It doesn’t feel the same.

 

Sent.

I forgot to write last night.
I freaked out.
It felt like I lost you.

 

Sent.

Then—

He didn’t stop.

Just like Sieun used to.

One after another. Small, simple fragments of breath.

I’m still using your mug.
I watered your plant. It’s not dying. You were dramatic.
I’m scared I’ll get used to this.
I don’t want to.
You once sent 143,000 messages.
I can try.

 

He didn’t expect a reply.
Didn’t want one.

He just needed to keep the line open.
To remind the silence that he still remembered how to speak.
Even if only to the ghost of someone who’d never really left.

 

.
.
.

 

Evening. Day 4.

 

It had been a weirdly quiet evening.
Suho hadn’t been himself all day.
His face looked okay — no tears, no drama.
But his energy?
Too still.
The gang noticed.
Of course they did.

“He’s vibrating sadness,” Baku had whispered.

Gotak nodded like a therapist.
Juntae just kept sitting near him, not pushing — just being there.

 

8:04 p.m.

The screen lit up:
Incoming Video Call: Sieunie ♡

The boys froze mid-snack.

Baku: “PICK. IT. UP.”

Suho’s thumb hovered, heart stuttering.
Then — he tapped accept.
The screen filled with warmth.

Sieun.

Hair a little longer. Hoodie loose.
Messy background, soft lighting.
But the moment he saw Suho, his face shifted.

 

“You look terrible.”

 

No sarcasm. No playfulness.
Just Sieun. Honest and blunt.
Suho blinked.

Then laughed.

 

“Thanks. I missed that tone.”

 

Sieun tilted his head slightly.
“Did you sleep last night?”

Suho looked away.

“Define sleep.”

 

Sieun’s brow furrowed, just a little.

The gang immediately clustered behind Suho like nosy cats.

Baku:
“SIEUN-IEEEEE!”

Gotak (pointing at Suho):
“He’s been sleeping in your bed like a widowed housewife.”

Juntae, sipping tea calmly:
“It’s Day 4 and he’s already replayed your last voice note 36 times.”

 

Sieun blinked.
“That’s concerning.”

Suho whispered:
“They’re exaggerating.”

Baku:
“We’re underplaying it.”

They talked for a while.
Soft, simple, stupid things.
Baku’s cereal war with Gotak.
Juntae getting a package with Suho’s name.
Suho overwatering the plant (“It’s dying,” Sieun said flatly).

But every time Suho spoke, Sieun looked right at him.
Not blinking much. Not smiling wide.
Just... present.
Completely present.

And Suho?

He hadn’t stopped watching him.
Like he was scared the call would end too fast.
Like blinking might miss something.

Then, it happened.
A soft voice behind Sieun:
“Sieun, the train map you printed—”
Sohye stepped into view.
Messy bun. Oversized sweater. Notebook in hand.
She noticed the screen.

“Oh! Sorry—didn’t realize you were still on.
Hi, Suho!”
The world shifted.
Suho blinked.
Smiled — but the corners didn’t quite lift.

“Hey.”

 

Baku slowly sat back.
Gotak stopped chewing.
Juntae’s eyes didn’t leave Suho.

Sieun barely moved.
Just looked at her and said quietly:

“It’s in my bag. Side pocket.”

Sohye lingered.
Smiling.

 

“You guys are cute. The call’s been on forever.”

“I caught the plant fight. Iconic content.”

 

Suho’s hands tightened slightly on the phone.
“Yeah. Gotak’s dramatic.”

Gotak nudged his ankle, softly.

 

“Don’t shrink now,” he whispered under his breath.

Sieun’s eyes drifted back to the screen.
To Suho.
And he noticed it — the shift.
How Suho had gone quieter.
Shoulders tenser.
Smile dimmer.
Sieun didn’t say anything.
But he saw it.
Even as Sohye was still in frame.
Even as the others pretended to chatter.
Sieun’s gaze never left Suho.

 

Sohye was still in the frame.
Talking sweetly. Smiling.
Clearly unaware of how the mood had changed.

“I mean, your place must feel empty without him, right?” she said, glancing at Suho.
“You two were like—glued together.”
Suho’s smile stayed frozen.
“Yeah... glued.”
His eyes dropped to the floor.
Just for a second.
But Sieun saw it.

He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t pause.
Didn’t even sigh.

He simply looked at Sohye and said, gently:
“You should head back. It’s getting late.”

Sohye blinked.
“Oh—right. I just wanted to give you that file—”

“You did,” Sieun said.

Still soft.
But final.

“Thanks.”

She looked at him.
Then at Suho.
Something flickered in her eyes, like she almost realized.
But she didn’t ask.
She just nodded and disappeared from the frame.

For a few seconds—
Silence.
The tension didn’t break.
Not right away.
Suho was still quiet.
Then—

Sieun spoke.
“You look tired too.”
Not an accusation.
Not even concern.
Just a statement.
A mirror.
Suho finally looked up at the screen.
And this time?
It was just them.
The way it should be.

 

The call ended with a soft click.
No dramatic goodbyes.

Just:
“Sleep. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

And then the screen went dark.

Suho didn’t move.
He was still sitting in the same spot on the floor, legs folded, phone on his knee.
Eyes wide.
Blank.
Like he was trying to hold onto the last frame of Sieun’s face—
And terrified it would blur.

The gang was scattered around him.
No one said anything at first.
Not even Baku.
Gotak looked up from the snack bag.
Juntae glanced over the rim of his mug.
And slowly—
Juntae stood.
Walked over.
Sat down beside Suho.
No dramatic gesture.
No arm around him.
Just sat there.
Quiet.
Solid.

 

The kind of presence that says:
“You’re not alone. Even now.”

Finally—
Suho spoke.
Soft. Not looking up.

“He sent her away.”

A beat.

“Just like that.”

Baku let out a low whistle.

“Didn’t even flinch. Man said ‘thank you, now get out’ without blinking.”

 

Gotak:
“He could’ve said ‘scram,’ and it’d still sound polite.”

 

Suho blinked. Still dazed.
“He didn’t have to.”
“He just… saw I was uncomfortable. And he did it.”

Juntae, calmly:
“He always sees you.”

 

Baku:
“That’s his superpower.”
“Looking like a library ghost but being emotionally clairvoyant.”

Suho finally smiled.
Small. Tired.
But it was real.

“I really thought he wouldn’t notice.”

 

Gotak tossed him a cushion.
“He always notices you.”
“Even when we’re all screaming in the background, he looks at you.”

 

Baku, grinning:
“He looked at you while Sohye was talking.”

 

Juntae added quietly:
“Especially while she was talking.”

 

They all sat there for a while.
In that stillness.
No grand plan.
No chaos.
Just warmth.
Because sometimes?
It only takes one tiny act—
To remind you you're still chosen.

 

.
.
.

 

1:17 a.m.

Suho was in bed.
Still awake.
Wrapped in Sieun’s blanket, curled close to the edge of the mattress where Sieun usually slept.
The soft patter of rain outside blurred into the silence of the room.
His phone was on the pillow beside him.
Screen dim. Chat thread open.
He’d stopped messaging for the night.
Tried to.
But he kept opening the thread.
Scrolling.
Rereading what he’d sent earlier.
Then—
A buzz.
1 new message – Sieunie ♡

Suho’s eyes widened.

He unlocked his phone with shaky fingers.
The message:
“Sorry if the call was weird.”
“Didn’t mean for it to be.”

He exhaled.
Didn’t even realize he was holding his breath.
Another ping.

“You don’t have to keep messaging every minute.”

A beat.
Then:

“But if it helps...”
“I’ll read every other one.”

Simple.
Unsentimental.
Exactly like Sieun.

But Suho felt his eyes sting.
Not because it was poetic.
But because it was true.
Because even from halfway across the world,
even through a screen,
even without promises or grand gestures—

Sieun was still listening.

Suho didn’t reply right away.
He just stared at the text.

Then whispered into the blanket:
“You always knew how to stay.”

Notes:

It might feel like Suho is dragging things out for no reason — but I just want to make it clear: he's too attached to Sieun. He’s used to him in ways even he doesn’t fully realize. And I really hope I was able to show a glimpse of that in this chapter. 🥺

This was just a small peek into how far gone Suho really is. The upcoming chapters will make it all clearer — these messages are just the trailer. The real movie is yet to come. 🎬💭

Honestly, writing this track let me explore so many new things emotionally. And whatever I’ve written, I truly believe — if something like this happened, this is exactly how they’d behave. It just fits them.

Chapter 34: Still Here, But Not Really

Notes:

One of my favorite (and adorably curious) readers recently asked how long this fic will be. And honestly... even I don’t know 😅 My imagination runs way too wild — I’ve already pictured Suho and Sieun’s first night together and so many other chaotic, emotional, and fluffy moments I haven’t even written yet 😭

So yeah, my plan is to keep writing until either I run out of ideas (unlikely lol) or eventually lose interest (not happening anytime soon). That said, I’ve been extremely busy with my summer internship lately. It’s part of my PG curriculum after Sem 2, and I’m currently interning at a bank. My trainer is the front desk executive — so you can probably guess what kind of customer-facing work I’ve been doing all day 🫠

After interacting with people nonstop, I usually end up totally drained. And writing updates takes energy — but I genuinely enjoy doing it. It’s something I look forward to, no matter how tired I get. So no, I wasn’t planning to stop anytime soon 🥹

That said — if you feel like this story’s run its course or if it's starting to feel repetitive or boring (and it’s okay if it does — we all grow out of things we once loved), please feel free to let me know. I can try to wrap things up gracefully if that’s what you’d prefer. But unless that happens, I’ll keep writing — slow, steady, and full of heart. ❤️

Campus. Noon. Day 5.

 

The gang was at their usual spot — low stone wall under the tree beside the Economics building.

Suho sat on the edge, hoodie sleeves pulled over his palms, legs stretched out, head down.

Juntae handed him a snack bar.
He didn’t touch it.

“You have to eat something.”

Suho shrugged.
Baku nudged him with his knee.

“Come on. You’re looking like Sieun’s ghost, not boyfriend material.”
Gotak:
“Can ghosts get degrees? Asking for Suho.”
No reaction.
Not even a sigh.

Juntae looked up from his notebook.
“Did you sleep last night?”
Suho didn’t lie.
“Sort of.”
Which meant no.
The boys glanced at each other.
They knew what that meant.

“You messaged him again?” Baku asked.
Suho nodded.
“Only 30 this time.”
Gotak:
“That’s low. Are you okay?”
Suho smiled.
But it didn’t reach anywhere.
“He said he’s reading every other one.”
“So I’m trying not to overdo it.”
Baku muttered:
“He’s so calm. Like some emotionally bulletproof statue.”
Suho glanced down at his phone again.
Nothing new.
But the screen had Sieun’s chat still open.
It always did.

Suddenly—
A girl passed by.
Glanced at Suho.
Then whispered to her friend.
“That’s him. The one he waited for woke up. Everyone says they live together.”
“Oh my god, really?”
“He looks so sad. It’s kind of poetic.”
Suho didn’t react.
He’d heard it three times this morning.
Everyone knew now.
Somehow, everyone knew.
That Sieun waited for him.
That they lived together.
That they were—
Something.
But no one really knew what.
Not even Suho.

 

He sat there, staring at the grass like it might have answers.
His fingers curled slightly on the blanket beneath him. Silent.
Then — softly, like a thought that slipped out on its own — he spoke.
“You know… when he called last night…”
That made them pause.
Even Gotak stopped chewing.
Baku looked up, eyebrows raised.
Juntae didn’t move, but his hand slowed over his notebook.
Suho didn’t lift his head.
“He sounded okay,” he said. “Asked about you guys.”
His eyes flicked toward Baku and Gotak.

Then—quieter:

“But…”

His brow furrowed like he hadn’t even noticed it until just now.

“He didn’t ask about Juntae.”

The silence hit instantly.

Even the breeze seemed to stop.

Suho blinked. Once. Slowly. Like he was still trying to figure it out.
“He always asks about Juntae.”
His voice was steady — but tinged with something. Confusion. Sadness.
“You were the first person he ever opened up to. He always asked about you. Made me check if you were eating. If you were sleeping. If you were still doing too much when he was not around.”

 

“But last night… he didn’t even say your name.”

Juntae didn’t flinch.
Didn’t speak.
But the way he was gripping his pen made the plastic creak.
Suho looked down at the stone beside his shoe.

“What if he forgot?”

 

“What if Sohye being there just… pushed us out?”

 

His throat tightened.

 

“What if I’m the only one still holding on?”

 

Juntae blinked. Once.
Then slowly looked down — realizing the tip of his pen had snapped from how hard he’d been pressing.
After a pause, he set his notebook aside.
His voice came quiet. Measured.
“Maybe he didn’t forget.”
He kept his gaze low, tone calm — too calm, almost like he was trying not to care.
“Maybe he just didn’t know what to say.”
“Sohye showing up like that... it must’ve scrambled his brain.”
He hesitated, then added:
“But he saw you were uncomfortable. And he asked her to leave.”
“That means something.”
He looked at Suho now, finally.
“You know he’s terrible with emotions, Suho.”
“And you know him best.”
Suho didn’t say anything.
His thumb ran slowly along the edge of his phone.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“But even when he was quiet... he never felt this far.”
Another pause.
Then Baku broke the tension with a shrug.
“I’m sure he didn’t forget me. I’m unforgettable.”
Gotak immediately chimed in:
“Bro, you farted in the study room once. That’s definitely unforgettable. Unfortunately.”
Suho exhaled a faint laugh through his nose.
It didn’t erase the ache — but it softened the weight.
And then Juntae sat back, crossing his arms, gaze smug.
“Well, I do know I’m his favorite.”
Everyone froze.
Even Suho looked up.
Juntae shrugged like it was obvious.
“After all, I was his first friend in Eunjang. And definitely the best.”
Baku straightened like he’d been personally offended.
“I beg your what now?!”
Gotak narrowed his eyes.
“So you’re saying he doesn’t like us?”
Juntae raised an eyebrow, unbothered.
“Did I say that?” “Or are you just insecure?”
Baku stood up dramatically, pointing like he was about to present legal evidence.
“I gave him my last chicken nugget during midterms. That’s true love, thank you very much.”
Gotak raised a hand:
“I let him nap on my lap once. My leg was dead. I said nothing.”
Juntae took a slow sip of his juice box, pinky out like royalty.
“That’s adorable.”
“I helped him memorize his debate speech. While he had a fever.”
Suho sighed, shaking his head.
“You’re all idiots.”

 

Beat.

 

“He likes me best.”
Groans erupted all around.
Baku:
“You don’t count. You just came out of a coma. Emotional points revoked.”
Gotak:
“Yeah, your brain’s still buffering. No favorites for you.”
Suho smirked.
“Fine. But I’m the one who gets to cuddle him.”
Silence.
Baku choked on air.
Gotak looked personally attacked.
Juntae blinked once.
“...Touché.”
And just like that — the ache didn’t vanish.
But it felt held.
Shared.
Less lonely.
Held in the only way this group knew how.
By people who loved Sieun — differently.
But deeply.
Together.

 

.
.
.

 

The gang was heading to the café behind the law building.

Baku and Gotak walked ahead, arguing about whether jelly or Nutella was more “emotionally satisfying.”

Juntae trailed beside Suho, who…
Wasn’t really walking.
He was drifting.
Eyes on his phone.
Screen brightness low. Chat thread open.

Message #2314 — Year One, Month Two, Day 76.

“You used to blink five times when you lied.
Now you don’t blink at all. You’ve evolved.”

Suho smiled to himself.
Faint. Soft.
Didn’t look up.

Juntae glanced sideways.
“You’re gonna walk into tha—”
THUNK.

Suho crashed directly into a metal lamppost.
Hard.
Dropped his phone.
Stumbled.

“Shit—!”

The chaos was immediate.

Gotak spun around.
“HE’S DOWN!”

Baku sprinted back.
“CHECK FOR CONCUSSION. CALL SIEUN.”

Juntae was wheezing.
“I told you. Five seconds ago.”

Suho groaned, crouching to grab his phone.
“I’m fine—”

Baku (dramatically):
“You are NOT fine! You’re sleep-deprived, Sehnsucht-poisoned, and dangerously hot when grieving.”

Gotak:
“You were reading his texts again, weren’t you?”

 

Suho stayed quiet.
That was enough.

Juntae pulled him up by the elbow.
“If you start bleeding, I’m calling him.”
Suho dusted off his hoodie.
“I’m not bleeding.”
Gotak, muttering:
“On the outside.”

They kept walking.
Slower now.
Juntae close enough to block any future lampposts.
Suho glanced at his phone again.
Still the message about blinking.

“He’s insane,” Suho whispered.

Because sometimes, the one who stayed quiet is the only one who can hush your storm.

 

.
.
.

 

8:42 p.m.

The apartment was dim.
Quiet.
For once, not even Baku had anything to say.
Suho sat curled on the living room couch.
Blanket around him.
A small bandage on his forehead.
Eyes half-lidded, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of tea he hadn't touched.
He hadn’t spoken in 20 minutes.

Juntae sat across from him, arms crossed.
Baku and Gotak were unusually still on the rug nearby.
They had joked earlier.
When Suho walked into the lamppost.

But now?

They weren’t laughing.
Because Suho looked…
worn.
Not tired.
Not grumpy.
Exhausted.
Like he hadn’t slept properly in days.
Which, they realized—
He hadn’t.

Gotak whispered:
“He’s unraveling.”
Baku, quieter than usual:
“He keeps opening their chat like it’ll breathe for him.”
Juntae just sighed.
“He needs him. Now.”

 

9:07 p.m.

 

Suho’s thumb hovered.
Then he finally typed:
“I almost died rereading your messages.
You happy?”
Sent.
He didn’t expect a reply.
But the phone buzzed almost instantly.

 

Incoming Video Call: Sieunie ⁠♡

Suho answered without hesitation.
Sieun’s face filled the screen.
Lighting low. Headphones in. Hair slightly damp.
His eyes scanned Suho’s face immediately.
Then paused at the bandage.

“What happened.”

 

Not alarmed. Not angry.
Just… watching.
Suho looked away.

“Lamppost.”

A silence.
Then—

“You’re the one who told me to watch where I walk.”

Juntae spoke loudly from across the room.
“And he was literally reading your coma texts.”

Gotak yelled from the kitchen:
“He’s love-blind!”

Baku popped into frame.
“Tell him to come back. Or Suho’s face won’t survive.”

 

Sieun didn’t laugh.
Didn’t smirk.
Just stared at Suho.
Calm.

Then said:
“You look tired.”

Suho didn’t deny it.
Just sank back into the couch.
Pulled the blanket tighter.

“I haven’t really… slept.”

A quiet beat.
Sieun shifted slightly.
Didn’t say “Sleep now.”
Didn’t say “Go rest.”
Just—
“I’ll stay on.”

No one moved.
No one questioned it.
Not even Suho.
He just nodded.
Phone resting on his chest.
Eyes flickering half-shut.
“Still sixteen days left,” he mumbled.
“You’re counting?” Sieun asked.
Suho smiled faintly.
“Of course I am.”

 

For a moment, the screen was quiet — just the faint hum of the fan on Sieun’s side

Then Sieun asked, voice calm and even:

“How’s Juntae?”

 

Suho blinked.

Turned his head slightly, surprised by the question — not because Sieun asked, but because of the timing.

“He’s okay,” he replied softly. “Working. Quiet. Still reads three things at once.”

 

Juntae looked up from his book and called out without turning:

 

“Still listening too.”

 

Sieun’s expression barely changed, but there was something there — the tiniest flicker of a smile in his eyes.

Then, with a pause, he added:

 

“I forgot to ask about him last night.”

 

Juntae stood in the doorway now, leaning against the side. Calm as ever.

 

“I figured,” he said lightly, not accusing. Just... casual. “I thought maybe you forgot me. Since you’re on a trip and all.”

 

He gave the smallest smile, clearly teasing.

 

“New place. New people. Easier to leave behind the old ones.”

 

Suho immediately turned toward him, brows drawn in.

“Hey—”

 

But Juntae gave him a tiny shake of his head — a quiet “it’s okay.”

Sieun blinked once. Slowly. Then looked straight at the camera.

 

“I didn’t forget you.”

 

Simple. Firm. No dramatic reaction. Just truth.

 

“I forgot my charger. My toothbrush. My daily journal.”

 

“But not you.”

 

Juntae nodded once, like that was all he needed to hear.

 

He stepped back into his room without another word — no smile, no fuss — just a soft presence that lingered.

Suho, on the other hand, had retreated halfway into his blanket. Only his eyes were visible above the edge, staring at the phone screen like a betrayed puppy.

Sieun noticed immediately.

“What is it.”

 

Suho pouted.
Didn’t respond.

“You look like someone stole your cereal.”

 

Still no response.

Sieun stared a moment longer.

 

Suho grumbled into the blanket.

 

“She showed up out of nowhere.”

 

Sieun blinked.

 

“Who?”

 

Suho said nothing.

 

“Suho….!?”

 

Sieun exhaled through his nose.

 

“Is this about Sohye?”

 

“I didn’t invite her. I didn’t expect her.”

 

Suho peeked out with narrowed eyes.

 

“But you talked with her.”

 

“For half a minute,” Sieun replied calmly.

“Then I saw your face. And told her to leave.”

 

In the background, Gotak snorted.

 

“He’s love-blind.”

 

Baku called from the hallway:

 

“Tell him to come back soon or Suho’s face won’t survive this trip!”

 

Suho:

“I’m FINE.”

 

Sieun looked at him again — this time softer. Like he saw through every single word.

 

Then, after a beat:

“I’m sorry.”

 

That made Suho pause.

Sieun continued:

“For making you feel like I forgot.”

 

Suho didn’t reply right away. He just lay there with his phone resting against his chest, blanket still wrapped tight.

Finally, quietly:

“You didn’t forget. I just…”

 

“I missed you. That’s all.”

 

A silence.

Then Suho added:

“Also. Please never forget Juntae again.”

 

Sieun nodded once.

“I won’t.”

 

And then, under his breath:

“Even if he thinks I have cooler friends now.”

 

From the other room, Juntae’s soft voice floated back:

 

“It’s fine. As long as he remembers Suho first.”

 

Sieun didn’t respond right away — just blinked, watching Suho curl deeper into the blanket like a grumpy cat.

“You look like a child.”

 

Suho peeked out again.

“I am your child.”

 

Sieun blinked. Stared.

“What?”

 

Suho didn’t clarify. Just yawned. Tugged the blanket tighter. Closed his eyes again.

Sieun didn’t hang up.

He stayed.

 

The phone was still resting on Suho’s chest.

Sieun’s voice came through, steady and soft:

“He pulled the blanket higher around himself — the same one that had always smelled like laundry and quiet comfort.

From the phone, Sieun’s voice came gently:

“...That’s my blanket.”

 

Suho’s lips tugged into the faintest smile.

“I know.”

 

There was silence after that.
Not awkward. Just… full. Like nothing else needed to be said.

Suho curled into the pillow, one arm hugging the phone close to his chest.
Like it was Sieun.
Like letting go would shatter something.

The screen dimmed a little, but he tapped it.
Wanted to keep Sieun’s face there.

On the screen, Sieun didn’t say goodnight.
Didn’t ask questions.
Just… stayed. Watching.

His own voice, barely a whisper now:

“Don’t drop the phone in your sleep.”

 

Suho mumbled against the pillow:

“I won’t.”

 

Eyes fluttering. Breathing steady.

Still holding the phone in his hand.
Still holding him.

And from thousands of miles away,
Sieun didn’t hang up.

Neither did Suho.

The screen stayed lit.
Sieun’s quiet breathing on the other end.
A few murmured words here and there.
“Turn your light off.”
“You’re always cold without a blanket.”
“Yeah. Like that.”

And then—
For the first time in five days—
Suho’s breathing evened out.
Blanket rising and falling steadily.
Face calm.
Eyes closed.
No frown.
No dreams.
Just—
Peace.

Sieun didn’t end the call.
Not even when Suho stopped responding.
He just watched.
Silent.
Like a lighthouse in the dark.
Like he’d never left at all.

 

The call stayed on.
And for once, the silence didn’t ache.

It just… held them.

 

The room dimmed to silence.

A soft, still warmth settled between them — not from anything said, but from everything understood.

And for once —
Suho slept.
Comfortably.
Safely.

With Sieun only a breath away.

 

.
.
.

 

6:52 a.m. — Next Morning

 

The sky outside was still a soft grey.
Inside the apartment?
Quiet.
Until a creak from the hallway —
Juntae stepped out, rubbing his eyes.
And stopped cold.

“Hey,” he whispered.

Baku shuffled in behind him.
Wearing one slipper. Holding a half-eaten banana.

“What—?”

Then he saw it.

Suho.
Still on the couch.
Blanket pulled up to his chin.
Face relaxed.
Lashes still.
Phone cradled to his chest.
Screen still lit.
Sieun was still there.

Call timer blinking softly:
“8 hr 11 min 26 sec”

Sieun’s side of the screen showed a dark room.
Pale light. A shoulder.
He was leaned against something — probably his desk — head tilted, half-asleep.
But still there.
Still connected.

Gotak crept in behind them.
“He didn’t hang up?”

Juntae shook his head.
“No. He stayed.”

They didn’t speak louder than a whisper.
Like they didn’t want to disturb something holy.

Baku stared.

Then said, softer than usual:
“Look at him.”
“He hasn’t looked that calm in days.”

They stood like that for a while.
Three boys.
In quiet pajamas.
Just watching their friend finally sleep.
Like everything had held its breath for five days—
And could now exhale.

 

7:21 a.m.

The screen flickered.
Sieun shifted.
Unplugged his charger. Sat up a little straighter.
He looked at the screen.
At Suho’s sleeping form.
And just watched for a second.
Then—
he quietly ended the call.
But not before sending a message.

New Message – Sieunie ♡
7:23 a.m.
You looked peaceful.
I’ll try to call again tomorrow.
Same time.

 

8:09 a.m.

Suho blinked his eyes open slowly.
The light filtering through the curtains was soft.
He was warm.
Too warm.
Blanket tucked to his chin.
Someone had covered his feet.
And for the first time in days…
He didn’t feel like his chest was caving in.

He reached for his phone.
Still clutched in one hand.
Battery down to 6%.
The call log showed the last thing he already half-remembered:
Call ended: 7:23 a.m.
Duration: 8h 11m 26s
And just below it—

Sieun’s message:
You looked peaceful.
I’ll try to call again tomorrow.
Same time.

Suho stared at it.
Eyes heavy, but lips slowly curling into something real.
Something soft.
“You’re a menace,” he whispered to the screen.

Then—
“HE’S AWAKE!”
Baku’s voice boomed from the kitchen.
“AND HE LOOKS ALIVE!”
“Quick! Everyone to position!”

Before Suho could sit up, the gang swarmed.
Gotak dropped a pillow on him like a crown.
Juntae handed him toast like it was an offering.
Baku—
Baku had notes.

“Eight hours, eleven minutes, and twenty six seconds—”
“—Of you being spiritually spooned via digital means!”

Suho groaned.

“Can I just have one peaceful morning—?”
“No!” Baku declared.
“We suffered five days of Death Note vibes. You don’t get peace.”

Juntae smirked.
“I heard you whispering in your sleep.”
“You said: ‘Don’t hang up. Just five more minutes.’”

Suho turned pink.
Gotak fake-swooned.

“He’s so whipped he’s talking in download speeds.”

Suho buried his face in the blanket, trying not to smile.
“You guys are the worst.”
“We kept your ass emotionally upright,” Baku said, dramatically.
“We’re national treasures.”

 

.
.
.

 

Campus Courtyard

 

Suho sat on the stone bench, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands.
The sky was soft today — pale clouds, cool wind.
The gang had scattered for a bit.
Juntae had a meeting.
Baku and Gotak were raiding the vending machines.
Suho just… sat there.
Breathing.
Not feeling great.
But not drowning either.
And that was enough.

His phone buzzed.
Sieun.
“Did they tease you?”
“I heard Baku shouting.”
Suho stared at the screen.
He actually laughed.
Soft. Barely there. But real.

He typed:
“Nonstop. They were ready with a 3-part roast.”
“Juntae says I talk in my sleep. Please pretend you didn’t hear it.”
“Thanks for staying.”
“I slept. Like actually slept.”

 

He paused. Then added:
“First night I didn’t dream about losing you.”

He hovered on Send.
Stared at it.
Then…
clicked.

A moment later—
Sieun replied.
Just one line.

“That’s good.”

Then, a second message:
“You’ve got 15 nights left. I’ll be there for each one.”

Suho didn’t cry.
But his eyes stung.

 

Afternoon – Campus Courtyard

 

The gang sat under their usual tree.
Juntae was reading.
Baku was lying flat on the bench, chewing gum and doing nothing productive.
Gotak was flipping a coin and pretending it was fortune-telling.
And Suho?
He was texting. Again.

The campus looks extra boring.
I think the lamppost you saved me from is judging me.
I miss your face.

Juntae noticed.
He leaned slightly toward Suho.
“You’ve messaged him six times since lunch.”
Suho didn’t even look up.
“And I’ll send six more before dinner.”

 

.
.
.

 

It was supposed to be their thing.

They didn’t share many lectures.

Different departments — Sieun in Law, Suho in Marketing.

Different buildings. Different paces. Different stress levels.

But this elective?

This one was special.

 

Two weeks before registration:

“Please, please, please,” Suho had begged, flopped across Sieun’s bed like a dying Victorian heroine.
“Just this one class together. That’s all I want. That and snacks.”

Sieun, arms folded, didn’t look up from his laptop.
“You’ll miss the registration window.”
“I will. That’s why I need you.”
“You’re terrifyingly efficient. You’re the kind of guy who opens tabs two minutes before the portal goes live.”
Sieun blinked.
“Because that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
“Exactly!” Suho had pointed. “You do that. I panic. You click. I cry. Teamwork.”

And then he did it.
Registered both of them.
No complaints. No teasing.
Just a quiet forwarded email confirmation with a note:
“You owe me a full meal. No coupons.”

Now, five days without him—
Suho sat in the same lecture.
Same seat.
Same desk.
Only difference?
The seat next to him was empty.
He didn’t need to glance to know it.
But he did anyway.
Four times.
And each time, he hated how still it looked.

He opened their chat, under the desk.
Typed slow.

I’m in the elective you fought the Korean server for.
The seat beside me hasn’t stopped being cold.
Even when the sun came through the window.

He didn’t hit send.
Then he did.
Then kept staring.

 

Campus Courtyard

 

The gang was back under their usual tree.
Gotak lay in the grass, balancing a straw in his mouth.
Baku was watching ants for no reason.
Juntae had his eyes on Suho — who sat slouched, hoodie sleeves pulled past his fingers, phone screen glowing faintly.
Open chat.
No reply.
Still waiting.
He wasn’t checking out of need.
He was checking out of habit.
That’s what it had become.
Counting messages.
Re-reading old ones.
Hoping for a new line to arrive from 6,000 kilometers away.

Juntae broke the silence.
“You haven’t blinked in two minutes.”

Suho hummed.
Didn’t lift his head.

“Still counting?”

“Five days.”

Then—
Jiyun’s voice, too bright for the mood.

“Suho!”

He froze.

Looked up slowly.

She was walking toward them — big smile, swinging bag.

“Hey! You disappeared after Law Ethics. Skipped coffee?”

Suho didn’t answer.
She kept going.

“I texted Sieun by the way. He hasn’t replied yet. Maybe he’s too busy?”

He didn’t reply again.
Didn’t trust what would come out of his mouth.

Baku coughed. Loudly.
Gotak blinked like he was watching a reality show.
Juntae sat up, alert.
Suho finally tilted his head.
Voice even.

“You texted him?”

 

“Yeah. We had a nice talk last time, remember? I figured I’d say hi.”

 

Suho smiled.
But it didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“He hasn’t replied because he’s polite.”

She blinked.
“What?”

 

“He’s too polite to say what he’s actually thinking.”

 

He stood up.
Slow.
The wind ruffled his hair as he stepped just slightly closer.

 

“You said things to him you had no right to say.”

 

His voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.

 

“You made him feel like he was too much.”

“You made him question if I ever cared.”

“And the worst part?”

 

“He believed you.”

 

Jiyun blinked again.
Suho took a breath.

 

“He chose that elective for me.”

“He clicked for both of us while I whined and panicked.”

“And now I’m here, sitting in that chair alone. While he’s 6,000 km away wondering if I ever looked at him the way he looked at me.”

 

The gang didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
And Suho stepped away.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t look back.
Just… walked

 

He walked away from the courtyard.
Not fast.
Not storming.
Just walking.
Breathing.
Trying not to fall apart in the middle of campus.

Behind him—
he heard footsteps.
Familiar ones.
He stopped only when he reached the side of the building.
The shade was softer here.
Quiet.
And he turned—
Just in time to see Jiyun stop a few steps away.

“Suho…”
He didn’t say anything.
She stepped forward.

“Please. Just—listen. I… I didn’t mean for it to go that far.”

His eyes were tired.

“No?”
“Because it went far enough for him to pull away from me.”

 

Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.

Suho’s voice wasn’t loud.
Just flat.
Heavy.

 

“You should apologize.”
“Because I almost lost him.”
“But the truth is—he deserves the apology more than me.”
“You made him feel like he was in the way.”
“And maybe I… made him believe it.”

Jiyun looked down.
“I didn’t mean to… I just…”
“I liked you.”

Suho blinked.
“I know.”

A pause.
Then—

“But I don’t like you, Jiyun.”

His tone stayed soft.
But it cut.

“Not like that.”

 

Behind the pillar—
Juntae, Gotak, and Baku were watching quietly.
Even they weren’t smirking.
Not now.
Just standing there.
Listening.
Letting Suho say what needed to be said.

 

Suho kept going.

 

“The boy I like… he never left me.”
“When I woke up from a coma I don’t remember falling into—he was there.”
“When I couldn’t walk, he helped me. Quietly. Every day.”
“When I forgot how to feel human, he sat with me in silence and let me remember.”

 

His voice cracked.
Just slightly.

 

“And because of your words—and my silence—he started walking away.”
“He was leaving quietly. Like he didn’t matter.”
“Do you know what that means?”

 

Jiyun couldn’t speak.
Suho stepped closer.

 

“I don’t care that you liked me.”

 

“I care that he thought I liked you back.”

 

“Because I don’t.”

 

“I never have.”

 

Behind him—
Baku muttered with a sniff,
“I think I’m gonna cry. And I don’t even have a love life.”

Gotak whispered,
“No one needed to bring tissues for a standing confrontation.”

 

And finally—
Juntae, soft and firm:
“He deserved to be loved back a long time ago.”
“You made him doubt it. And that… hurts.”

 

Suho looked at Jiyun.
“I’m not mad at you.”
“I just wish you hadn’t lied to someone who already doubted his worth.”

 

She nodded.
Eyes wet.

“I’m sorry.”

Suho nodded too.
“Me too.”

Then turned.
And walked back toward the law building.

 

But Jiyun hadn’t left.
Not after Suho walked away.

She followed.
Soft footfalls.
Eyes shining.
But not with an apology anymore.

 

“You think you’re the only one who hurts, Suho?”

Suho didn’t turn.
She stepped closer.

 

“I liked you too, okay? Still do.”

Suho stayed silent.

 

“Forget the dignity, forget the rumor you helped spread—I still came here.
To say sorry. To ask for one damn chance.”

 

“And you’re still talking about someone who doesn’t even like you back.”

 

Suho’s heart stopped.
He turned then.
Eyes slow, but gaze sharp.

 

“What did you just say?”

 

Jiyun smirked.
Arms crossed. Chin tilted.

 

“You think he’s going to come back the same, don’t you?”

“But did he even tell you?”

“That he’s spending time with Sohye over there?”

That name.
That name.
The air thinned.
Suho blinked once.

 

“Sohye...?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Same hotel, same program. Grouped together.”

 

“What if your Sieun comes back... as Sohye's Sieun?”

 

Suho flinched.
Physically.
Like the words struck him across the face.

 

Jiyun leaned closer.
Lowered her voice.

 

“I guess I hit the nerve, huh?”
“You don’t look so sure anymore.”

 

That’s when the gang stepped in.
Baku’s voice cut across like a knife.

 

“Hey. Hey.”
“Why are you like this?”

 

Gotak stepped beside him.
“Why is your hobby ruining people’s peace? You bored or broken?”

 

Jiyun looked at them, wide-eyed and fake-innocent.

 

“What? I’m just telling the truth.”
“He doesn’t even know if Sieun likes him.”

 

Suho whispered:

 

“Did... did he say that?”

 

His voice was thin.
Unsteady.

 

“Did Sieun say that... he doesn’t like me back?”

 

Jiyun just smiled.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Because the seed was planted.

 

Suho turned slightly — eyes darting to Juntae.

 

“Did he?”

 

“Did he ever say...?”

 

Juntae stepped forward, slow and calm.
“Don’t believe her.”

 

Suho blinked, chest rising unevenly.
“But—she—”

 

“I don’t care,” Juntae said.

 

Voice flat.
Razor-edged.

 

“She’s not the one who stayed up at 3 a.m. sending thousands of messages.”
“She didn’t write them.”
“She didn’t send them for 731 days straight.”

Suho was frozen.
His breath came shallow.
He looked like he might collapse.

 

Juntae took a slow step forward.
Eyes on Jiyun now.

 

“You talk like you lost something.”

“But you never had him.”

“Suho’s not yours to ‘get.’ He’s not a prize you deserve because you liked him loud enough.”

“And Sieun?”

“Sieun’s not a placeholder for your insecurities.”

“If he’s with Sohye right now, it’s because he’s fulfilling a responsibility.
Not because he’s replacing someone.”

 

Jiyun’s face hardened.
“You’re cruel.”

Juntae didn’t blink.

“No.”

 

“I’m just not romantic about liars.”

 

Silence.

Only Suho’s breathing now.
He sank back against the wall.
Shoulders trembling.
Phone clenched in his hand.

 

Baku walked over and gently took it from him.
Unlocked it.
Opened the message thread.
Scrolled.
He held it out.

 

“Look.”

 

Sieun’s last message:

You looked peaceful.
I’ll try to call again tomorrow. Same time.
Gotak stepped up beside him, voice soft now.

 

“People who don’t love you don’t stay through 8-hour video calls.”

 

Suho said nothing.
Not yet.
But he looked at that message—
And clutched the phone like it might float him out of this storm.

He clutched his phone like a lifeline, chest rising too fast, too shallow.
His eyes flitted between Jiyun, Juntae, the screen—
Then to Baku, then back to the floor.
He looked like he was drowning in open air.

Jiyun shifted, arms crossed, lips trembling.
But not from guilt.
From offense.

 

“You all act like I murdered someone.”

 

“I made a mistake. I told someone what I thought was true.”

 

Gotak stepped forward then. Calm. Deadpan.

 

“No, no. Don’t rewrite it now.”

“Let’s be honest.”

“And what rumor are you even talking about?”

He tilted his head. Slight smile, cold eyes.

 

“Because we didn’t spread a rumor.”

“We spread what you actually did.”

 

Baku crossed his arms.

“Yeah. We spread the lie you told.”

“You lied.”

 

He raised one finger.

 

“L.”

Another.

“I.”

Another.

“E.”

Finger-pistol.

“Lie.”

 

“We spread the truth about your lie. We’re honest citizens.”

 

Jiyun blinked.

“I didn’t lie. I misread the situation.”

“He didn’t even correct me.”

 

She pointed at Suho.

“He never even said he didn’t like me.”

Juntae stepped forward again.
Voice sharp now.
Quieter — but like a blade drawn close to the throat.

 

“So you took silence as permission?”

“And then used that to hurt someone who already barely knew how to trust?”

 

Suho’s breath hitched.
His vision blurred for a second.

 

He didn’t correct her?
Did Sieun believe that?
Was that why he pulled away?

 

His thoughts started folding in on themselves.

 

What if he did think I liked her?
What if he was right to walk away quietly?
What if he never meant to stay?
What if he’s not mine anymore—?

 

His hands started shaking.

“I… I didn’t mean to—”

“I just didn’t know how to say it back then.”

“I thought… I thought he knew—”

 

He looked around.
Jiyun smirking again.
The gang staring.
His knees almost gave out.

Juntae stepped forward again.
He didn’t hold Suho.
Didn’t comfort.
Just looked him right in the eye.

 

Suho didn’t argue.
He didn’t even look up.

The air stilled — stretched tight, heavy between them all.

And then Juntae spoke again.

This time, his voice had no edge. Just quiet truth.

 

“You….. are extremely important to him, Suho.”

 

Suho’s breath caught — barely. His head still down, but his fingers twitched in his lap.

 

“You filled a space in him… that had been hollow for a long time.”

 

“That quiet part… he never let anyone see? You fit there… like you were always meant to.”

 

A pause.

 

“And when he started feeling more…”

 

Juntae’s eyes flicked — briefly — to where Jiyun stood.

 

Then back to Suho.

 

“This… whatever it looked like between you and her… it made him wonder.”

 

“Not because he doesn’t want you.”

 

“But because maybe… for the first time, he thought he might lose what he never even let imself ask for.”

 

“Because he thought you…

 

“...You didn’t need him anymore.”

 

“And maybe… he misjudged you.”

 

Suho finally looked up.

Eyes red. Voice barely audible.

“I could never stop needing him.”

 

He let the words sit, like they hurt to say.

Then softer — hoarse, honest:

“If it were up to me... I’d tie myself to him.”

 

His voice broke just a little at the end.

“So he’d know. Every second. That I don't want him to go anywhere.”

 

Baku’s voice turned uncharacteristically quiet:

“You don’t lie to people like Sieun, Jiyun.”
“He doesn’t trust easy.”
“He doesn’t fight back. He just… leaves.”
“And you almost made him leave for good.”

Gotak added:

“And Suho?”
“You didn’t say anything. That’s on you.”

Suho didn’t argue.
He didn’t even look up.

“AND on us too. Because we didn’t stop you either.”

 

“We were too busy to enjoy the drama.”

 

Jiyun laughed under her breath. Dry.

“You all act like I set fire to a church.”

“I liked a guy. He didn’t like me. I tried.”

“He picked someone who’s emotionally unavailable and half of you are acting like he’s some kind of—”

 

“He is,” Juntae snapped.

 

“He is someone.”

 

“Someone who bought an apartment.”

 

“For us.”

 

“Someone who made that apartment a home.”

 

“For us.”

 

“Yeah he is someone.”

 

“To all of us.”

 

“To him—” he looked at Suho—

 

“—he’s everything.”

 

Suho didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

He stood there — phone in hand, visionary blurring the edges of reality and memory.

Jiyun was gone. Her voice still rang in his ears.

 

Sohye..

 

Does he even like you back?

 

What if your Sieun comes back… as someone else’s?

 

“Come back…”

His lips moved before his mind could stop them.

 

“Please come back.”

 

“I want you to come back…”

 

His voice was soft.
Choked.

 

Gotak and Baku stood nearby, unusually quiet.
They weren’t built for moments like this.
But they weren’t going to leave him here either.
Juntae finally stepped in.
Hands in his pockets. Face unreadable.

 

“Let’s go home.”

 

Suho didn’t reply.
Just looked at the phone like it might vanish.

 

“He’s not replying,” he whispered.

“What if he saw her first?”

“What if she told him—”

 

Juntae snapped:
“He stayed on call with you for eight hours.”

 

“You think people do that with someone they’re trying to leave?”

 

That hit.

 

But Suho still wasn’t breathing right.

So Juntae walked up, gently pried the phone from his fingers—
And shoved it into Gotak’s hoodie.

 

“Let’s go. He’s tired.”

 

Later – Back at the Apartment

 

The door shut behind them with a soft click.
Shoes were kicked off. Lights stayed low.
No one talked.

Baku wordlessly opened the fridge, pulled out the emergency strawberry milk Suho kept for Sieun, and handed it to him.

Suho didn’t even look.
He just collapsed on the couch.
Face in hands.

Gotak, voice low:
“This sucks.”

 

Baku muttered:
“He’s going to get a stress rash.”

Juntae came back with a blanket.
Covered Suho with it.
Sat beside him. Quiet.
For a minute, they didn’t say anything.

 

Then Juntae said, simply:
“Text him.”

Suho didn’t look up.

“I can’t.”

“What if I say something wrong again?”

“What if I’m too late?”

“What if he’s already—”

 

Juntae raised his voice slightly.
“Text him.”
“Before your brain tells you another lie.”

 

Suho stared.
“You think it’s a lie?”

 

Juntae’s eyes were sharp.
“I think you’re too scared to believe what’s real.”

“You read his messages.”

“You saw what he wrote. How he waited. How he stayed.”

“You watched him sit on a call with you for hours just to make sure you fell asleep.”

“That’s not distance. That’s not someone slipping away.”

 

Suho blinked fast.
His fingers twitched.
Then slowly—finally—he reached for his phone again.

To: Sieunie ♡
“I should’ve told you everything earlier.”
“But I never liked her. Not once. Not for a second.”
“There’s no one I waited for but you.”
“If I lost you because I stayed silent, then I deserve every inch of this distance.”
“But I just… I need you to come back.”
“Please come back.”

 

He hit send.

 

Gotak sat beside him, legs stretched out.
Baku tossed popcorn at the ceiling.
Juntae leaned his head back against the couch.

 

“He’ll reply.”
“You know he will.”

 

.
.
.

 

The message had been sent.
Three hours ago.
And still?
Nothing.
No reply.
No read receipt.
No dot-dot-dot typing bubble.
Just… quiet.
Too quiet.

Suho hadn’t moved.
The blanket was still around his shoulders.
His knees were pulled to his chest.
Phone in hand.
Screen dimming every few seconds, only to light back up when he tapped it again.
Still nothing.

The gang had eaten dinner.
Sort of.
Juntae had cooked something — simple.
Gotak and Baku had passed plates around.

But Suho?

Barely touched his rice.
Just stared down.
Fork in one hand.
Phone in the other.
Eventually, he just stopped pretending.
Set the plate aside.
Curled tighter into the couch.

 

9:41 p.m.
He typed another message.
“Did I say too much?”
“Or too little?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Sohye?”
“Are you mad?”
“Did something happen?”
“Are you okay?”
“Please tell me you’re okay.”
“Please just say something.”
“Anything.”

 

Send. Send. Send. Send.
Then a pause.
Then—

 

“I miss you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m scared you won’t come back.”
“Please come back.”

 

9:57 p.m.
Still no reply.

Suho pulled the blanket over his head.
The couch was dim. The room was warm.
But everything inside him was freezing.

He mumbled into the fabric:
“Why didn’t you tell me about Sohye...?”
“What are you doing with her?”
“Why does she know more than me…?”

 

His voice cracked.
“You’re mine. You’re supposed to be mine…”
“Please still be mine.”

From the hallway, the gang stood quietly.
Juntae didn’t speak.
His fists were clenched.
Gotak’s expression had gone grim.
Baku bit his lip, guilt storming behind his eyes.
None of them dared to interrupt.
Not yet.
Because they knew—
this wasn’t a breakdown.
This was grief before it knew if it had a reason.

 

10:11 p.m.
The lights in the room flickered low.
Suho was still sitting on the couch.
Blanket around him like a shield.
Face flushed from silent crying.

“I just want you to come back,” he whispered.
“Please come back…”
“I’ll be better. I’ll tell you everything next time.”
“Just don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

 

.
.
.

 

Suho sat curled under the blanket.
His eyes were red.
Phone still clutched in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.
He hadn’t spoken in a while.
Not really.
Just whispers to the air.
To the screen.
To someone who couldn’t hear him right now.

Juntae stood at the hallway corner.
Arms crossed.
Watching.
He didn’t say anything either.
But his heart?
It was loud.

You shouldn’t be suffering like this.
Not when it was never yours to carry.
Not alone.

And then the memory hit.
So vivid it felt like it was playing in the room beside them.

Flashback – A Weeks Ago

Campus Hallway – Post Submission Day

 

They had just submitted Sieun’s form for the Germany trip.
It was official. Sealed. Confirmed.
Juntae walked beside him.
The hallway was long. Wide. Empty.
The air outside buzzed faintly —

But inside?
Sieun was completely silent.

He didn’t look upset.
Didn’t look angry.
He just… walked.
Calm.
Straight-backed.
Expression unreadable.

Juntae glanced sideways.
“You okay?”

No reply.
Not for several steps.

Then—

Soft voice.

 

“I’m never wrong.”

 

Juntae blinked.

“What?”

 

“I’m never wrong,” Sieun repeated, staring ahead.

 

“I solve things. I fix problems. I know how to handle people.”

 

“I always… figure it out.”

 

He stopped at the bottom of the steps.
Still didn’t look at Juntae.

 

“But maybe this time—”

 

“Maybe just this once—”

 

“I misjudged.”

 

Juntae’s breath caught.
Because he knew.
He knew what Sieun was talking about.
He wasn’t talking about the form.
He wasn’t talking about Jiyun. Or the trip.
He was talking about Suho.

 

Sieun thought he’d misread everything.

All the little moments.

The way Suho looked at him.
Treated him.
Held onto him.
Clung to him.

Sieun thought… maybe Suho did like someone else.

That all the closeness, all the nights spent in the same bed,
all the quiet comforts — were just friendship.

 

And when Suho said,
“It’s just one birthday. I can spend it with her.”

 

…it broke something in Sieun.

Not loudly.
But deep.
Quietly.
Permanently.

“If only I could’ve told him,” Juntae thought,

“what Suho’s actually like when you’re not in the room.”

 

How Suho checks his phone fifty times in five minutes.

How he stares at your toothbrush in the sink like it’s a goodbye letter.

How he looks for your hoodie every night and won’t sleep without it nearby.

If only I could’ve told you, Sieun—
you didn’t misjudge anything.

You just trusted someone who couldn’t speak his feelings fast enough.

 

Back to Now

Juntae walked forward.
Kneeled down beside the couch.
Suho didn’t look up.

His voice was hoarse.

“I ruined everything.”

Juntae didn’t say no.
Didn’t lie.

He just looked at him and said:
“You still have time.”

“He hasn’t walked away.”

“He’s just waiting for you to walk toward him.”

 

The blanket had nearly fallen off Suho’s shoulders.
He sat hunched on the couch, body curled, eyes glassy.
His phone rested face-down now.
Like he was too afraid to look again.

Juntae stayed kneeling in front of him, one hand gently resting on Suho’s arm—not pressing, just there.
And for a long second, they didn’t say anything.
Just the sound of Suho’s soft breathing, still uneven.
Then—
Juntae spoke.
Quiet. Low.
Like he was opening a secret he’d been guarding far too long.

“You know that day we came back from college?”
“When Sieun and I submitted his Germany form?”

Suho blinked.
Didn’t speak. But his throat moved.
Juntae took that as a yes.

 

“That day… he wasn’t saying much.”
“We were walking. Quiet. I kept looking at him because… he wasn’t like he usually is.”
“Not blank. Not unreadable. Just… still. Too still.”

He paused.
Eyes down.
Like he was remembering the weight of it again.

 

“So I asked if he was okay.”
“He didn’t answer for a while.”
“Then… he said something.”

 

Suho looked up.
Slow.
Eyes wide and tired.
Juntae met his gaze.

“He said—
‘I’m never wrong.’”
“He told me, ‘I solve problems. I know how to handle people. I always figure it out.’”
“And then he said…”
“‘But maybe this time… maybe just this once… I was wrong.’”

 

Suho’s breath hitched.
His grip on the blanket tightened.

 

“I didn’t ask him what he meant,” Juntae continued.
“I didn’t have to.”

 

“He thought you liked someone else.”

“He thought everything he saw—every time you held his hand or stayed close or smiled just for him—maybe he misunderstood it.”

“Because of that line you said.”

 

Suho whispered:
“The birthday thing…”

Juntae nodded.
“Yeah.”
“You said it like it didn’t matter.”
“Like he didn’t matter.”

 

Suho’s eyes filled again.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I swear I didn’t mean it. I just… I was playing along.”
“I didn’t even realize—”

He broke off.
Looked away.
“He really thought I liked Jiyun?”

 

Juntae didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Because the silence did it for him.

Suho wiped at his face.
“He shouldn’t have thought that.”

“He should’ve known. I—”

 

“I don’t look at anyone else the way I look at him.”

 

“I can’t.”

Juntae reached out then.
Not to hug.
Not to fix.
Just to press a firm hand to Suho’s shoulder.
Ground him.

 

“Then tell him.”
“You can’t change what he thought back then.”
“But you can stop him from thinking it now.”

 

(You waited. He answered — in his own way.)

 

.
.
.

 

The living room had gone still.
The city had dimmed to a hush.
Everyone was asleep.
Except Suho.

Or… at least, not quite awake either.
He lay on the couch, half-curled beneath the blanket.

Sieun’s hoodie still hugged to his chest, as if clinging to a shape that wasn’t there.
Eyes closed.
Breathing soft.
But not peaceful.
Even in sleep, his brows twitched like he was still thinking too hard.

 

2:14 A.M.
His phone buzzed once on the coffee table.

Incoming call: Sieunie ⁠♡
Missed.
Then another notification.
1 New Voicemail.

Suho didn’t wake.
But the screen glowed beside him.
And that glow felt warm. Like a hand on his shoulder.

Voicemail – Sieunie ⁠♡ (2:15 A.M.)

Sieun’s voice was low. Calm. Slight static in the background.

 

“You sent a lot of messages.”
“Took time to get through them.”

 

Pause.

A faint sigh. Something shifting — maybe sheets, maybe the edge of his blanket.

“I didn’t forget you messaged.”

“I just didn’t want to say anything until I’d read them all.”

“You repeat yourself a lot, by the way.”

Dry. Almost teasing. Not quite.

“And you apologize too much.”

Long pause.

 

“I’ll call again when I’m not half-asleep.”

“Go to bed.”

“Eat something tomorrow.”

Another pause.

“…Don’t overthink.”

“It’s still me.”

Click.

 

And that?
That was everything.

Because Sieun never says much.

But when he does?

“It’s still me.”

Was the same as saying:
“You haven’t lost me.”

 

.
.
.

 

The first light of dawn hadn’t cracked the sky yet.
Just faint glows from the edges of drawn curtains.

The blanket had fallen halfway off Suho’s shoulders during the night.

Sieun’s hoodie was still in his arms.

He stirred slowly.
Head foggy.
Eyes sore.
Chest heavy — but not the crushing weight from yesterday.
Not quite.

 

The phone buzzed faintly again.

“1 Missed Call – Sieunie ⁠♡”
“1 New Voicemail”

Suho blinked at the screen.
It took a second to focus.
Then his heart stilled.

He tapped it.
Brought it close to his chest for a beat.

Then finally — earphones in — he played the message.

 

“You sent a lot of messages.”

“Took time to get through them.”

“You repeat yourself a lot, by the way.”

“And you apologize too much.”

Suho exhaled.

A small, breathy noise slipped out — not quite a laugh.

He rewound.
Listened again.
And again.
And once more after that.

Each time, something inside him settled.

 

He wasn't imagining it.

Sieun read them all.
All of them. Every word. Every panicked apology. Every desperate whisper.

He didn’t say “I miss you.”
Didn’t call him dramatic.
Didn’t try to soothe him like a child.

But he stayed.
And that was more than enough.

 

Suho leaned back into the couch.
His fingers still trembling.
But he was breathing better.

 

He whispered under his breath:
“Still him…”

“Still mine.”

 

And then the ache returned.
Not sharp like last night.
But dull. Lingering.

He opened the Notes app.
Scrolled down to the same private line he’d made days ago.

 

“Countdown to July 10.”

He tapped the date.

Day 5 — Complete.

Then he stared at the number beside it.
16 days left.

His chest tightened again.

He curled back down under the blanket.
Eyes stinging.

 

“It’s only the fifth day…” he mumbled to no one.
“How am I going to survive sixteen more?”

He closed his eyes.
Not for sleep.
But for strength.

 

.
.
.

 

The rain had stopped sometime before dawn.

Now the sky hung low and pale, the morning breeze carrying that clean, damp smell through the windows Baku forgot to shut.

 

The kitchen was alive.

Gotak was trying to boil water.

Juntae was buttering toast with the aggression of someone holding back a rant.

Baku had discovered half a frozen pizza and was considering it breakfast.

And Suho?

Was dragging himself out of the hallway, hoodie lopsided, one sock missing, phone clutched in hand like it was fused there.

 

“...he walks,” Baku whispered, dramatically.

Gotak turned, gasped, and covered his mouth.
“Miracle achieved.”

Juntae didn’t even glance up.
“Shut up.”

 

Suho shuffled to the dining chair like gravity was personally targeting him.
He dropped into it with a thud.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.

Just slowly laid his head down on the table.

 

“He’s alive but not functional,” Gotak announced.

“He needs a reboot,” Baku agreed. “Maybe a firmware update. Possibly a hug from Sieun.”

 

“Or intravenous Sieun,” Gotak added.

Juntae finally looked up.
Tossed a napkin in Suho’s direction.

“Eat.”
“You need something in your system that isn’t tears or hoodie lint.”

Suho groaned.
Didn’t lift his head.
But… he did reach out blindly and tug the napkin closer.

And then—

Baku saw it.
A twitch at the corner of Suho’s mouth.
Barely there.
A curve.
Small.
Tired.
But a smile.

 

Baku gasped dramatically.
“Oh my god.”
“Did you just smile?”

Suho didn’t respond.

Baku poked Gotak.
“He smiled. I saw it. I swear on the ghost in the laundry room.”

Gotak narrowed his eyes.
“Do it again.”

Suho made a vague hand gesture that could’ve meant go away or I’m too tired to deal with this.

“That’s it,” Baku said, spinning toward Juntae.

“We win. Our boy is smiling again.”

Juntae raised an eyebrow.
“That was the smile of someone half-dead.”

 

“It still counts,” Baku said. “We were in the emotional trenches. This is recovery.”

Suho finally lifted his head.

Hair a mess.
Eyes puffy.
Voice rough.

“You guys are so annoying.”

 

They beamed.
Because that?
Was the most Suho thing he’d said in days.

 

Still…. Suho didn’t finish the toast.
He just sat there — hoodie sleeves stretched over his fingers, head heavy in his hands.

The noise around him moved like a soft storm:
Gotak arguing with Baku over whose turn it was to do dishes.
Baku threatening to burn the kitchen instead.
Juntae muttering something about filing for roommate divorce.

But Suho?

Tuned out.
Completely.

 

He unlocked his phone.
Not to check messages.
Not this time.

Just… to look.

Gallery. Favorites.
Scroll.

There it was.
A photo taken weeks ago —

Sieun sitting on the living room floor, legs folded, reading something with his glasses slipping down his nose.

He wasn’t even aware it was taken.
That’s what made it so beautiful.

His brows were slightly furrowed.
Hair messy. Hoodie oversized.

He looked like home.

 

tap

 

Another one.

From Suho’s camera roll —

Sieun asleep in the passenger seat of Suho’s scooter, hoodie pulled over his head like a cocoon.

The caption Suho had saved under it?

“My grumpy stray cat.”

 

Suho smiled again. Just a little.
But it dropped fast.
Because seeing him only made the space beside him feel wider.

 

He swiped again.

Photos from their shared elective class.
Screenshots of dumb arguments in their group chat.

One blurry shot of Sieun mid-eye-roll, and Suho had circled his face and written in pink:
“r00d but adorable.”

 

“You okay?”

It was Juntae’s voice.

 

Suho looked up. Didn’t answer right away.
He turned his phone so Juntae could see the photo.

The one of Sieun sleeping in the scooter seat.

“He always hates this one,” Suho mumbled.

“Said I caught his ‘worst angle.’”

Juntae looked.

Then said, flatly:
“His worst angle could still launch a hundred love confessions.”

 

Suho huffed.
“It already did.”

 

And just like that—
He went quiet again.
Because he missed him.
In everything.
In breakfast.
In noise.
In the moments where everyone was laughing but him.

 

He stared down at the screen.
“It’s only Day 6,” he whispered.

“I have to go through fifteen more of these…?”

“Without him….”

 

.
.
.

 

The weather was soft again.
Cloudy, but not cold.

The kind of breeze that made trees whisper and people speak slower.

They sat in their usual spot —

Low stone bench under the arching tree.

Juntae against the edge.
Baku sprawled like a cat over three bags.
Gotak sipping soda through two straws like it was a coping mechanism.

And Suho?

Half-there.
Slouched.
Earbuds in, but no music playing.

His fingers kept swiping his phone screen —

Back and forth. Not really doing anything.

Just…

Looking.
Checking.
Waiting.

 

Baku broke the silence first.
“It’s weird, huh?”

No one responded.

“Like… really weird.”

Still nothing.

“Like... eerie weird.”

Suho sighed softly.

 

“Use a different word.”
“You’ve said ‘weird’ eight times.”

Gotak leaned back, eyes on the clouds.
“It’s just... too quiet.”
“Even for us.”
“Like the ghost of Sieun is haunting this tree right now.”

 

Juntae added, without looking up:
“At least the ghost would’ve told Baku to shut up by now.”

 

Baku sniffled dramatically.
“I miss the abuse.”
“I miss being judged.”
“I miss being emotionally stabbed with just one blink.”

 

Suho gave the smallest smile.
But it faded quickly.

Because the spot beside him?
Was Sieun’s.
And it was empty.

Gotak looked over.
“You okay?”

 

Suho didn’t answer at first.
Then he murmured:
“This bench feels too wide without him.”

 

They all fell silent again.
Not awkward.
Just… hollow.

The kind of silence where they all felt it.
Even Juntae.
Even Gotak.
Even Baku.

Especially Suho.

“He’d be sitting here,” Suho whispered, tapping the space beside him.
“Legs folded.”
“Pretending not to listen.”
“But knowing exactly what we were all talking about.”

Baku softly said:
“He used to kick me under the bench.”

Gotak added:
“He used to hand me my notes without even asking.”

Juntae sighed.
“He used to read all our expressions and tell us we were dumb without saying a word.”

 

Suho chuckled under his breath.
“I miss that.”

 

And then — wordlessly — he snapped a picture.

Just the bench.
Just the space.
And sent it.

To: Sieunie ⁠♡

“The seat’s cold without you.”

 

Suho didn’t expect a reply.
Not fast.
Maybe not at all today.
He stared at the message.

“The seat’s cold without you.”

He sighed.
Tucked his phone back in his hoodie pocket.
Leaned his elbows on his knees.
Looked down at his shoes like the laces might start talking back.

 

Three minutes later — his phone buzzed once.

Suho blinked.
Pulled it out.
Swiped it open.

From: Sieunie ⁠♡

 

“Tell Baku to stop lying across the middle. I’m sitting there when I’m back.”

Suho blinked.
Then choked a laugh. A real one.

It startled Baku.

“What. Why are you laughing. What did he say—was it about me?”

Suho turned the phone around and held it up.

Gotak leaned over.
Squinted.
Read it once.
Then again.
And then exploded laughing.

“He’s so done with you from halfway across the planet!”

Baku gasped.

“I’m emotionally wounded. That’s bullying from abroad.”

 

“That’s international harassment!”

 

Suho laughed again.
This one softer, tucked behind his hand.
But it stayed this time.
His shoulders shook.
His eyes still stung — but for once, not from grief.

Juntae peeked over his shoulder and muttered:
“At least now we know he’s alive and annoyed. That’s the most Sieun thing possible.”

Suho just stared at the message again.
Read it three more times.
And quietly whispered:
“Okay.”
“That seat’s yours.”

 

.

.

.

 

Campus – Evening

 

They were walking back from class.

Suho’s bag slung lazily over one shoulder.
Hoodie sleeves too long again.
Eyes a little distant.

Gotak was chewing gum way too loudly.

Baku was attempting to balance an empty can on his head.

Juntae was on his phone, sending something to their group chat.

And Suho?

He was scrolling through a list of unsent texts.

 

“I missed you during lunch.”

“You weren’t there to let me steal your fries.”

“The new lecturer is boring. You’d hate him.”

“I don’t think I’ve laughed fully since Day 3.”

 

He didn’t send them.
Just saved them.
Maybe Sieun would read them later.
Maybe he wouldn’t.

 

They reached the apartment building.

Juntae opened the door.

 

Gotak ran to get the good spot on the couch.

Baku shouted, “NOT FAIR—YOU SNOOZE YOU LOSE.”

 

Suho walked in last.
Slow.
Dragging a little.

The calendar on the fridge still had Sieun’s trip scribbled in blue marker.

 

Day 6 out of 21.

 

Suho stared at it.
And whispered under his breath:
“Fifteen more.”
“How the hell am I gonna do fifteen more…”

That night, they had dinner.
Suho picked at his food.
They watched a movie.
Suho barely remembered the plot.

 

Later – Sieun's Room

He laid on the bed.
Back flat. Eyes on the ceiling.
Sieun’s pillow beside him.
He hadn’t moved it since the day he left.

He turned to it.
Inhaled.
Still smelled faintly like Sieun’s detergent.
Not much left now.
Just enough to ache.

 

He picked up his phone.
Opened the countdown app.

Day 6 — Complete.

Then wrote in Notes.

Today felt longer than the rest.
Your side of the bed still sinks like you’re here.
But you’re not.
And it’s killing me slower than I thought.

 

Everyone had gone quiet for the night.

Juntae was already in bed with earphones on.

Gotak and Baku had passed out after some absurd “noodle tasting contest” on the living room floor.

And Suho?

Suho was curled in Sieun’s side of the bed again.

His phone against his chest.
Blanket up to his nose.
Still wearing the same soft navy tee from the night before.
Still smelling faintly like Sieun.

 

He hadn’t messaged him tonight.
Didn’t want to seem needy again.
Didn’t want to make it a thing.

So instead, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Counting breaths.
Missing things that couldn’t be texted.

And then—

Buzz.

Incoming Video call – Sieun ♡

Suho answered immediately.
Didn’t even sit up.

Sieun appeared.
Lighting low. Hair messy. A faint glow from his laptop behind him.

 

“You’re still awake,” he said.

Suho smiled, just a little.
“You came back.”

 

Sieun blinked.
Then said softly:
“Told you I would.”

 

They didn’t talk much that night.
Just soft updates.
Suho mentioned the lamppost again.
Sieun asked if the bandage was off yet.
Suho asked if the new seminar group was full of weirdos (Sieun nodded).
Mostly, they just stayed on the call.
Breathing in sync.
Like they were remembering how to rest.

 

At some point, Suho whispered:
“Your side of the bed’s colder than usual.”

Sieun, still watching him:
“Don’t kick the blanket off like last time.”

Suho gave a sleepy laugh.
“That was your fault. You moved in your sleep.”

“You sleep like a rotisserie chicken.”

 

Sieun blinked.
“And you talk like an orphan narrator.”

 

Suho groaned, sinking deeper into the pillow.
“You’re the worst.”

 

But it was warm.
It was familiar.
It was enough.

 

Suho didn’t even realize when his eyes closed.
Just that one final breath—
right before sleep took him....

Notes:

Something tragic happened 😩 I realized a huge part of the next update is missing. I know I wrote it — but I must’ve either deleted it by mistake or lost it while switching files. I've been searching for hours (literally since evening), and I still can’t find it. So it might take me a few more days to re-write and post the next part.

Thanks for sticking around and being so patient. It seriously means the world to me 🥺🫶 Take care, and good night ❤️💤

Chapter 35: The First Night Home

Notes:

I hope I’m not too late to post the update 🥺

But happiest birthday to the lovely @Londonstar23! 🎉💖 I hope you get everything your heart wishes for. May you be blessed with a big, beautiful, healthy life — and may you never have to wait too long for your favorite fiction updates again 🥹✨

And my cutie patootie readers, your comments — all of them — make me so, so happy. The more you leave, the more motivated I feel to write. Thank you for always sharing your thoughts and feelings. It truly means the world to me.

Before you dive into the chapter:
This one is a flashback — not part of the current timeline. It’s set in the past, right after Suho was discharged. I imagined this is how things could’ve turned out, and I really hope you enjoy it 🫶

Somewhere in the middle of that sleep, it started.

Not a dream.
A memory.

 

The sound of rain against glass.
A cab. A cold window. Breath fogging up the edge.

His legs stiff. His ribs sore. The hum of the road beneath him.

The rain hadn’t stopped all day. It wasn’t harsh—just steady, soft, and drumming faintly against the windows of the taxi as it rolled through narrow lanes toward a quiet neighborhood.

Suho sat slouched in the backseat, fingers curled weakly into the hem of his hoodie.
His legs were stiff from lack of use, one worse than the other, and even with the crutches folded beside him, every bump in the road made his ribs ache. He had barely been upright for a week. The air smelled like antiseptic and exhaustion.

He assumed they were headed to his house. Where Halmoni had spent days preparing a room for him. Where the curtains had been changed, the dust swept, the futon aired. She had even rearranged the furniture to make space for his crutches.

He imagined her standing at the gate, umbrella in one hand, slippers waiting just inside the door.
So when the taxi pulled into an entirely different lane, Suho blinked.
Not because it was familiar.
Because it wasn’t.
The building—tall, quiet, with a silver railing and pale walls—was completely new to him.
Suho frowned faintly. “This isn’t your old place.”
Sieun, already stepping out with the umbrella, simply nodded. “I moved.”
Right. He had transferred to Eunjang while Suho was still in the hospital.

A quiet move, like everything else he did.
Suho hadn’t known where Sieun lived now.
Until now.

The elevator smelled faintly of metal and floor cleaner. It let out a soft ding as Sieun pressed the button for the third floor. Suho leaned into the side rail, the faint hum beneath his feet oddly grounding. He watched the floor numbers light up one by one.
“You didn’t tell me you moved,” Suho said softly.
“Didn’t want to make it a big deal,” Sieun replied. “You had enough going on.”
That silenced Suho. He looked down.
When the doors opened, Sieun stepped out first and turned back, holding the umbrella as he always did.

Suho’s crutch tapped against the hallway tiles with every step. The space was quiet. Too quiet.

Sieun unlocked the door with a soft click.
He turned to Suho.

“Come in,” he said simply.

 

“You’re staying here.”

Suho hesitated at the threshold. The air smelled like books and soap and something warm simmering faintly in a pot.
“This is your place.”

Sieun looked at him calmly. “Ours. For now.”

 

The apartment was clean, small, but warm. There was a small couch pushed to one side, a folding table, a bookshelf filled to bursting with novels and worn textbooks. A soft gray throw blanket sat folded on one armrest. The curtains were half-drawn, and the rain made gentle shadows dance on the floor.
And in the middle of it all, Halmoni.
Already there.
Wearing a shawl. Holding a plastic bag full of groceries.
And inspecting everything like she was about to file a report.
She turned the corner and zeroed in on Suho like a hawk. Her eyes softened for a second. Then immediately turned to Sieun.
“Does the water heater work?”
“Yes,” Sieun replied, removing his shoes.
“Where’s the fire extinguisher?”
“Under the sink.”
“First-aid?”
Sieun opened a drawer wordlessly.
Cotton rolls. Ointments. Gauze. Thermometer. Everything in order.
“Can he sleep without rolling off the bed?”
“He’ll be in my room,” Sieun said calmly. “I’ll take the floor.”
Suho sat frozen near the door, trying not to die from embarrassment.
“Halmoni…” he mumbled, cheeks red.
“Don’t interrupt,” she said firmly, but there was affection under her tone.
Sieun didn’t look even mildly put off. He moved through the apartment with calm precision, showing her the medicine labels, the pantry inventory, even the extra pair of slippers. Finally, he opened his wardrobe.
“He can take anything. The clothes will fit.”
Halmoni raised an eyebrow, nodded slowly, and finally turned to Suho.
“You’re safe here.”
Then she opened her grocery bag.
“I brought tofu. He needs iron. He hasn’t been eating properly.”
“I’ll start the soup,” Sieun said, already heading toward the kitchen.
Suho sat in silence.
He watched as Sieun moved around the kitchen, pushing his hair back, sleeves pushed up, chopping vegetables with a small sharp knife that made clean clicks against the cutting board. The scent of garlic bloomed in the air.
Halmoni followed him like a hawk.
“Do you eat three times?”
“I do.”
“Do you soak your mushrooms or boil them straight?”
“Soaked. This morning.”
“Do you clean your knives with vinegar?”
“Every weekend.”
Suho blinked. Halmoni was relentless. And Sieun—Sieun didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. He answered everything quietly, with the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.
Like he didn’t mind.

Like he welcomed it.

 

And Suho…

 

His heart started to beat faster.

He didn’t know why.
Didn’t question it.
He just kept watching.

This tiny apartment.
His Halmoni.
Sieun in the kitchen.
Cooking. For him.

Something fluttered and settled heavily in his chest.

Why is my heart beating this fast?

He didn’t know yet.
Not really.

But a part of him, deep and quiet, was beginning to understand.

And the rain kept falling.

It drummed gently against the windows, soft and rhythmic like the background to a memory.
In the kitchen, Sieun moved with quiet focus. He stirred the soup slowly, letting the flavors blend, tasting every few moments. The light above the stove cast a golden hue on his hair, still slightly damp from earlier. Steam swirled around him like something living.
Suho sat at the small table, still in his hoodie, still overwhelmed. His crutches leaned against the wall nearby. Every movement reminded him how fragile his body still was.
And across the room— Halmoni.
Inspecting. Asking questions. Again and Again.
“Will you be able to help him to the bathroom?”
“Yes,” Sieun replied simply.
“He takes longer to eat these days. Can you sit with him through every meal?”
“I can.”
“What about changing the dressings? His back and shoulders—”
“I’ve watched the nurse do it. I’ll be careful.”
“You’re a student too. What about your lectures?”
“I’ll manage.”
“And if he cries at night?”
That made Suho blink. He looked up, eyes wide.
But Sieun didn’t even flinch.
He ladled a small amount of soup into a bowl and tasted it with the tip of a spoon.
“Then I’ll be there.”
Suho felt heat crawl up his neck.
He didn’t even hesitate.
Halmoni stepped closer.
“He’s stubborn, you know. He won’t ask for help even if he needs it.”
“I know,” Sieun said, without looking up.
“And his pain makes him cranky. He’ll snap. Even at you.”
“That’s okay.”
“He’s never been good at sleeping alone.”
Sieun stirred the soup again.
“It’s been quiet here, too.”
“He skips medicine if it tastes bitter. Will you watch him?”
“Every time.”
“He sometimes hides fevers. Thinks he can power through.”
“I’ll check his temperature twice a day.”
“He forgets to hydrate. Will you remind him?”
“I’ll hand him the glass myself.”
“If he has a nightmare, will you be able to—?”
“I’ll wake him up and stay until he sleeps again.”
Suho was slowly melting in his seat. Halmoni was laying his entire life bare, and Sieun— Sieun was answering like it was a grocery list.
“He tends to push people away when he feels guilty.”
“Then I’ll stay close anyway.”
“He’ll probably act fine even when he’s not.”
“Then I’ll ask until he tells me the truth.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll wait.”

Suho buried his face in his sleeves.
Is this… am I being interviewed for adoption?
But when he peeked out again, he saw it— That tiny curve at the corner of Sieun’s lips. Not quite a smile. But not not a smile either.

He didn’t mind.
Any of it.

Not Halmoni’s questions.
Not her worry.
Not even Suho’s awkward, silent meltdown.
He was making dinner, answering politely, not once showing the slightest irritation.

Suho’s heart thudded in his chest.
Why is my heart beating like this…?
He really didn’t know. Not really.

But something about the scene — Halmoni inspecting, Sieun calmly cooking, the smell of garlic and broth warming the room — made Suho feel like he was wrapped in something.
Not a blanket. Not comfort.
Something older. Deeper.
Something that whispered:
This is what care looks like.
This is what safety feels like.
This is what you never knew you were missing.
And still, Sieun stirred the soup. Silent. Calm. Like none of this was unusual.
Suho had to look away. His chest was full of something he couldn’t name.
But he couldn’t stop smiling into his sleeves.

Dinner was quiet—on the surface.
But beneath the clink of spoons and the low hum of the rain outside, something was shifting. Something Suho couldn’t name.
Sieun had helped him to the table carefully—without asking, without a word—just slid an arm under his shoulder, made sure the crutches were steady, and guided him toward the dining table.
It was a small, rectangular wooden table with three chairs tucked in. Clean. Neat. A modest runner spread down the center with a small flower vase and folded napkins. Halmoni had already laid out the side dishes with surgical precision.
Suho hated that his leg trembled as he moved, the faint ache from his hip shooting up his back. But Sieun never reacted.
Not once.
He pulled out a chair. Gently. Held Suho’s elbow. Helped him lower down into the chair like he was made of porcelain.
Suho’s breath caught in his throat at the quiet attention.
Not pity. Just care.
Before sitting down himself, Sieun disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with Suho’s small case of prescribed medications. Without a word, he unscrewed a water bottle, placed the pills in Suho’s hand, and set the glass beside him.
“Take these before the soup,” he murmured, voice low, fingers brushing against Suho’s just a second longer than needed.
Suho blinked. “You remembered the timing?”
Sieun nodded once, already ladling soup into his own bowl like it wasn’t a big deal.
But to Suho, it was.

Everything Sieun did was starting to feel too big to name.

The table was warm and full—steamed rice, soft radish salad, sesame greens, stir-fried tofu, and the comforting smell of mushroom soup curling in the air. The rain outside tapped softly against the glass, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace.
Suho popped the pills into his mouth and washed them down, trying to focus on the soup. He lifted his spoon slowly, letting the heat touch his face.
The first taste hit gently—earthy, mellow, with a soft kick of ginger. Comfort food in its truest form.
Sieun passed him a small side dish without looking up.
And through all of this—
Halmoni was still interrogating him.
“You wake up early?”
“Five-thirty,” Sieun replied, calm.
“Will you separate his laundry?”
“Yes.”
“You iron his clothes when needed?”
“Of course.”
“You will track all his meds?”
Sieun gestured lightly at the water glass Suho had just used.
“Every one. Right timing, right dosage.”
“You will monitor his fever?”
“Yes. Twice daily. Thermometer’s in the drawer near the sink.”
“And if he hides it?”
“He won’t. I’ll know.”
Suho was just starting to ease into the meal when it happened.
“But what if your girlfriend doesn’t like how much attention you give him?”
It was like a record scratch in the middle of an orchestra.
Suho had just taken a mouthful of soup.
He froze.
Then—
He choked.
It wasn’t subtle. It was violent and sudden, like the word physically hit him in the back of his throat.
He coughed loudly, eyes wide, hand grabbing the edge of the table.
“Halmoni—” he croaked, voice cracking as the soup burned going down the wrong way.
Sieun moved before anyone else could blink. Chair scraping. Water in hand. Already crouched at Suho’s side.
“Hey, hey. Breathe,” Sieun said quietly, arm sliding around Suho’s back. He pressed the glass to his lips. “Small sips. Don’t gulp.”
His other hand rubbed soothing circles between Suho’s shoulder blades, firm and steady.
Suho blinked hard, the heat crawling up his neck.
This isn’t about choking.
This is about the way my chest hurts.
Once he could breathe again, Sieun stayed by his side a moment longer. He picked up a napkin and gently wiped the corner of Suho’s mouth.
“You good?”
Suho nodded mutely.
But he wasn’t.
Not even close.
Halmoni clicked her tongue. “You eat too fast. Honestly.”
But Suho barely heard her. His brain was echoing.
Girlfriend?
Does he have one?
He didn’t say anything. Why didn’t he say anything?
Would he? Why would he tell me?
Why do I care?
He rubbed his forehead with a groan and facepalmed dramatically.
“Seriously, Halmoni?”
But she continued like nothing happened.
“You won’t be able to spend much time with her if you keep attending to Suho like this.”
Sieun straightened, walking back to his chair.
“That’s fine.”
“What if she gets jealous?”
“Then she wouldn’t understand.”
“What if she asks you to choose?”
“I already have.”
“Anniversary?”
“Still Suho.”
“Even if she cries?”
Sieun stirred his soup.
“Then I’d hold Suho while she leaves.”
Suho gripped his spoon too tight. His ears burned. His pulse skipped.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He looked across the table—at Sieun, ladling rice like nothing happened.
Fingers calm. Eyes focused. Like none of the questions mattered.
But they did. They mattered too much.
Suho didn’t speak for the rest of dinner. Because everything he wanted to say was suddenly too big to speak out loud.

 

After dinner, the dishes were mostly cleared. The air smelled faintly of broth and sesame oil, and the rain outside hadn’t let up.
Sieun returned to Suho’s side without being asked. He offered a hand — gentle, firm — and helped Suho up from the dining table.
“Slow,” Sieun murmured, arm looping carefully around Suho’s back as they crossed toward the couch in the living room.
Suho’s steps were uneven, his hip aching, but Sieun didn’t rush him. He didn’t speak. Just walked with him like it was second nature.
When Suho finally settled on the couch — soft cushions, low light, his crutches resting nearby — Sieun knelt beside the coffee table, adjusting the pillow behind Suho’s back.
And then, just like that—Sieun vanished into the kitchen.
To clean.
Halmoni followed.
Suho groaned quietly.
He could hear her already.
“Do you use gloves when doing dishes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you double rinse to make sure there’s no soap?”
“Always.”
“And the sponge—is it new?”
“I change it weekly.”
“What about the bathroom?”
“I clean it every Saturday.”
“Toilet brush?”
“Bleached and replaced monthly.”
Suho exhaled loudly and dropped his head back on the couch.
“Does she ever run out of questions?” he muttered.
His voice was tired.
But his eyes—
His eyes never left Sieun.
Sieun, standing by the sink with sleeves rolled up, water running, dish towel slung over one shoulder. Quiet. Efficient.

His hair slightly tousled from the steam. His eyes relaxed.
His mouth set in a neutral line.
And Suho thought—
He looks good.
He didn’t know why it hit him so suddenly.
Maybe it was the light.
Maybe it was the calm.
Maybe it was just that this was the first time in years he’d seen Sieun look...
Not sad.
Not tense.
Just... at peace.
Of course he could have a girlfriend, Suho thought. Someone would be lucky to have him.
His chest tightened. He hated that thought.
Immediately.
Sieun returned a moment later with a small white tray. A glass of water and a small pill.
“After-dinner meds,” he said softly.
Suho blinked. “Already?”
Sieun sat beside him and handed him the water. Suho didn’t speak. He took the medicine quietly.
Just as he set the glass back down— Sieun’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, eyes flicking briefly, then stood.
“I’ll be right back,” he said simply, and stepped into the hallway, phone at his ear.
Suho watched his retreating figure, brows drawing together.
Who’s calling him at this hour?
Why step outside to take it?
He leaned back into the cushions, arms folded tightly across his chest.
It’s probably Baku. Or... someone else.
Halmoni shifted beside him, drawing his attention back.
“You don’t talk much tonight.”
Suho blinked. “I’m tired.”
“Too tired to answer a few questions?”
He groaned. “Halmoni, please.”
But she was already going.
“You’re comfortable here?”
“Yes.”
“He treats you well?”
“Very.”
“Food was okay?”
“Better than okay.”
“You feel safe?”
Suho paused. Then nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
She watched him. Her gaze softened.
And then—
“Maybe you’d be more comfortable at home. Your bed. Your things. Familiar walls.”
Suho hesitated.
His mouth opened. Closed.
He looked toward the hallway—where Sieun’s voice was a soft murmur through the wall.
“This is home too,” Suho said quietly.
His voice surprised even him.
Halmoni tilted her head.
And in the glow of the room—Suho leaned back into the cushion, eyes never leaving that doorway.
The one Sieun had walked through.
The one Suho hoped he'd always return from.

Suho’s breath stayed shallow as the soft sounds of Sieun’s voice leaked faintly from the hallway. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t urgent. Just… private.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
His chest curled a little tighter beneath the blanket. He didn’t want to admit it, but his thoughts were getting harder to control.
What if it’s not just Juntae or Baku? What if someone else calls him this late often? Someone he doesn’t talk about?
Halmoni was still beside him, sitting straight and proper like she was preparing to spring back into her worry monologue at any second. She glanced at him again, watching him too closely.
“You sure you’re not cold?”
Suho shook his head.
“Blanket’s fine.”
“You sure you’re not hungry again?”
“No.”
“Do you need more meds?”
He forced a thin smile.
“No, Halmoni. I’m okay.”
A beat passed.
“Should we go back home, then?” she asked, as gently as she could. “I can stay here tonight and come back with you tomorrow. Just for a few days.”
Suho felt his throat tighten.
“I told you—I’m fine here.”
“But you might rest better—”
“I said I’m fine!”
The words echoed, sharper than he meant, louder than he thought he could say them.
The apartment went still.
Halmoni’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
Suho immediately realized what he had done.
His heart dropped.
“Halmoni—” his voice cracked, softer now, guilt creeping in. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just— I’m tired. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t scold him. Just sighed and patted his leg gently.
“I know, Suho-yah. I know. I just worry.”
The hallway dimmed for a beat.
Then—
Sieun appeared.
But instead of walking over, he paused in the doorway. He glanced at Suho and Halmoni, eyes flicking between them, reading the atmosphere instantly.
He didn’t say much.
“I’ll give you two some space,” he said softly. His voice was calm — like always — but laced with quiet thoughtfulness.
He turned to leave but paused. Walked over to the coat rack near the entrance, plucked off the gray jacket Suho had seen him wear a dozen times — soft, oversized, edges slightly frayed at the sleeves — and crossed the room slowly.
Without saying anything, he draped it gently across Suho’s shoulders. Adjusted it. Tugged the hood around the back of Suho’s neck.
It smelled like laundry and soap and Sieun. Faint mint. Fabric softener. Summer rain.
Sieun didn’t wait for a reaction. He just offered a small nod — almost imperceptible — and turned toward the kitchen.
The moment he disappeared, Suho sat completely still. Blanket over his legs. Hoodie around his shoulders. His fingers curled slowly into the fabric, squeezing near his chest.
“He gave me his jacket,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Halmoni watched him with a knowing softness.
“You look like someone just handed you a wedding invitation.”
Suho turned red.
“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” he admitted, throat tight. “It’s weird. Not bad-weird. Just… strange. Like something’s… happening inside me.”
Halmoni tilted her head slightly, smile deepening.
“You’re feeling something real.”

“And that scares you a little, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, clutching fabric that smelled like someone he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for days — maybe months.

“Yeah,” he finally whispered. “It does.”
Halmoni reached for his hand again.
“It always does, at first. But you’ll be okay.”
Suho blinked fast, trying not to tear up again.
“You think so?”

“I know so,” she said simply. “Love sneaks in through the cracks, Suho-yah. And sometimes, we’re the last ones to know it’s already settled in.”
Suho didn’t respond.
But his hands didn’t let go of the jacket.
And his heart — it was beating far too fast for something that wasn’t love.

 

The rain hadn’t stopped.
Not even a little.
Though it was technically the start of summer vacation, the sky over Seoul had decided to behave like winter.
Unannounced rain fell in gentle, constant waves — light tapping against the windows, making everything feel slower, softer, more muted. The humidity had dropped. The breeze carried a chill that didn’t belong to the season. It felt like the world had mistaken June for December.
The apartment lights had dimmed. The night had grown long.
Sieun returned from the kitchen a while later — quiet as always — and walked straight to Suho without a word. Halmoni stood beside them, folding the corner of a blanket, watching with her tired eyes.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Sieun said softly, touching Suho’s arm.
Suho nodded, almost in a daze.

His fingers still clutched the jacket like it was armor.
He leaned into Sieun’s support as they moved slowly through the hallway. Suho’s limp was more prominent now — muscles stiff, body aching from the day.
When they entered Sieun’s room, Suho froze.
Because of course it would be this room.

The one that smelled like Sieun. The one that held so much quiet comfort.
“Here,” Sieun murmured, helping him sit on the edge of the bed.
Suho obeyed, barely able to look him in the eye.
Sieun knelt in front of him and pulled out a small white tube — the prescribed medicated ointment from the hospital bag.
“Lift your shirt a little,” he said, as he unscrewed the cap.
Suho blinked. “Why?”
“The doctor said to apply this before bed. For bruises and inflammation.”
Suho hesitated — then tugged the hoodie and shirt up just enough.
The cream was cool. Sieun’s hands were warm.
Suho’s breath hitched as Sieun leaned in, applying the ointment with light, practiced motions.
Not hurried. Not awkward. Just gentle.
But Suho couldn’t breathe.
His heart was thudding so loud it felt like it might shake the walls.
Why is this making me nervous? Why can’t I stop looking at him?
His eyes darted to Sieun’s face — the way his brows furrowed slightly in focus, the soft rhythm of his breath.
He didn’t even realize he was holding his own.
“Done,” Sieun said, pulling his shirt down gently.
Suho let out a shaky breath and nodded.
The door creaked slightly — Halmoni appeared again, this time with a folded blanket in her arms.
“Sieun,” she said, “don’t you have school tomorrow?”
Sieun stood and nodded. “Yeah. Just a lecture. It’s exam season.”
She hummed, concerned. “Should you really be staying up so late?”
“It’s fine.

Thought for a second. Then–

“I’ll come back home straight after,” he said.

He said it casually — but his eyes were on Suho.

Suho didn’t speak.
He just stared.

He’ll be gone tomorrow morning. Gone while I’m still asleep.
Something inside his chest dipped — like the floor had shifted.

“You’ll come back?” Suho asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Sieun nodded once. “Right after class.”
He didn’t smile. But his voice was steady. Reassuring.
Halmoni moved toward the bed and patted the space beside Suho.
She didn’t say it out loud, but her body language said enough: she wasn’t leaving his side tonight.
Sieun nodded again and quietly began setting up the futon on the floor.
Suho’s eyes followed every motion. The way Sieun bent to lay the mattress flat, straightening it with practiced hands.
Fluffed the pillow. Pulled the blanket over.
Every movement was precise. Familiar.
Like Sieun had done it all a hundred times before.
Then he turned to his shelf and gathered a couple of books, a highlighter tucked into the spine.
He turned back to Suho.
“I’m going to the living room to study. Just for a bit,” he said softly. “I’ll be back. Go to sleep.”
Before he left, he checked Suho’s forehead again. Gently covered him with the blanket. Tugged it up near his chin.
Suho didn’t say anything.
He just looked up at him — wide-eyed, dazed — as if he was watching something too important to look away from.
The door clicked softly as Sieun left.
Rain tapped against the window.
Suho laid back into the pillow, the hoodie still around his shoulders, cocooned in comfort.
Halmoni shifted slightly beside him. She folded her arms gently over her stomach and sighed.
“You really care about him, don’t you?” she asked quietly.
Suho hesitated. “I… I don’t know what this is,” he whispered. “But it’s loud.”
“Loud?” Halmoni repeated, turning her head toward him.
“My chest. My head. When he’s near me or talks to me… it’s just loud.”
She smiled knowingly. “That’s what feeling too much sounds like.”
Suho swallowed thickly. “He makes things easier. And harder. I don’t even know why I’m so… like this.”
Halmoni brushed her fingers through his hair gently. “You don’t have to know. You just have to be honest with yourself.”
“But what if I mess it up?”
“Then you fix it. Like he’s doing for you right now.”
Suho went quiet.
“He cares about you. That boy doesn’t talk much, but he moves mountains in silence.”
Suho’s eyes blurred. “I noticed.”
Halmoni nodded. “And he hasn’t stopped.”
She pressed a warm kiss to Suho’s temple.
“You’ll be okay. And I think, deep down, you already know why your heart gets loud around him.”

Suho blinked, breath shaky.
“Yeah.”
Wrapped in Sieun’s scent, cocooned under the weight of care, Suho finally drifted to sleep — his heartbeat still whispering truths he hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

 

Sometime deep in the night — when the rain had softened into a whisper and the apartment had stilled — Suho stirred.
He didn’t wake with a jolt. It was slower than that. A thick, foggy rise from sleep, his mind swimming somewhere between dreaming and not.
His limbs were heavy, face damp with sweat, the t-shirt clinging a little too warm to his skin. His head throbbed gently behind his eyes, and every breath felt warmer than it should’ve been. Disoriented, he shifted — and that’s when he felt it:
A soft touch — cool and firm — grazing his forehead.
His lashes fluttered, breath caught. Slowly, his eyes opened.
The room was quiet, cloaked in shadow. The faint amber light from the hallway poured in through the barely-open door, casting long, soft lines across the bed and floor.
And beside him — kneeling, calm, focused — was Sieun.
He was wringing out a small cloth into a silver bowl, his movements steady and rhythmic. Water dripped softly, caught by a towel beneath. He placed the cool compress gently on Suho’s forehead, then sat back slightly to observe.
“Hey,” Sieun whispered, noticing Suho’s eyes on him. “Did I wake you?”
His voice was low, warm. No panic. No tension. Just presence.
Suho blinked slowly, his voice cracked and faint. “No… I…”
He stopped.
Because Sieun was here.
Still here.
Halmoni stirred beside him — a faint rustle of the blanket. She blinked drowsily, caught sight of Sieun’s figure beside the bed, and then let out a soft sigh. Her hand gently patted Suho’s arm, like to say, he’s got you, before turning over and drifting back into sleep.
Suho swallowed.
“Fever?” he asked.
Sieun nodded once, his voice even softer now. “A little. Probably from the strain and the meds. It'll pass.”
He dipped the cloth again, carefully wrung it out, and gently reapplied it to Suho’s forehead with practiced hands.
The cloth was cold.
But Sieun’s hands were warm. Steady.
That contrast settled something deep in Suho’s chest.
“You should be asleep,” Suho murmured.
Sieun gave a small shrug. “I noticed your temperature when I came to check on you. Thought I’d stay a little longer.”
He adjusted the blanket around Suho with slow, careful movements, tucking it just beneath his chin.
Suho didn’t speak. Not right away.
He couldn’t.
He just looked at him.
The slope of Sieun’s shoulders in the dim light.

The gentle furrow between his brows.
His fringe damp from steam or maybe sweat, falling over one eye.
The curve of his mouth — neutral, unreadable.
Suho’s thoughts raced too quickly and too slowly all at once.

Why do you care this much? How are you still here? Still doing this? How are you not angry with me?
He tried to keep still, but his voice escaped before he could stop it.
“Why aren’t you mad at me?”
Sieun paused.
He didn’t act surprised by the question.
He just tilted his head a little and placed the cloth down in the bowl with a quiet splash.
“Because you’re not feeling well…”

“...And because I don’t want to be.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. Just that same steady, grounded tone.
Suho’s breath hitched.
His eyes stung — he didn’t know if it was the fever, or something else entirely.
“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Suho whispered. “Earlier. Or even before. I keep doing everything wrong.”

“...I shouted at Halmoni.”
“She was just worried for me.”

Sieun didn’t respond. But his hand moved — slow, assured — to brush Suho’s damp hair away from his forehead.
“You’re trying. That’s enough.”
His thumb lingered briefly on Suho’s temple. A grounding touch.
“Go back to sleep,” Sieun said gently.
And then — softer, almost inaudible:
“You’re safe here.”
The words hit deeper than they should’ve.
Or maybe, Suho thought, they hit exactly where they were supposed to.
And somewhere, in the middle of all the spinning thoughts —
In the middle of memorizing Sieun’s silhouette, the weight of his hand, the gentleness of his voice —
Suho’s eyes fluttered shut again.
He drifted off to the softest sound:
The hush of rainfall outside.
The faint clink of the bowl.
Sieun’s presence beside him.
And the steady beat of a heart Suho hadn’t yet found the words to name.
But already trusted more than anything else in the world.

 

When Suho woke up the next morning, it was to a room softened by warm sunlight.
The rain had stopped sometime in the early hours. Now, a golden glow seeped through the curtains, casting a slow-moving warmth across the blanket draped over him.
He didn’t move for a long time.
His body felt... light. His limbs weren’t aching. The crushing fog behind his eyes from the night before had lifted, replaced by a clear, soft quiet that felt almost unnatural.
His hoodie had slipped slightly off his shoulder during the night, but he was still wrapped in layers — not just fabric, but scent. Familiar scent. Sieun’s scent.
The pillow beside him still held the clean-linen and warm citrus notes of Sieun’s fabric softener. The blanket smelled like home.
And Suho felt... safe.
That was the only word he could find.
Safe.
He blinked slowly, letting his gaze trail across the room.
The futon was gone. Neatly folded and placed back in the corner. The floor swept clean.
Halmoni’s spot beside him was empty. Her pillow straightened, the blanket tucked.
But more than anything —
Sieun was gone.
Not just out of the room. Gone from the apartment.
Suho’s heart dipped for a beat.
But only for a beat.
Because everything around him screamed that Sieun had been there.
Still was.
His presence clung to every corner.
The air was still slightly warm from the heater left on low. The fan on the windowsill was pointed away from the bed, like someone had adjusted it thoughtfully in the early morning.
And then — a soft knock at the door.
Halmoni peeked in, hair tied back neatly, sleeves rolled.
“Oh—good. You’re awake.”
She stepped in, balancing a tray with a glass of warm water and a small set of pills.
“How are you feeling?”
Suho sat up slowly, back propped against the headboard. His voice came out low, hoarse. “Better. Much better.”
Halmoni came closer and gently touched the back of her hand to his forehead.
“Your fever broke late in the night,” she said, more to herself. “I was too tired to even move. That boy noticed it before anyone else. Stayed up wiping you down like a mother hen.”
Suho gave a breathy laugh. “Sounds like him.”
Halmoni placed the tray on the nightstand, then folded a towel and set it neatly at the foot of the bed.
“He left early,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “Just after sunrise.”
Suho blinked. “He didn’t wake me?”
“Didn’t want to,” she said. “Left everything ready. Your morning meds, your clothes, even a note.”
Suho glanced to the side — and sure enough, on the chair by the closet, a neatly folded set of clothes.

A small sticky note attached to the shirt pocket:
‘Eat light. Soup’s in the pot. Text me when you wake up. — S.’
Suho’s throat tightened.
“He also reheated the soup,” Halmoni continued. “And made sure there’s tea in the thermos. Told me exactly when you need your next dose.”
She paused.
“He even asked if I could sit with you for a little while this morning. Said you might feel better waking up to someone familiar.”
Suho looked down.
“He thinks of everything,” he murmured.
Halmoni smiled.
“Yes. He does.”
She sat beside the bed, folded her hands, and watched Suho with quiet fondness.
“You know,” she said, “I raised you. I thought I knew how to care for you better than anyone.”
Suho glanced at her, puzzled.
“But last night… watching him?”
She smiled, eyes softening.
“I think he knows better now.”
Suho didn’t reply.
He looked back at the note. At the glass of water.
At the sunlight.
At the place Sieun had been hours ago.
And he smiled.
Soft. Small.
But real.

 

.
.
.

 

The apartment was quiet again.
Suho had eaten breakfast slowly — halmoni watching fondly — and taken his meds like Sieun asked. He had even tried watching something light on the television, but nothing held his attention.
He sat now in the living room, legs covered in a thick blanket, head resting against the back of the couch, eyes drifting toward the wall clock every few minutes.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He said he’d be back after the lecture. What’s taking so long?
The quiet felt heavier the longer it stretched.
And then—
Click.
The front door unlocked.
Suho’s head immediately lifted. His chest tightened.
And in a rush—
The door opened.
And chaos entered.
“I told you I could carry it, you ice-hearted little monarch!”
Baku’s voice rang out, full of dramatic flair, as he stomped in first. His arms were filled with an unstable mountain of takeout containers — tteokbokki, rice cakes, something with sesame, and clearly too much of everything.
Suho blinked, disoriented. Baku’s grin split wide when he spotted him.
“Hyung’s alive!” Baku yelled triumphantly. “The prince lives!”
Gotak followed right behind him, holding a bulging grocery bag in one arm and a half-empty carton of milk in the other.
“We saved him from himself,” he declared. “Would’ve walked back with tofu, leeks, and regret.”
Behind them, Sieun entered — silent, composed, groceries in hand. His jacket was unzipped, a faint flush on his cheeks from walking in the chilly air. His fingers were red from gripping the handles, his hair slightly wind-tossed.
Juntae brought up the rear, hugging a tub of kimchi to his chest, umbrella tucked under his arm, eyes flicking between everyone and the floor.
Suho stared.
They were loud.
They were real.
They were here.
Halmoni came out from the hallway, curious.
“Ah! Visitors?” she asked.
Juntae immediately bowed. “Halmoni, hello. We just came to check on Suho. And…” he looked at the groceries, “…feed him?”
“Sieun wouldn’t let us carry anything,” Baku chimed in, shooting a dramatic glare at Sieun.
“Because you were busy throwing snow at each other,” Sieun muttered, already unpacking the vegetables.
“Princess, you were the one who threw the first tofu,” Baku fired back.
“You caught it.”
“With my face!”
Gotak was already putting rice cakes in the kitchen. “Told you not to challenge him. He’s a tofu assassin.”
Suho blinked. “You guys... really brought food?”
“Of course!” Baku waved a hand. “Sieun looked too soft and sad. We had to feed the whole house just to be sure.”
Sieun gave Baku a look but didn’t reply. He was already unpacking the leafy greens, placing them in neat piles.
“Don’t mind him,” Gotak added. “He cried over spicy sauce last time. Drama is his love language.”
“I resent that,” Baku muttered, placing the spicy container near Suho. “Mild for you. Spicy for us. Unless you’ve healed fast and want to risk it.”
Suho smiled faintly. “Thanks.”
“You waited?” Sieun asked then, his eyes meeting Suho’s for the first time.
Suho hesitated… and then nodded.
“Yeah.”
A small silence passed.
No drama. No teasing.
Just that.
Sieun turned back to the counter — but his lips twitched, just barely.
And Suho saw it.
Juntae moved closer to Halmoni, offering the kimchi. “We’ll stay out of the way. Promise. Just wanted to make sure the patient’s still got blood in his veins.”
“He’s got more than that,” Halmoni said, amused. “He’s got caretakers in shifts.”
“We’re unionizing,” Gotak whispered to Suho.
“Sieun’s HR,” Baku added. “Strict but fair.”
Suho laughed, heart finally loosening.
And in that room — full of food, chatter, grocery bags, and warm laughter — he realized:
This wasn’t just recovery.
It was healing.

 

As the noise of groceries settled and takeout boxes were shuffled across the table, Sieun finally turned to Suho, his expression softening just slightly.

“Did you take your meds?”

 

Suho nodded. “Yeah. Before breakfast.”

“Good.”

 

Then Sieun turned to Halmoni.

“I’ll make something light for lunch too. He shouldn’t eat just tteokbokki.”

 

Halmoni gave a pleased nod. “I’ll help.”

Sieun looked around, registering the slightly disheveled state of the kitchen and the damp cold from outside.

“I’ll go get fresh first,” he said quietly. “Start in a minute.”

With that, he disappeared down the hall, bathroom door clicking shut behind him.

The moment he was gone — absolute chaos exploded.

“This is our moment,” Baku whispered, already tiptoeing toward the kitchen.

 

“Moment for what?” Juntae asked, suspicious.

 

“Reorganization! We’re making a kitchen revolution.”

 

Gotak opened the cabinet.
“Why is the pepper next to the sugar? Sieun has no spice logic.”

“S stands for scandalous,” Baku declared, moving the pepper to the front.

 

Juntae sighed. “He’s going to destroy you both.”

“Let him try,” Baku said heroically, holding up a wooden spoon like a sword.
“Viva la rebellion!”

 

Halmoni chuckled softly from the couch.
“It’s like watching toddlers with too much sugar.”

Suho, curled up under a light blanket, shook his head, trying not to smile.

“I feel like I should stop them,” he said.

 

“But you won’t,” Halmoni replied.

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

From the kitchen, more madness:

“Gotak! Do NOT touch that sauce bottle! That’s Sieun’s Special Reserve!”

 

“How special can vinegar be?”

 

“You wanna find out the hard way? That sauce is the key to enlightenment.”

 

Juntae peeked inside. “Oh no. They’ve renamed everything.”

“That’s the love spice,” Baku said solemnly.

 

“That’s sesame oil,” Gotak corrected.

 

“Exactly.”

 

The bathroom door creaked open.

Silence dropped like a brick.

Sieun stepped out, towel around his shoulders, hair damp and slightly messy. He wore a soft beige sweatshirt and navy lounge pants. His skin was pink from the shower steam, and he blinked slowly at the soundless room.

He padded into the kitchen.

And the moment he entered, Baku threw both hands up like a magician mid-trick.

“And now, presenting: Her Royal Highness, the Culinary Empress of the Rainy Realms — Princess Sieun!”

 

Gotak made trumpet noises.

Juntae groaned audibly.

Sieun paused, one eyebrow slightly twitching.

He didn’t even put the towel down.

“Leave.”

 

“What if I help?” Baku asked, grinning.

 

“Then lunch will be ruined.”

 

“That’s offensive.”

 

“That’s accurate.”

 

Sieun picked up a chopping knife.

“Out.”

 

Baku and Gotak backpedaled.

“Understood! Princess requests privacy!”

 

“For her royal banquet!”

 

Sieun turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “You’re pushing your luck.”

“This is what gratitude looks like!” Baku chirped, now halfway down the hall.

 

“We love you!” Gotak shouted as he vanished.

 

“I don’t!” Sieun yelled back, finally setting the towel aside and getting to work.

 

Juntae ducked in to set the side dishes down and muttered, “They’re going to get murdered.”

Halmoni walked into the kitchen with her usual calm.

“Can I help?” she asked.

 

“Yes, please,” Sieun said without missing a beat, already rinsing vegetables.

 

They worked quietly.

Suho sat on the couch, watching the scene.

And though it was funny — truly — he couldn’t help the weird twist in his stomach when Baku called Sieun ‘princess.’

Even worse when Sieun didn’t protest much. Didn’t frown. Didn’t threaten them nearly as hard as he could’ve.

And maybe Suho was overthinking.

But maybe not.

His hand tightened around the blanket as he watched Sieun hand Halmoni a bundle of spinach.

That faint smile on Sieun’s lips?

It hit harder than any joke.

 

The chopping of scallions was the only sound in the kitchen. The rain had quieted to a drizzle. The smell of warm sesame oil and simmering broth filled the air.

Halmoni folded spinach gently into a side bowl. Sieun stirred the rice porridge in a pot.

The peace lasted exactly four minutes.

Then — from the hallway — the sound of footsteps.

Multiple footsteps.

Three.

And then—

“TA-DAAA~!” Baku twirled dramatically into the living room like he was modeling for an invisible crowd.

 

“Presenting: The Sieun Collection of the year!” he announced.

 

Sieun blinked.

Blinked again.

Baku was wearing one of Sieun’s pale blue oversized sweatshirts — sleeves swallowing his hands, the neckline slightly loose. It definitely was not his size.

Gotak entered next, proudly sporting a dark grey long-sleeve tee with tiny embroidered cats that Suho was pretty sure he’d seen on Sieun once. It hung almost like a tunic.

And behind them—

“It’s warm,” Juntae said quietly, stepping into the living room in a fitted cream hoodie that Sieun often wore to study in.

 

Sieun’s spoon paused mid-air.

He stared at the three of them.

“Who,” he asked calmly, voice deceptively soft, “gave you permission to go through my closet?”

 

Gotak beamed. “The door was open. So technically—”

“—We entered with spirit and respect!” Baku added, spinning again like a chaotic ballerina.

 

“This has a kangaroo pocket!” Juntae whispered with delight, hands shoved in.

 

Sieun’s hand slowly set the spoon down.

“You—”

 

“Look, it was for emotional warmth,” Baku said. “We’re emotionally invested.”

 

“You stole my hoodie.”

 

“We’re borrowing your aura.”

 

Suho snorted from the couch. He couldn’t help it.

Even Halmoni raised an eyebrow, folding her arms.

“Are those his clothes?” she asked, tilting her head.

 

“We’re conducting a comfort test,” Gotak said seriously.

 

“They passed,” Juntae nodded.

 

“I’m going to set all of you on fire,” Sieun said without blinking.

 

“But in your clothes?” Baku teased.

 

“Especially in my clothes.”

 

Sieun picked up the chopping knife again.

The gang collectively flinched.

Suho was torn between laughing and yanking Baku away from where he kept clinging to Sieun’s arm.

“Okay but seriously,” Baku said, ducking behind Halmoni for safety, “these sleeves are magic.”

 

“They smell like dreams and sadness,” Gotak added.

 

“And green tea,” Juntae whispered reverently.

 

Suho pressed a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or push them out the door.

Mostly because — despite the hilarity — something twisted in his chest watching Baku lean so close to Sieun.

The kitchen was warm. The stove was simmering. And Suho… wasn’t sure what burned more — the broth or the back of his throat.

 

Sieun was back at the stove, face flat but soul likely screaming.
Suho, still perched on the couch, hid behind a hand as the chaos only escalated.
“Is this your cologne or shampoo?” Baku asked, sniffing his sleeve like a wine connoisseur.
“That’s body wash,” Gotak answered with equal reverence. “Vanilla. Clean. Like heartbreak.”
“Can we all agree Sieun smells like the main character?”
“Like if law school had a face and that face was annoyed all the time.”
“Shut up and take off my clothes,” Sieun muttered, stirring the soup.
“Too late,” Baku said. “We’ve emotionally bonded.”
Even Halmoni had her hand over her mouth, shoulders trembling from barely-contained laughter.
“You’re all insane,” Sieun added, placing a lid on the pot.
“And hungry,” Juntae said cheerfully.
Sieun ignored them, turned toward Suho with a glass of water and a small packet.

“Med time,” he said simply, tone flat.
Suho blinked, sat up straighter, and accepted the glass. Their fingers brushed.
Only a second.
But his stomach flipped.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“Don’t forget to eat something mild,” Sieun added, like he hadn’t just threatened to burn Baku alive five minutes ago.
“Always so caring,” Baku sighed, wiping a fake tear. “My princess has layers.”
“You have a death wish.”
“I have a full stomach in about ten minutes, that’s what I have.”
Sieun rolled his eyes and walked away.
“Alright!” Gotak clapped his hands. “Set the battlefield!”
They dropped to the floor, pulling over the low table near the couch, dragging floor cushions around it.
“This is our war zone now,” Baku declared, unfolding napkins like they were sacred scrolls.
“I’ll get bowls!” Gotak shouted, already halfway to the kitchen.
“Plates,” Juntae added, opening the cabinet like he lived there.
Halmoni wandered in to pour water and gently place spoons on the table with the elegance of a five-star server.
Sieun, silently plating side dishes, sighed again.
“Why are there so many of you in my house?”
“Because you’re lovable,” Gotak replied.
“Because you cook better than anyone else,” Baku added.
“Because Suho’s here,” Juntae said under his breath, quiet but firm.
Sieun paused. Then kept plating.
Suho shifted on the couch, warmth crawling under his skin.
“Couch prince,” Baku called, “Your throne awaits. Juntae says you stay where you are.”
“I’ll bring you rice,” Juntae offered sincerely, already setting down chopsticks.
Sieun finally walked over with a tray — rice bowls, soup, pickled radish, sautéed greens, a plate of grilled tofu.
He placed one bowl in front of Suho first.
Not a word. Just a soft glance.
Suho couldn’t look away.
Then chaos resumed.
Baku poured water into everyone’s cups like he was baptizing them. Gotak almost spilled sauce on the tablecloth. Juntae handed Suho a tissue like it was a love confession.
And Sieun, ever the storm in soft clothing, sat down last — right beside Suho’s knees.
The rain had slowed outside. The steam curled from the bowls. And Suho’s heart wouldn’t stop fluttering.

Lunch began like a calm wave.
Steam rising.
Chopsticks tapping.
Suho balanced his bowl in one hand, the other propped under a blanket over his lap, spooning warm porridge slowly, savoring the mild flavors.
And then—
“Here you go, my Princess,” Baku announced.
A chopstick full of tofu dangled dramatically in front of Sieun’s face.
Sieun didn’t even blink.
“Put that down.”
“It’s royal feeding etiquette.”
“You’re going to drop it.”
“Do you doubt my precision?”
Suho turned his head, spoon frozen midair.
Gotak raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve dropped your phone in soup before.”
“That was one time and the bowl moved.”
“Gravity doesn’t care about your excuses.”
“Let me feed my princess in peace!”
Sieun turned slightly, narrowing his eyes. “If you drop tofu on me—”
“Say no more.”
And of course — it dropped.
Right onto Sieun’s lap.
Silence.
Even Halmoni paused mid-bite.
Baku froze. Gotak blinked like his soul just left his body. Suho choked on his rice.
Sieun calmly placed his own chopsticks down.
Picked up a tissue.
Cleaned the tofu.
Without a word.
Baku’s grin faltered. “I… miscalculated. But it’s out of love—”
“Your love is hazardous.”
“I bring flavor and affection.”
Gotak grabbed Baku’s sleeve. “You bring chaos. Sit down.”
“I’m the spice in his bland law student life.”
“You’re the wasabi in his eye.”
Sieun exhaled slowly. The tension in his jaw didn’t quite disappear.
Suho was trying very, very hard not to smile — and failing.
But underneath it, something stirred.
He kept glancing between Baku and Sieun. They were close. Too close.
Are they…? No. They’re just friends. Right?
Halmoni, seated neatly across from them, lowered her spoon.
“You two,” she said slowly, “make a good couple.”
The table exploded.
Gotak made a strangled noise, slapped a hand to his mouth, and bent over like he was going to throw up from sheer emotional whiplash.
Juntae choked mid-bite, dropped his spoon, and fell sideways onto the pillow beside him, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.
Baku?
He collapsed backward onto the floor, banging his palm repeatedly against it, gasping between bouts of hysterical laughter.
“I CAN’T—H-HALMONI—WHY WOULD YOU—”

“Best moment of my entire life,” he howled, kicking his feet in the air.

Sieun stared at Halmoni, expression blank with shock, as if someone had unplugged his soul.
“Halmoni…” he croaked.

She shrugged. “He’s loud, you’re quiet. It balances. Chemistry.”

“I—He—I don’t—”

“You’re welcome,” she added, sipping soup like a seasoned villain.

Suho, frozen halfway through a bite, stared at her like he’d just been betrayed.

“Are you even on my side anymore?” he whispered.

She smiled serenely. “I’m always on your side. I’m just doing recon.”
“Recon?!”

Baku, now wheezing, rolled toward Gotak and whispered dramatically, “We’ve been blessed.”

“She shipped it out loud,” Juntae added between wheezes.

Sieun looked around like he was contemplating opening a portal and walking into another dimension.

Suho… wanted to scream.

 

The aftermath of lunch looked like the gang had hosted a hurricane.
Plates licked clean but left askew, tissues folded in odd triangles, rogue grains of rice dotting the floor like fallen soldiers.
Sieun, always calm in chaos, knelt beside the low table with his sleeves rolled up, wiping up a splash of soup with precision only he possessed.
Beside him, Juntae silently helped — lifting bowls, stacking them neatly on the tray, casting quiet glances toward the couch every few seconds.
Suho was propped there, a blanket draped over his legs, sipping warm barley tea. His shoulders sagged with post-meal comfort, but something in his eyes still lingered — a weight, a thought, a name.
He wasn't exactly sad. But he wasn’t exactly at ease either.
And then came Baku.
The spoon in his mouth clicked as he leaned forward on his elbows, eyes gleaming with the kind of mischief that had “danger” written all over it.
“You know, I had a dream once,” Baku said casually, like he was about to confess something profound.
Gotak didn’t even look up from picking sesame seeds out of his sleeve.
“Oh no.”
“That I was a wandering noble,” Baku declared, straightening his back like he was about to recite Shakespeare, “and Princess Sieun was the cold-hearted ruler of a cursed kingdom.”
From the kitchen, Sieun paused in mid-wipe.
“Don’t.”
“And I,” Baku went on, with the kind of exaggerated pain that would make drama professors weep, “had to win his heart by delivering tteokbokki barefoot across the Forest of Pain.”
Suho blinked.
“But every time he got close,” Gotak added, finally joining in, “Princess Sieun shot arrows made of legal jargon.”
“—‘Article 92 of the Civil Code: Stay six feet away!’” Baku screeched with too much enthusiasm.
That did it.
Suho snorted.
He tried to hide it behind his cup, but a strangled laugh escaped.
Juntae, wiping a plate, muttered, “What is wrong with both of you.”
Halmoni sipped her tea, not interrupting, but the amused twitch at the edge of her mouth betrayed her.
Sieun, still calm, still kneeling, didn’t look up as he responded in his usual deadpan:
“If either of you writes that fanfic, I’ll sue.”
Gotak gasped like he’d just witnessed a plot twist.
“Fanfic!?”
“He admitted it’s canon!” Baku yelled, nearly slipping on the blanket.
“Canon confirmed!” Gotak shouted.
Suho’s shoulders began to shake, his eyes wide as he tried, tried, not to laugh. But the grin — it betrayed him.
And then—
“And when the noble finally confessed his love,” Baku said, voice dropping into a whisper, “Princess Sieun looked down from his throne of law books and said…”
Gotak didn’t miss a beat. With the flattest tone possible:
“‘Objection. On the grounds of excessive feelings.’”
Silence.
And then—
Suho broke.
Like really broke.
He doubled over, his laugh bursting out like a storm — loud, gasping, sharp and real. His cup nearly fell from his hands as he clutched his stomach. His whole body shook.
It wasn’t just a laugh. It was release.
Everyone froze.
He laughed, really laughed — shoulders shaking, hand pressing over his eyes like he could stop it, but he couldn’t.
And across the room, towel still in hand, Sieun turned.
Everything else blurred.
His fingers stilled over the rim of a bowl. The noise muted. And all he could do — all he wanted to do — was watch Suho laugh.
Eyes crinkled.
Cheeks flushed.
Mouth wide open, full of something light, real, full of life.
The world felt too quiet suddenly.
Baku caught the way Sieun’s gaze lingered too long.
Gotak saw how Suho had stopped laughing mid-breath, eyes locked on Sieun now.
Juntae just stayed quiet, like he always did when things felt too tender to speak.
Even Halmoni raised an eyebrow, sipping her tea with the kind of knowing smile only grandmothers possessed.
But no one said anything.
Because sometimes, silence says it all.
And in that moment—
It wasn’t love.
It wasn’t realization.
It was just presence.
One boy laughing like sunlight, the other boy staring like it might burn him, but still not looking away.

 

Baku just stared, open-mouthed. “We got him.”
Gotak whispered like he’d just seen the Northern Lights, “That was beautiful.”
When Suho finally came up for air, his cheeks were flushed, eyes watering slightly. He rubbed them with the back of his sleeve and looked around.
“Why are you all staring?”
Juntae was smiling now, softly.
Baku had both hands dramatically clasped to his chest.
“My work here is done,” he whispered.
But the room turned to Sieun.
Sieun, who had quietly paused in his place near the kitchen doorway.

A real smile.
Not the ghost of one. Not a smirk. Not a twitch.
But a full, soft, honest smile.
It wasn’t huge. But it changed everything. It reached his eyes, softened the curve of his mouth, made him look younger and warmer all at once.

And then—like catching himself dreaming—he blinked. Looked down. A breath leaving him slow and unnoticed. He turned back toward the dishes, the edge of that smile still ghosting on his lips.

And Suho?
Suho couldn’t look away.

 

The laughter had faded.
But the warmth stayed.
Like cinnamon heat after something sweet.
Suho had gone quiet again, but his smile — it hadn’t disappeared. It clung to the corners of his lips, refusing to be tucked away.
Sieun had returned to cleaning, but his movements were slower now. More careful. Almost... thoughtful.
He didn’t look up again. But his ears were still tinted pink.

Across the room, Baku leaned into Gotak’s shoulder and whispered, “He’s doomed.”
Gotak nodded solemnly. “He doesn’t even know he’s been hit.”
“Like watching a baby duck walk into a thunderstorm,” Juntae murmured, setting a cleaned spoon on the drying cloth.
Halmoni just sipped her tea and said nothing. But she looked like she wanted to.
And Suho?
He was still watching Sieun.
Still feeling that soft ache in his chest. The kind you only get when you want to stay in a moment a little longer than time will allow.
He looked down at his hands.
His fingers.
Then at the faint smile still blooming across Sieun’s mouth as he rinsed dishes.
"Cinnamon," Suho thought.
Not just the song.
Not just the feeling.
It was the color of the moment.
Of warmth. Of quiet knowing. Of everything he hadn’t figured out yet.
And for the first time in weeks, Suho felt something settle inside him. Something like peace. Something like pain. Something like home.

 

.
.
.

 

The noise in the living room had returned. Not loud — just alive.
Baku and Gotak were flipping through channels like their lives depended on finding the “perfect post-lunch anime rerun.” Juntae sat with a bag of snacks in his lap, giving commentary no one asked for.
“That villain is obviously misunderstood,” Juntae mumbled around a rice cracker.
“You’re obviously misunderstood,” Baku shot back, not looking away from the screen.
“Shhh!” Gotak hissed. “It’s the episode where the rival confesses through sword fighting!”
Halmoni chuckled softly, amused by their chaos, already knitting something in the corner like she belonged in this madness. And somehow, she did.
Amid the whirl of voices and flickering screen light—
Suho was slipping.
His eyes blinked slower.
His head tipped forward, then jerked back up.
Sieun noticed first.
From where he was seated — not too close, not too far — he watched Suho’s lashes flutter like the boy was fighting a battle against gravity and losing.
He stood silently.
No one noticed.
Until Suho swayed slightly forward, his arms folding tighter around the throw blanket.
Then, gently—without a word—Sieun reached him.
“Lie down,” he said quietly.
Suho blinked up, dazed. “No, no—I’m listening.”
“You’re not,” Sieun replied, already easing a hand behind Suho’s shoulders.
His touch was soft but sure, coaxing Suho to lean back.
He shifted the throw pillow, adjusting it behind Suho’s neck with practiced care. Lowered him slowly, like he’d done this before. Like he’d memorized the curve of Suho’s posture. Like every motion was muscle memory.
Suho’s body relaxed almost instantly, one arm draping over his stomach, head turning toward Sieun’s warmth without thinking.
The gang paused.
Gotak’s jaw dropped.
“Did the princess just—tuck in his knight?”
Baku dramatically placed a hand over his chest.
“This is better than any fanfic I’ve ever written in my head.”
Juntae blinked. “Wait, when did you start writing fanfic in your head?”
“Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.”
Halmoni, still knitting, gave a faint hum of approval. “Such good hands,” she said under her breath. “Takes care of everything without being asked.”
Sieun sat back down, unbothered by the commentary, but Suho—
Suho was halfway asleep, but the corners of his mouth were twitching.
And the last thing he heard before sleep took him completely—
Was Sieun, low and quiet, brushing a loose strand of hair from Suho’s temple and whispering,
“Sleep, Suho-yah.”
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t even noticed by the others.
But it was soft.
And real.
And Suho, drifting into sleep, tucked that sound deep into his chest.

 

.
.
.

 

The living room was cast in golden light, the kind that only happened on rainy evenings — soft and warm, like melted butter on old wood.
Suho was lying down on the couch.
Wrapped in a fluffy, oversized blanket that smelled faintly like detergent and rain. His head rested against a cushion Juntae had fluffed earlier. A small pillow tucked at his lower back. His legs curled slightly under the throw, body still in recovery mode.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. Maybe during the aftermath of lunch. Maybe somewhere between Baku’s fanfic meltdown and Gotak snoring with a rice cracker still in hand.
But now, his body was heavy — warm — and his chest felt like it was holding something just under the surface.
And then.
A hand.
Gentle.
On his forehead.
Cool fingertips brushing just once, then again, settling.
Suho stirred faintly. Didn’t open his eyes. But didn’t move away.
That touch… he knew it.
Sieun.
The pressure of two fingers checked along his temple, the way someone would read a fever. Soft, precise, and strangely intimate.
“Still warm,” came the low murmur — barely a whisper, but there. Calm. Concerned.
Suho’s breath hitched.
He didn’t speak. He leaned into the hand.
Just slightly.
Like his skin wanted to chase the comfort.
A moment passed. The fingers hesitated — then slowly withdrew.
The warmth that lingered was no longer on his skin. It settled deep in his chest.
He kept his eyes closed.
Listened.
The sound of socks gliding softly over the wooden floor. A blanket being lifted.
Then another.
Sieun was moving through the room again.
Baku, curled in a beanbag like a cat, got a blanket thrown over him. One of Sieun’s old ones — probably stolen from his room.
Gotak had half-slumped under the coffee table. Sieun crouched and carefully shifted his leg out from under it, draping a blanket over his torso like a makeshift cover.
Juntae was leaned up against the armchair, hoodie zipped all the way to his chin, head slumped to the side. Sieun adjusted the neck pillow behind him like he was tucking in a toddler.
It was soft. Quiet. Parental, almost.
Suho barely peeked one eye open.
And saw him.
Sieun — moving around barefoot, in loose sweatpants and a grey t-shirt that hung delicately off his frame. His hair still a little fluffy from the shower. The low light making his cheekbones softer. Not sharp. Not guarded.
Just… gentle.
Suho didn’t know how long he watched.
But it was long enough to feel the ache build.
How can he look this beautiful while checking temperatures and tucking in grown men?
The heater buzzed quietly in the background.
Sieun turned it up a notch. Checked on the kettle. Turned off the TV.
Then stood there — for a moment — just looking at everyone.
Baku and Gotak drooling in their sleep. Juntae hugging a bolster. Suho… staring through barely opened lashes.
And then, finally, Sieun looked at him.
Their eyes didn’t fully meet — but Suho could feel it.
Something gentle. Something weightless.
Then Sieun moved closer. Picked up the thermometer again. Reached forward without a word.
Checked Suho’s temperature once more.
Still warm.
Still careful.
Still here.
Suho didn’t move.
He just let it happen.
And when Sieun finally stood again and walked away — toward the kitchen, maybe his room — Suho curled tighter into the blanket.
And let his eyes drift closed.
Surrounded by warmth.
And covered, completely, in the scent of home.

 

It was around 6:47 PM.
The kind of early evening when the sky outside was dipped in burnt gold and watercolor grey, the sun already tired, the clouds still grumbling softly with leftover rain. The apartment windows glowed orange, catching the edge of the golden hour — that hush between day and night where everything felt just a little more delicate.
The living room was calm now. Too calm for what had just been chaos.
The chaotic gang asleep.
Halmoni had retreated to the guest room an hour earlier, after giving Suho one final pat on the cheek and muttering something like “Don’t stay up too late” with sleepy affection.
And Suho…
Suho stirred slowly.
He didn’t open his eyes right away. Just shifted slightly, his shoulders snug beneath the weight of the blanket draped over him.
Warm.
Soft.
And smelling faintly of citrus and something only he could recognize now.
Sieun.
It wasn’t the shampoo scent that hit him first.
It was the softness of it — the way the cotton felt like it had soaked in days and days of Sieun’s quiet breathing, like it had absorbed his presence.
Without a second thought, Suho pulled the blanket tighter. Up and over his nose, until just his eyes peeked out.
He breathed in.
And breathed out slower.
Then finally—he opened his eyes.
And there he was.
Sieun.
Sitting cross-legged at the low table, just a few feet away, bathed in soft lamplight and the last flickers of sunlight.
Books open.
Notes scattered.
Hair falling just slightly over his eyes, like he hadn’t noticed.
His blue pen tapped softly every few seconds against the paper. He wasn’t rushing. Just reading. Flipping. Underlining. That signature quiet concentration he always had — the kind that never looked forced.
Sieun was wearing a soft, oversized t-shirt. One sleeve was pushed up slightly. A faint scratch was on his arm from earlier — maybe from the grocery bag straps. Suho remembered noticing it, wondered now if it still stung.
He couldn’t stop staring.
Why does he look like that?
Why does he look so... unreachable?
Sieun looked beautiful.
Delicate.
Not fragile — never fragile — but... gentle.
Like someone you weren’t meant to touch, just observe.
And Suho?
He just stared.
Wrapped in Sieun’s scent, heart tucked somewhere behind his ribs where it had started to thump too hard again.
This is what he looks like when he thinks no one’s watching, Suho thought. This is what I missed for two whole years.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t dare ruin the moment.
Just curled deeper into the blanket and let his eyes memorize every inch of the boy he’d somehow ended up in the same home with. The boy who had waited. The boy who took care of him.
The boy who was still a mystery, even when sitting three feet away.
And for once — surrounded by warmth, scent, silence, and the sound of a pen brushing paper — Suho didn’t want to move.
He just wanted to stay.
Exactly.
Like.
This.
Suho didn’t stop staring.
He couldn’t.
From under the blanket — half-curled, half-awake, his face buried into the scent-drenched cotton — Suho’s eyes stayed fixed on Sieun.
The light from the corner lamp painted golden lines across the boy’s profile, tracing the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lashes, the edge of his jaw. His fingers moved slowly as he scribbled something in a margin. Calm, practiced strokes.
And Suho watched like he was watching someone sketch the moon.
Why do you look like this?
Why do you make the whole world feel like it’s quiet?
Suho’s hand had slipped out from the blanket sometime earlier. His fingers now curled near his chin, one loosely grazing the edge of the cushion. He hadn’t realized the air had gone cooler, or that his hands had turned faintly cold.
Until—
A voice.
Half-asleep.
Muffled.
Juntae.
“Cold…”
It came from the floor — somewhere near the nest of tangled limbs that was Baku, Gotak, and Juntae.

Suho didn’t move.

He just watched.

Sieun stood slowly, without sound.

Walked over.

Lifted the blanket that had slipped halfway off the trio.

And gently — carefully — tucked them in.

One by one.

Gotak, who was all arms and no sense of personal space.

Baku, who had somehow kicked off both socks in his sleep.

And Juntae, who hadn’t even moved but now had a pillow gently placed under his neck by Sieun’s hand.

Sieun adjusted the heater dial next. Turned it slightly higher.
He hovered for a second.

Then, without a word, adjusted Suho’s blanket too — folding it near his chest, brushing it over his feet.

Suho didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

He just watched.

His heart was loud now. Too loud.

And when Sieun finally returned to his corner, settled down again, and picked up his pencil like none of it had happened —

Suho buried deeper into the blanket.

Fingers curled.

Face flushed.

Eyes wide and stunned.

How am I supposed to sleep now?

The scent wrapped around him again, like the blanket was stitched with Sieun’s breath.
Citrus and something low and clean. Laundry. Skin. Him.
Suho’s knees curled in slightly.
Hands tucked into the warmth, fingers brushing over his own chest like he was trying to fold himself into something smaller — like if he tucked in enough, he could hide in Sieun’s presence.
He blinked slowly.
Eyes drifting again.
To that quiet figure under the lamp, pencil now moving slower, slower.
And he whispered to himself, not even realizing he did—
“Don’t look up.”

 

“Let me watch you just a little longer.”

 

Suho exhaled deeply.
No sound.
Just the soft beat of his heart thudding a little louder than it should.
And the truth he couldn’t admit still curling under his tongue like sugar in tea.

 

Suho didn’t blink.

Not once.

He stayed curled on the couch, chin half-hidden under the blanket that smelled entirely like Sieun. His eyes remained fixed—dazed, dreamy—on the boy seated under the warm yellow glow of the standing lamp.

Sieun’s pencil scratched lightly across his notebook.

Focused. Quiet. Breathing calm.

His hair fell slightly over his forehead, backlit by the soft golden halo of the lamp. His lashes looked absurdly long from this distance. His sweater hung loose around his frame — and in this gentle light, he looked like some fleeting picture Suho wasn’t allowed to keep.

He’s really pretty, Suho thought.

 

The kind of thought that wasn’t dramatic. It just... was. Like gravity. Like air.

Then—

Sieun’s pencil stopped.

He straightened slightly, looking down at the page, tapping the end of his pen once.

And then, casually, he lifted both arms above his head in a slow stretch.

Suho’s breath caught in his throat.

The hem of Sieun’s t-shirt lifted—just a little. A flash of pale skin above his waistband. A sliver of his lower stomach.

Soft. Smooth. And absolutely not meant for Suho’s eyes.

But Suho stared anyway.

He forgot to breathe.

And then Sieun stretched his neck to the side, a soft exhale through his nose, one hand reaching to rub the back of his nape.

Oh no, Suho’s mind whispered. Oh no no no no—

 

But before he could even untangle the knots forming in his head—

“Mmmhh...”

 

Juntae stirred beside the couch, rubbing his eyes as he sat up halfway, squinting at the lamplight.

Gotak groaned next, rolling over directly onto Baku’s stomach.

“Why is the floor warm?” Gotak mumbled.

 

“Because we’re being slow-cooked,” Baku murmured, half-asleep, his cheek still squashed against the blanket.

 

Sieun glanced up from his notes and turned toward the couch.

His gaze met Suho’s.

“You’re awake,” he said simply.

 

His voice was soft. Morning-quiet, even though it was early evening.

Suho blinked—panicked for a split second. Did he see him staring?

“Y-Yeah,” Suho muttered, eyes darting to his tea mug that wasn’t even in his hands.

 

Sieun didn’t comment. Just stood up, stretching again but not as high this time.

“How are you feeling?”

 

Before Suho could answer, Juntae was already on his knees, crawling over the tangle of limbs to reach the couch.

“Wait, let me check. Don’t move.”

 

He placed a hand on Suho’s forehead with the clinical efficiency of a school nurse who’s seen too much.

“Temp’s good. Not too warm.”

 

“You always say that,” Suho grumbled weakly, but his voice was softer than usual.

 

Halmoni’s door creaked open.

She stepped into the room wrapped in a soft shawl, blinking gently at the scene in front of her.

Four boys half-awake on the floor.

One grandson cocooned on the couch.

Sieun standing with a hand tucked in his hoodie pocket, blinking sleep from his eyes.

She didn’t speak.

Just smiled.

Like she had been waiting to see this scene for years.

Like the world had tilted into its proper place.

“Everyone slept well?” she asked gently.

 

Gotak nodded into Baku’s shoulder.

Baku lifted a hand and waved without looking.

Sieun knelt by the couch again, adjusting Suho’s blanket slightly.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked softly.

 

Suho nodded.

But in his mind—

He was still stuck on that stretch.

That sliver of skin.

And the ache in his chest he didn’t know how to name.

 

The hallway smelled like rain and shampoo and a little bit like kimchi stew — the kind that lingers in the fabric of warm homes.

Halmoni stood at the door, holding her folded umbrella like a sword.

“I’m really going now,” she announced.

 

Sieun, standing at her side with Suho in the doorway behind them, frowned slightly. “You don’t have to. Stay for dinner.”

“No, no. I’ve seen enough,” she said with a proud huff. “My grandson is safe here.”

 

She turned — and caught Suho’s hand gently.

“You’ll be okay?” she asked, softer.

 

Suho nodded.

“I’ll be okay.”

 

And then she opened her arms.

Without hesitation, Suho leaned into the hug.

Her arms wrapped around him tightly — the kind of hug that carried years of worry and two days of fierce inspection. She held his face afterward, thumbs brushing his cheeks.

“Take your meds. Don’t fight with him. And if he ever does anything stupid, call me.”

 

“Halmoni…” Suho mumbled, cheeks pink.

 

Before he could protest further, she turned to Sieun.

“You too.”

 

Sieun blinked.

 

Halmoni gave him a look that was half stern, half gentle.

 

“At least stay for dinner,” Sieun said softly, standing by the entrance with his arms crossed, trying not to look like he was insisting too much.

 

“You’re a student. You don’t need to worry about an old lady hovering around,” she said. “Besides, you already passed every single one of my tests.”

 

Sieun blinked again.

“Tests?”

 

“The cooking. The cleaning. The temperature checks. The way you spooned rice for my grandson without being asked.”

 

Suho, from behind her, groaned into his hoodie.

“Halmoni, can you not—”

 

“And the way you looked at him,” she continued casually.

 

That shut him up real fast.

Sieun’s expression didn’t shift. But his ears might have turned pink.

Before she left, she hugged Suho — a firm, long one, murmuring in his ear that she was proud of him, that he’d grown up so well. He looked like he might cry again.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, she pulled Sieun into a hug too.

He froze.

Halmoni patted his back twice.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” she said. “Even quiet boys need rest.”

 

Sieun gave her a small nod. “I’ll be fine.”

Then she gave him a hug.

Sieun didn’t react outwardly. But his hand hovered slightly behind her back, not quite touching. And when she pulled back, there was the faintest curve of a smile on his face.

“Take care of him.”

 

“I will.”

 

Baku sniffed dramatically behind them.

“Okay, but where’s our hug?”

 

Halmoni turned, sharp eyes flicking over the gang like a general reviewing her troops.

“You three. Protect both of them.”

 

Gotak nodded like he was being knighted. Juntae bowed. Baku opened his arms shamelessly.

And to everyone’s surprise — Halmoni hugged them all at once.

A brief, squished, chaotic group hug that involved one elbow in Baku’s side and Gotak trying not to crush her spine.

“You’re good kids,” she muttered.

 

“Awwwww,” Baku sniffled.

 

“Do not cry on me,” she warned.

 

“Too late.”

 

The gang ushered her out like a royal procession.

“We’re taking her to the cab,” Juntae said, already slipping on his shoes.

 

“We’ll be back in a flash,” Baku added, saluting with the umbrella.

 

“Or not,” Sieun said under his breath.

 

The door clicked shut behind them.

And for the first time that day — the apartment fell still.

Suho stood in the doorway, still holding the warmth of Halmoni’s hug like it was folded between his ribs.

Sieun walked back from the hallway, eyes flicking to Suho’s face.

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He was still sitting on the couch with his crutch propped beside him.

“You wanna freshen up before the meds?”

 

Suho hesitated. “Yeah.”

Sieun moved without pause. His palm gently settled under Suho’s elbow, the other hand lightly placed at his back as he helped him up.

“Careful,” he said, guiding him toward the hallway. “Slow steps. Don’t lean on your left too much.”

 

Suho followed the motions. Focused on his own legs.

He really tried to focus.

But then they paused near the bathroom, and Sieun reached over to open the cupboard. He pulled out a soft grey tee — oversized, of course — and loose drawstring shorts.

The moment he turned to hand them over — Suho’s eyes flicked up.

Only for a second.

Just one second too long.

And he caught sight of the stretch of skin at Sieun’s collarbone. Damp from sweat, neckline loose. His throat moved as he swallowed something, maybe nothing.

But for Suho—

It was everything.

His throat tightened.

He stared at Sieun’s hand for a second too long before finally grabbing the clothes.

“I’ll wait outside,” Sieun said, oblivious. “Yell if you need help.”

 

He turned on his heel.

And Suho just stood there.

Stared at the closed bathroom door for three whole seconds.

Then softly thumped his head against it.

Get it together. That’s your friend. He just gave you a shirt. Not his soul.

 

But oh no.

It smelled like him too.

He wanted to crawl into the shirt and disappear.

Suho hadn’t even changed yet when—

BANG.

The front door burst open.

“We’re back!!” Baku shouted.

 

“We brought melon soda!” Gotak added.

 

Sieun’s voice floated out from the kitchen, deadpan:

“You weren’t going home?”

 

“We were!” Baku insisted. “But the universe called us back.”

 

“Also I forgot my charger,” Juntae said, already halfway into the living room.

 

Sieun popped his head out of the kitchen, blinked twice, and muttered:

“Peace was never an option.”

 

Suho in the bathroom quietly screamed into a towel.

I hate timing. I hate doors. I hate Baku. I hate this shirt. I hate this world.

 

By the time Suho managed to change and hobble back into the living room, the apartment was alive again.
Too alive.
Baku had somehow unrolled the futon onto the floor, spread out like a sultan with a melon soda in each hand. Gotak was in the kitchen, opening every cupboard like he was on MasterChef. Juntae sat on the armrest of the couch, sipping quietly, a faint smile on his face.
And in the middle of it all — Sieun.
Opening the rice cooker. Making space on the counter like this was routine.
Suho froze in the hallway for a second, leaning on his crutch, the too-big shirt hanging off his frame like it belonged to him.
Or like it belonged to someone he belonged to.
The fabric brushed his thighs as he walked. It still smelled like Sieun.
He hated how much he liked it.
“There you are,” Sieun said, without looking. “Come sit. I’ll get your meds.”
Suho nodded — didn't trust his voice.
He limped to the couch, where Juntae instantly made room. The cushions felt warm. Everything smelled like simmered soy sauce and wood polish and home.
A minute later, Sieun came over with a tray — water glass, two pills, and a small white bowl of something light and brothy.
“Did you eat enough lunch?” he asked.
Suho blinked. “Yeah?”
Sieun didn’t look convinced.
“Still,” he said, placing the tray carefully in front of him. “It’s good for your stomach.”
“Princess treatment,” Baku muttered from the floor. “I need to sprain something.”
“You need to sprain your mouth,” Sieun replied without even blinking.
Gotak snorted. “His mouth is always the injury.”
Sieun handed Suho the water. “One at a time. Don’t gulp.”
Suho tried not to blush. He failed.
He took the pills. Drank the water. Wiped his mouth with the napkin Sieun had tucked in beside the tray. (Of course he had.)
And just when he thought he could breathe —
“You okay?” Sieun asked again, lower now, close.
Suho nodded fast. “Yes.”
Sieun watched him a second longer… and then ruffled his hair.
Ruffled his hair.
Like it was normal.
Like Suho didn’t immediately combust inside.
Like Suho wasn’t about to pass out just from that casual contact.
His fingers had been cool. His touch gentle. His eyes—
Nope. We’re not going there.
Suho stared down into his bowl.
Across the room, Baku elbowed Gotak and whispered, “He’s gonna faint.”
Gotak whispered back, “From dehydration or from the gay panic?”
Juntae just sipped his soda, watching Suho over the rim of his cup.

Sieun, now halfway back toward the kitchen, casually called, “I’ve got honey lemon water in the fridge if your throat’s sore.”

Suho muttered, “My heart is sore.”

“What?” Sieun asked, turning back.

Suho: “Nothing!!”

 

Baku, wheezing into a melon soda: “This is the best show I’ve ever watched.”

Notes:

I’ve honestly been so excited to post this one — and it feels extra special getting to share it on one of my sweetest reader’s birthdays 💕

Also, just to clarify: Suho is feeling something… but he’s not 100% sure what it is yet. He has a sense of it — but he hasn’t fully accepted it. Not just yet.

I have so many things planned for the future chapters. I really hope you’re going to love what’s coming next 🤍

Chapter 36: Walk Me Home, Even If I Live Here

Notes:

Hey everyone! 💛

How are you all doing? I’m so sorry for the delay in posting—can you believe it’s been almost a week!? 😭 But to make it up to you, I’m dropping one of the biggest chapters I’ve ever written!

I had saved everything in Google Docs, and this particular chapter ended up being 141 pages long—yes, 141! 😳 It’s packed with fluff, romance, angst, longing, and everything in between. I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. ✨

Dinner was warm.

Not just the food — though the simmering broth, garlic-glazed tofu, and soft rice clung to the air like comfort. But the atmosphere. The noise. The closeness.

It was all warm.

And yet, Suho was melting for a different reason.

Because across the table, he sat — sleeves rolled up, wrist bone peeking, that quiet-focus expression that always made Suho feel like the whole world had gone blurry except for him.

Sieun.

Calm. Focused. Gorgeous in that effortless, infuriating way. He was chewing quietly, occasionally pushing side dishes toward Suho like it was instinct — as if feeding Suho had always been part of his internal rhythm.

At one point, he even refilled Suho’s bowl without asking. Just lifted the lid from the rice cooker, scooped a second helping, and placed it gently in front of him.

“You didn’t eat much lunch,” Sieun murmured, barely audible over Baku arguing about pickled radish preferences.

 

Suho swallowed — both the rice and the lump in his throat. “I wasn’t that hungry then.”

“You’re hungry now,” Sieun said. Not a question. Just a fact.

 

Juntae glanced up just in time to catch the soft stare Suho was giving Sieun. He didn’t say a word. Just slowly raised his melon soda and sipped like he was watching the softest slow-burn K-drama of all time.

“You know,” Juntae whispered behind his cup, “if you stare any harder, you’ll steam the tofu.”

 

Suho blinked and looked down, cheeks burning. “I’m not staring.”

“Sure,” Juntae said mildly.

 

Across the table, Baku suddenly groaned. “Why is the tofu cut like hearts? Are we at a wedding banquet?!”

“I cut them,” Gotak said proudly.

 

“You what?” Suho choked.

 

“You heard me. Used that little pink cutter in the second drawer. I wanted the food to have aesthetic value.”

 

“Aesthetic value or emotional damage?” Baku grumbled. “This is a couple-core.”

 

Sieun, without looking up, said, “Eat or starve. Either works.”

Everyone shut up after that.

 

Post-dinner cleanup was more warzone than chore.

Baku and Gotak ended up having a dish soap fight that nearly took out three bowls and one of Suho’s crutches. Juntae dried dishes with the calm of a man who had accepted chaos as part of his daily routine. And Sieun?

He didn’t raise his voice once.

Just stepped around them, wiped the counters, rinsed quietly, and stacked plates with clinical efficiency — like this was all part of his nightly ritual. Like the chaos never touched him. Like taking care of everyone had always just been... what he did.

Suho, awkwardly seated at the table still, watched him.

Watched how his shirt stretched across his back. Watched how his fingers moved so precisely. Watched how — despite everything — his expression was still soft.

And just when he was wondering if he should offer to help (not that he’d be allowed), Sieun looked over.

 

“You look bored.”

 

Suho blinked. “Huh?”

Sieun dried his hands, then took a step closer.

 

“Wanna go for a walk?”

 

The words hit Suho like a sudden gust of wind — out of nowhere, slightly cold, but weirdly refreshing.

“Now?”

 

“Before it rains again.” Sieun glanced out the window. “You could use some air.”

 

Suho’s heart did something.

Some flutter-stumble-crash combo he didn’t have a name for.

Because he and Sieun. On a walk. ALONE!??

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “Okay. Let me grab my—”

 

“WE’RE COMING TOO,” Baku shouted immediately.

 

Suho nearly fell off his seat. “No one asked—”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Gotak grinned. “You thought you’d get alone time?”

 

Juntae raised a finger. “Let them be. Just for once.”

 

“What? No,” Suho said way too fast. “He’s just being polite!”

 

“Oh babe,” Baku cooed, grabbing his jacket. “You’re wearing his shirt. There’s no such thing as ‘just polite’ anymore.”

 

Suho nearly died.

 

Outside, the night was breathable.

Cool without being cold. Moist without a full rain. The sky was blanketed with thick clouds, but the air had that almost-romantic scent — damp earth, lingering soy sauce from someone else’s window, crushed leaves.

They walked in a loose, slow group.

Baku and Gotak kept skipping ahead, stomping in puddles like five-year-olds. Juntae trailed behind, arms folded, watching everything with lazy amusement. Suho ended up beside Sieun — not because he planned to, but because the space just... folded that way.

They didn’t talk at first.

Just walked.

Suho kept glancing sideways. At the way Sieun’s hands were tucked into his sleeves. At the soft mist curling in his hair. At the line of his jaw under the glow of a streetlamp.

Then:

“Thanks for inviting me,” Suho said, quietly.

 

Sieun tilted his head. “You live here too. Didn’t think I needed permission.”

“I meant…” Suho paused. “You didn’t have to ask me.”

 

“But I wanted to.”

 

That silenced Suho for a second.

The silence settled between them again. This time more weighted.

Then—

“I thought maybe you were just being extra nice because I’m… hurt.”

 

Sieun didn’t respond at first. Just kept walking, slow and even, like he was tasting the words before replying.

 

“I’m nice to you because I care.”

 

Suho froze. Not visibly. Just internally. Like his bones had stopped moving.

He looked at Sieun — really looked. The gentle frown, the slight crease of worry, the calm certainty in his voice.

 

“You make it hard to act normal,” Suho whispered.

 

Sieun turned slightly. “Then don’t act.”

And before Suho could melt into the sidewalk, a shriek cut through the air.

“HOT. MILK. TEA!!!”

Baku, pointing at a vending machine.

 

“MINE FIRST!” Gotak yelled, charging forward.

 

“You don’t even like tea!” Baku tackled him from behind.

 

Juntae sighed. “Why do I even come out with you people.”

Sieun stopped walking. Turned back.
He looked at the others ahead — still loud, still chaotic — then looked at Suho, who had lagged a few steps behind, one hand on his crutch, the other gripping the hem of Sieun’s oversized shirt like it might keep him anchored.
Sieun’s expression softened.
“There’s a bench,” he said, nodding toward it. “Don’t just stand there. You’ll get tired.”
Suho blinked.
“I’m okay—” he started.
But Sieun tilted his head slightly. That quiet, knowing gaze.
“Don’t wait,” he said gently. “Go ahead. Sit for a bit. You’ll catch a cold.”
But Suho didn’t move.
Didn’t sit. Didn’t step forward.
Just stayed rooted, heart hammering, caught in the way Sieun’s voice wrapped around him like something soft and terrifying at once.
Then Sieun turned fully to him, his tone even softer now.
“Suho,” he said, “you don’t have to pretend with me.”
And Suho…
Suho felt that sentence land somewhere deep — somewhere bruised and hidden and not ready yet.
So he said nothing.
Just watched as Sieun turned back toward the others, sleeves still tucked into his palms, his steps unhurried and silent.
And Suho stayed right there.
With his chest too full, his crutch still planted in place, and his whole soul whispering something unbearable:
Don’t let this night end.

 

By the time Suho caught up to the vending machine, Baku and Gotak were already arguing over who got the can that “felt warmer.”
Juntae had wisely stepped aside, sipping his from a safe distance like he’d seen this chaos a hundred times and accepted his role as the ghost of sanity.

But Sieun—
He was standing right there, like he’d been waiting.

Holding a warm can of milk tea.

“This one’s yours,” he said simply, pressing it into Suho’s hand without fanfare.

 

Suho blinked. “You—how’d you know I wanted—?”

“You like sweet drinks when it’s cold out,” Sieun said, barely glancing his way. “You also pretend you don’t.”

 

He turned before Suho could reply, quietly heading toward a small bus stop bench nearby, just out of the light drizzle.

Since Suho clearly wasn’t going to sit, Sieun did.
He settled down, calm as ever, nodded once at the empty space beside him —
and just waited.

 

So Suho did.

He lowered himself carefully, wincing as he adjusted his weight. Before he could say anything, Sieun was already turning toward him again.

“Does it still hurt?”

 

Suho looked down at his wrapped leg. “A little.”

Sieun didn’t say “I told you not to push yourself.” He didn’t scold or sigh or even frown.
He just nodded, then twisted open the small pouch he’d brought with him — tissues, a protein bar, a tiny pain balm, and—

“You brought this?” Suho asked, stunned, as Sieun peeled open a mild fever patch. “How did you—”

 

“Your cheeks looked warm,” he said. “Could be nothing. Could be exhaustion.”

 

And then—

Soft fingers, lifting Suho’s bangs.

The chill of the patch pressed to his temple, contrasted with the warmth of Sieun’s hand.

Suho forgot to breathe.

“That better?” Sieun asked.

 

Suho nodded mutely, gripping the warm can of tea like a lifeline.

Sieun looked at him for a long second.
Then said again — softer this time, like it wasn’t a warning but a promise:
“I’m saying it again… you don’t have to pretend with me.”
Suho didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because something in him cracked — not in a painful way, but in a way that felt… terrifyingly gentle. Like a door he’d kept shut for too long was being nudged open by a hand that never once tried to force it.
You don’t have to pretend with me.
The words echoed. Not like thunder — but like a heartbeat.
Suho’s throat tightened.
Because how do you even begin to explain what it means when someone sees through you and doesn’t flinch?
When someone remembers the exact drink you like, packs a fever patch just in case, and sits on a bench in the cold drizzle — not to scold you, but to wait for you?
It wasn’t grand or dramatic.
It was Sieun.
And somehow, that was worse.
Because Suho didn’t know how to hold this softness.
Didn’t know how to stop reaching for excuses, deflections, nervous laughter — all the armor he wore so easily.
But here, in the quiet… there was no room for pretending.
His fingers curled tighter around the warm can.
His eyes burned, just faintly.
His chest felt too full — like all the versions of him he tried to hide were suddenly sitting beside Sieun too.
And for once…
He didn’t want to run.
He just wanted to stay.
Right here.
With someone who knew.
And didn’t walk away.

 

They sat there like that for a while.

Silent.

Close.

Not touching anymore, but somehow still connected. Like something invisible held them tethered.

Suho’s tea in his hands.
He took a sip. Too sweet. Too comforting. Too… Sieun.

And that’s when the thoughts came — sharp and slow and scary.

 

Is this going to be my life now?

Needing him to remember my meds, carry extra bandages, walk at my pace, make sure I eat?

Depending on him like this?

He looked over.

Sieun’s eyes were half-closed, watching the mist dance over the streetlights. Calm. Always calm.
Like this was nothing. Like taking care of Suho was just as natural as breathing.

 

And what if one day it isn’t?

What if he leaves?

Suho swallowed hard, the tea suddenly thick in his throat.

What if Sieun stopped waiting?
What if he got tired of catching Suho every time he stumbled — physically or emotionally?

What if… this was temporary?

Suho shifted slightly, the ache in his chest heavier than the one in his leg.

He didn’t want to be dependent.
But god, if Sieun was offering — how could he not accept?

 

“Don’t think so loudly. Whatever it is.” Sieun murmured suddenly.

 

Suho jumped. “W-What?”

Sieun turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “Your face changed.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything.”

 

Sieun didn’t argue. He just handed him the protein bar.

“Eat.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“Eat.”

 

Suho unwrapped it with a sigh. Took a small bite.

And Sieun?

He leaned back slightly and whispered:

“I’m not going anywhere, you know.”

 

Suho froze.

His throat locked.

His fingers clenched tighter around the can.

“Huh?” he asked, like he didn’t just hear the one sentence that both crushed and saved him all at once.

 

Sieun didn’t repeat himself.
Just stood up, adjusted his sleeves, and looked down at Suho calmly.

“Let’s go? It’s cold.”

 

And Suho followed.

Of course he did.

With his leg aching and his chest full and his heart completely, terrifyingly in love.

 

The walk back was different this time.

After that moment — after Sieun sat Suho down, quietly said “You don’t have to pretend with me” — something shifted.

Suho thought it was private. Just between them.

But he didn’t realize the others had slowed down ahead.

Didn’t realize Baku had paused mid-sprint.

Didn’t realize Juntae had tilted his head slightly, quietly listening from where he stood.

Didn’t realize Gotak was watching from behind the streetlamp, pretending to admire a vending machine sticker.

They didn’t say anything.

Didn’t tease. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t make Suho feel small.

They just waited — let it happen — and when Sieun helped Suho stand again, taking his crutches with casual care, they all resumed walking like nothing had changed.

Only now…

They walked slower.

Ridiculously slower.

Like suddenly everyone had knee injuries.

 

“My back hurts,” Baku announced, stretching dramatically.

 

“Oh no,” Gotak gasped. “I’m getting a cramp.”

 

“Yeah,” Juntae said with the flattest expression known to man. “We should all walk like we’re underwater.”

 

Suho blinked.

Realized what they were doing.

Realized they had heard.

And were pretending they hadn’t.

So he wouldn’t feel embarrassed.

And somehow… that made it even worse. In the best possible way.

His chest felt full.

Too full for words.

 

Back at the apartment, chaos resumed.

Blankets everywhere. Someone was arguing with the microwave. Juntae was lighting another candle. Gotak and Baku were fighting over which playlist had better “healing vibes.”

But through it all — they made Suho laugh.

On purpose.

Over and over.

They threw terrible puns at him.
Offered him snack trays with dumb names like “Injured Idol Platter.”
Gotak gave him a sticker that said “Bravest Baby” and insisted he wear it on his shirt.

And Suho…

Suho laughed until his sides ached.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this cared for.

This carried.

 

Later that night, when things calmed — music low, snacks mostly gone, lights dimmed to golden —

Sieun returned from the bathroom with a small bottle of balm.

“Lay back,” he said simply.

 

Suho blinked. “What—”

“Massage,” Sieun replied. “Knees first.”

 

Baku perked up. “Can I get one—?”

“You’ll get a punch in the throat,” Sieun replied.

 

Juntae dragged the others away, muttering something about “Give them space, you goblins.”

But they didn’t go far.

Just enough to seem like they weren’t paying attention.

Suho lay back slowly on the couch, a pillow tucked under his head. Sieun pulled a blanket over his lap, folded it just right, and sat on the floor beside him — cross-legged, quiet, focused.

He rolled Suho’s pajama bottoms up carefully, exposing the bruised, tender knee.

His fingers were warm. Steady.

They moved in soft circles — rubbing balm into the sore muscle, pausing when Suho flinched, adjusting pressure with such gentle precision it made Suho’s breath catch.

You’re too quiet,” Sieun said, eyes focused on his hands.

 

“I’m fine,” Suho murmured.

 

“You’re not.”

 

Another pause. Then—

“You need to say when you’re tired.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed or strong all the time.”

 

“Especially not with me.”

 

Suho didn’t know how to respond.

So he just watched him.

Watched the way Sieun worked — serious, soft, strangely beautiful in the way only someone who cares too deeply can be.

 

“DOES ANYONE WANT HOT MILK AGAIN I PUT IT IN THE RICE COOKER BY MISTAKE!!”

 

Baku’s voice exploded from the kitchen.

 

“Why—why would you—” Juntae sighed.

 

“It’s therapeutic!” Gotak called. “Like a bath for your insides!”

 

Suho flinched. The moment snapped.

Sieun… slowly turned his head toward the others.

The calm, composed, deadly kind of stare.

“Shut. Up.”

 

Three words.

Ice-cold.

All chaos ceased instantly.

Baku sank into the beanbag like a scolded child. Gotak dropped the rice cooker lid. Juntae turned off the lamp like the lights themselves were in trouble.

One by one, the room fell completely silent.

And then…

Everyone lay down.

Blankets shifted. Pillows thumped.

They all pretended to fall asleep.

Suho blinked in awe.

“Wow,” he whispered.

 

Sieun looked up at him briefly. His gaze softened.

“They’re only brave until I stop massaging,” he muttered.

 

Suho laughed under his breath. Not too loud. Not to wake the ghosts that pretended to be asleep now.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

And in that moment, as Sieun tucked the blanket over him, wiped the balm off his fingers, then gently — gently — pressed the back of his hand to Suho’s forehead just to check his temperature…

Suho thought:

Yeah. I do like him.

 

Not just the maybe kind of like.

Not just the admiration.

But the I’d let you see every weak part of me and still feel safe kind of like.

The if this is love, I’m not scared anymore kind of like.

He stared up at the ceiling, cheeks burning, heart loud.

And Sieun?

Sieun reached for the side of the blanket one last time — tucked it near Suho’s shoulder — then whispered, barely audible:

“You’re warm. But not fever-warm.”

“Sleep.”

 

And then he stood, walking away like he hadn’t just set Suho’s entire world on fire with his hands and his voice and his care.

 

The room was quiet now.
Not awkward quiet — just soft. Like even the air was treading gently, careful not to break the spell Sieun had unknowingly cast with his hands, his voice, his care.
Suho lay under the blanket, completely still. His leg no longer ached as much — not physically. But his chest… his chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with balm or bandages.
Sieun had just walked away like it was nothing.
Like he hadn’t just seen every weak part of Suho and stayed anyway.

Like he hadn’t whispered, “Sleep,” like it was a promise — and not something that made Suho’s entire world feel like it was tilting.

Sieun had handed him a warm bottle of water before walking away — no words, just a glance — like he already knew Suho would need it.

But even with that warmth still in his hands… Suho felt cold.

Because Halmoni’s voice was still in his head — loud in the quiet:
“What if your girlfriend doesn’t like how much attention you give him?”

“You won’t be able to spend much time with her if you keep attending to Suho like this.”

“Even if she cries?”

And how Sieun replied,“Then I’d hold Suho while she leaves.”

At the time, Suho had choked on soup so hard he almost saw his ancestors.
Now? He was choking on something quieter.
Something that lived deep in his chest and had too many questions.
He looked up.

Sieun was across the room, putting away the little pouch he always carried. Calm. Focused. Like those questions hadn’t meant anything.

But to Suho, they meant everything.
His mouth opened before he could stop himself.

“Sieun.”
Sieun looked up. His eyes softened a little at the way Suho said his name.

Suho hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”

Sieun nodded slowly, curious.
Suho’s fingers tightened around the bottle. His heart wouldn’t slow down.

“…Is there someone?” he asked, voice low.

Sieun blinked, clearly not following. “Someone?”

“Like… in your life,” Suho said. “Someone you’re with. A… person.”

The air shifted.
Gotak stopped chewing mid-crunch.
Baku froze, his phone halfway to his face.
Juntae sat unnaturally still, like even breathing might break this scene.
Sieun looked genuinely puzzled. “In what way?”
And Suho—
Suho completely panicked.

He closed his eyes tight and said it all in one breath:

“Do you have a lover do you have a girlfriend are you seeing someone or talking to anyone just say it—”

Baku made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a strangled gasp.
Gotak was definitely mouthing “WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
Juntae looked emotionally prepared to pass away.

Sieun just blinked. Slowly.

“…Why?” he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

Suho, still not opening his eyes, whispered hoarsely:

“…Because I’m just… hogging all your time. You have to take care of me. And I don’t know… maybe you’re already with someone, and I didn’t ask, and I’m sorry—”

His voice cracked somewhere in the middle of all that. He sounded out of breath. Like his own thoughts had tripped over themselves and left him stranded.

And just as he was spiraling—
Sieun cut in, calm and clear.

“I don’t.”

Suho’s eyes flew open. “…What?”

Sieun looked straight at him.
“I don’t have a lover.”

Just like that.
No hesitation.
No explanation.
Just truth.
And Suho…

Suho felt his entire body go warm.
Not fever-warm.
Not embarrassed-warm.
Just… relieved.

 

Suho stared.

He didn’t mean to.
He didn’t mean to look like a fish out of water.
But how else are you supposed to react when someone says something like that?

“I don’t have a lover.”

The words echoed. Warm and soft and terrifying.

Suho’s fingers tightened around the warm water bottle Sieun had given him earlier — like it was some kind of anchor, like it could stop his heart from spiraling out of his chest.

He finally found his voice — barely.

“…Then why were you talking to Halmoni like that?”

Sieun, who had just sat back down in his spot, turned to him with a confused blink. “Like what?”

Suho licked his lips. His throat was dry. “You know. When she was asking all those… girlfriend things.”

Sieun still looked puzzled.

Suho pressed on — quieter now, almost mumbling. “She said stuff like… what if your girlfriend gets jealous… or makes you choose… and you said things like you’d choose me, you’d hold me if she left…”

He trailed off, cheeks burning, every word suddenly feeling too much.

Sieun tilted his head slightly, like trying to recall.

“Oh. That.”

He said it so casually.

Suho’s heart thudded against his ribs. “Yeah. That. Why’d you say it like that?”

Sieun looked at him, quiet for a second. Then, with total sincerity, replied:

“I thought she was talking about the future.”

Suho blinked. “…What?”

“She asked what if I had a girlfriend. Not if I have one now.”
He looked down for a second, casually adjusting the edge of his sleeve.
“I answered… hypothetically.”

Suho’s mouth opened. And closed.

And opened again.

He felt like his brain had short-circuited halfway through understanding.

Baku shifted on the floor with the slow, silent motion of someone trying not to breathe too loud.
Gotak was holding his laughter in his collar.
Juntae was pretending to be deeply interested in the texture of the wall.

Suho, completely ignoring them, stared at Sieun — wide-eyed, flushed.

“…Oh,” he said.

And then — he pouted. Just a little. Lower lip barely jutting out.

It was unconscious, but Sieun noticed immediately.

He blinked at him. “Why are you pouting?”

“I’m not,” Suho said, turning away sharply.

“You are.”

“I’m literally not—”

Sieun leaned forward a bit, squinting like he was studying a mystery under a microscope.

Suho turned further away, grumbling, “It’s just my face.”

The gang was dead silent now, like a pack of wolves watching a romance scene unfold in real time.

The soft amber lamp cast a glow over the room. Everything felt still. Tense. Gentle.

Then — click.

Sieun got up and turned the lamp dimmer down even lower — just a soft pulse of warmth left in the corner.

He turned and glared at the gang with a look that said “leave us the hell alone.”

They immediately looked away, suddenly very invested in their own lives.

 

Then Sieun came back — but he didn’t sit.

He knelt down in front of Suho, way too close, way too calm.

Suho’s breath caught. His eyes darted away.

But Sieun just stared at him — not smug, not amused. Serious. Focused.

Like he was trying to understand something that didn’t come with words.

 

Sieun knelt there in front of him — quietly, steadily — like gravity itself had asked him to stay still.

The soft amber glow of the lamp behind him traced golden lines along his skin. It kissed the curve of his jaw, the edge of his lashes, the faint hollow beneath his throat. His shadow stretched softly over Suho’s blanket, like even the light didn’t want to leave him alone.

And Suho…

Suho didn’t dare look at him.

He kept his gaze stubbornly locked on the far wall, the one with the faint crack in the corner he’d never noticed until now. His jaw was tight. His fists clenched beneath the blanket. His ears — burning.

He knew if he looked at Sieun, he’d unravel.

So he didn’t.

Sieun’s voice came, soft but certain.

“I don’t have time for it.”

Suho blinked.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

Sieun’s tone stayed even.

“Dating. Lover. Relationships.”

Another pause.

“I don’t have time for it.”

His words weren’t bitter or tired. They were just… fact. Clean and quiet, like they’d already been decided long ago.

Suho didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Sieun shifted slightly, still kneeling, still close — but not too close.

“You know all I do is study,” he added simply, like it explained everything.

And in some twisted way, it did.

Suho gave the smallest nod. He still couldn’t look.

And then—
then came the words that changed the air in the room:

“And even if I did have a lover…”

Sieun’s voice dropped slightly. Steadier. More deliberate.
His eyes locked on Suho — even if Suho wasn’t brave enough to meet them.

“…I would’ve broken up with them… the moment you woke up...”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence.

It was a held breath. A skipped heartbeat. A collective collapse of everything unspoken.

The room froze.

Gotak made a sharp, gasping inhale — the kind you make when a confession hits you in the spine.
Baku’s mouth fell open, and he grabbed the nearest throw pillow, squeezing it like it could absorb the moment.
Juntae whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “holy sht”*, but no one even blinked.

They didn’t dare.

Because something was happening — something huge — and none of them wanted to be the one to shatter it.

Suho’s body responded before his brain did.

He turned — slowly, hesitantly — and met Sieun’s eyes.

And those eyes…

They weren’t teasing.

They weren’t soft in the usual way.

They were intense. Steady. Full of something vast and terrifying and unflinching.

Suho stared into them like he was falling and floating at the same time.

He lasted three seconds before he broke the gaze, heart hammering too loud.

He looked down, voice hoarse.

“…Why?”

Sieun didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at him.

Like he was choosing the next words carefully — weighing them, measuring the exact truth of them in his chest.

And then, after a breath—

“Because right now… my top priority is you.”

Suho physically flinched.

The words hit like thunder wrapped in velvet — soft, but impossible to ignore.

Sieun didn’t stop there.

“I can’t afford distractions. Not while you’re still recovering.”

Suho’s fingers curled tighter around the blanket.

He didn’t know how to respond. His throat closed up. His chest felt like it was about to burst — and not in a metaphorical way. Like actually physically burst.

Because what kind of person says something like that?

What kind of boy looks you in the eyes and says:
If I had love in my life, I would’ve ended it the moment you came back?

You. You. You.

The word echoed in Suho’s head like a drum.

His pulse thudded so hard, he could hear it in his ears.
He wondered — genuinely — if Sieun could hear it too.
If everyone could.

A low whistle broke the air from the other side of the room.

“Oh my god,” Gotak whispered, voice cracked and reverent.
“Are we in a movie?” Baku breathed, his voice wobbling with awe and secondhand blushing.
“…I’m never recovering from this,” Juntae muttered numbly.

But none of that registered.

Because Suho was gone.

Gone somewhere inside this moment. Inside that gaze. Inside the trembling silence that felt too big for this room.

And Sieun… Sieun just stood up, slowly.

No dramatics.

Just… gracefully.

He extended his hand toward Suho — palm up, fingers open, gaze still steady.

“Let’s go to sleep,” he said softly. “It’s late.”

Suho stared at the hand.

He felt dazed. Hollowed out and overfilled at the same time.

Slowly — like in a dream — he reached out.

His fingers slipped into Sieun’s.

Warm. Steady. Real.

And Sieun helped him up with that same gentle care as always — adjusting his balance, holding his weight, like it was nothing. Like Suho wasn’t shaking. Like Suho hadn’t just had his entire world rewritten in a single sentence.

They walked together.

Toward the bedroom.

Step by step.

And Suho could feel it —
his body leaning into Sieun’s just slightly,
his fingers still curled into his,
his thoughts spinning so loudly they almost drowned out everything else.

But one line kept repeating, clear and constant:

“My top priority is you.”

He said it again in his mind.

And again.

And again.

Behind them, the gang remained slumped on the floor like stunned audience members at the end of the world’s most romantic slow-burn.

“Did that just happen?” Baku whispered.

“I’m filing a complaint with the universe,” Gotak mumbled. “That was illegal.”

“…I can’t sleep now,” Juntae added, voice hollow. “They just destroyed the bar for real-life love.”

But Suho…

Suho smiled without meaning to.

It was small.

Barely there.

But it was real.

Because for the first time in a long time —
the ache in his chest didn’t feel like a burden.

It felt like something that could finally be held.

By him.

By Sieun.

And only him.

 

By the time everyone had finished their fourth round of snacks and second argument over pillow rights, the night had fully set in.

Soft rain tapped against the windows. The playlist Juntae queued up had shifted to ambient piano. The lights had been dimmed to that perfect warm-yellow haze that made everything feel like a dream.

Suho was curled under the blanket on the bed.

His leg finally relaxed. His body warm.

And in the living room, one by one, the others started stretching, yawning loudly, flopping around on the carpet like sleepy puppies.

Gotak started brushing his teeth with way too much drama. Baku was tying his hair up like he was about to enter a k-pop dream sequence. Juntae changed into an old hoodie that looked two sizes too big and had “It’s okay to be tired” stitched on the back.

Sieun came out of the bathroom with a towel slung around his neck, saw the chaos still unfolding in the living room… and just stood there blinking.

“Why are you all still here?” he asked, like this wasn’t the fourth time he’d said it tonight.

 

Baku, already in pajama pants and socks that didn’t match, grinned.

“We’re crashing here.”

 

“I figured,” Sieun said. “I meant why are you crashing here.”

 

“Because we love you.”

 

“Because we’re lazy.”

 

“Because the rain is sentimental, and this is a healing night,” Gotak added dramatically.

 

Sieun opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked over at Suho like he might help.

Suho just smiled helplessly from the bed.

 

“Where are you even going to sleep?” Sieun asked, defeated.

 

Ten minutes later, it was sorted.

(…Barely.)

The bed was claimed by Suho — because no one argued with an injured boy and also because Baku declared, “He’s the emotionally injured one too, so give him the softest pillow.”

Sieun ended up with a futon right next to the bed, as if he wanted to be within reach without saying it. Juntae lay beside him, already half-asleep, hugging a throw pillow and muttering about group responsibility and blanket equity.

Gotak and Baku took the far end of the room, tangled in some kind of ridiculous fort made of couch cushions, beanbags, and an upturned laundry basket that Baku claimed was “feng shui.”

The room was dim, warm, and still slightly buzzing with the aftershocks of too much laughter and too much care.

They were all lying there, whispering.
Half-asleep.
Still giggling about something stupid Juntae said earlier about socks having “emotional texture.”

And Suho — nestled under the blanket, knees warm, heart even warmer — looked around at all of them.

 

And something hit him.

Not loud.

Just soft.

Like a light turning on inside him.

Maybe I’m not alone.

 

Even if everything had changed.

Even if the world had moved on.

Even if his life still felt like it was trying to piece itself back together—

He wasn’t alone anymore.

He had this.

Them.

These loud, ridiculous, protective idiots.
And him.

Suho looked over the edge of the mattress, just as Sieun’s voice cut quietly through the dim:

“Any reason you’re all crowding this room like it’s a shelter? This isn’t the only place to sleep, in case you forgot.”

There was a pause — the kind filled with muffled laughter and zero shame.

“Emotional support proximity,” Baku mumbled from inside the blanket fort.

“Group recovery protocol,” Juntae added, sounding like he was quoting a textbook in his sleep.

“Feng shui,” Gotak said, face buried under a couch cushion. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Sieun sighed. The long-suffering kind.

But he didn’t argue.
Didn’t tell them to leave.
Didn’t move.

He just turned onto his side, facing Suho’s bed, and muttered under his breath:

“Idiots.”

And Suho…

Suho smiled.

The kind of smile that stayed hidden in the dark. Small. Quiet. All his.

Because for the first time in a long time, everything didn’t hurt.

Not his leg.
Not his chest.
Not the silence between thoughts.

He curled deeper into the blanket, eyes fluttering shut.

And just before sleep took him, he thought:

If I were brave enough…
I would’ve reached over and curled up beside him.
Just tucked myself against his chest and fallen asleep to the sound of his breathing.

But he wasn’t.
Not yet.

So he held the thought instead — warm and close to his heart.

Like a wish.

Like a promise he’d keep safe for later.

 

He saw Sieun lying there, one arm tucked under his head, the other still barely reaching toward the edge of Suho’s bed like he'd tried to tuck the blanket one last time before falling asleep.

His face looked soft in sleep. Quieter. Younger.
Like the armor had come off for a moment.

And Suho felt it so clearly, so deeply, that there was no use denying it anymore.

Yeah, he thought, I do like him.

 

Not the way you like your best friend.
Not the way you like being taken care of.
Not the way you like feeling safe.

But in that way that hurts a little.
In that way that makes your heartbeat match someone else's sleeping breath.
In that way that fills you so much, you don’t know where to put it.

Suho curled deeper into the blanket.

Closed his eyes.

And whispered in his heart, just once:

Please stay.

 

He saw. Suho saw.

How Sieun's head hit the pillow—
And how he was instantly out.

Just like that.

His shoulders relaxed. His mouth slackened slightly. Hair falling softly over his brow.

Gone.

Like his body had been running on fumes just to stay awake and care for everyone.

Suho stared.

And guilt curled in his chest — a sharp, sudden thing.

He hadn’t realized how tired Sieun must’ve been.

All this time, putting Suho first. Cooking, helping, massaging, making space for everyone.

You didn’t have to… but you did anyway.

 

And yet… and yet...

Suho didn’t want him to stop.

Didn’t want him to pull away.

Didn’t want anyone else’s hands but Sieun’s.

Didn’t want anyone else’s voice telling him “you’re okay now.”

 

I want him to care for me. Again. And again.

 

Suho watched him for a long time — the slope of his shoulder under the blanket, the way his hand curled against the pillow, so still, so close.

And something shifted.

Quietly.

Without fanfare.

Just a confirmation, slipping through like breath:

Yes. He does like him. Alot.

 

Not crush-like.
Not temporary.

But deep.

Steady.

All-consuming.

The kind that makes you want to hold someone when they’re tired and protect them even when they don’t ask. The kind that made him want to deserve Sieun’s care.

 

He looked around the room one last time.

Juntae asleep beside Sieun, back to back.

Gotak drooling on a hoodie.
Baku snoring gently from the beanbag.
The candle flickering faintly on the table.

Suho blinked.

Swallowed.

Let the warmth in his chest settle.

 

Yeah, he thought. The world may have moved on. But I’m not alone.

 

The room was quiet.

The soft rustle of sheets. The low, steady whir of the fan. The distant sound of Baku snoring somewhere across the hall, half-muffled by a pillow he definitely stole from someone else.

Suho lay still on his back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

He wasn’t asleep.

He couldn’t be.

He was thinking.

His body was still — tucked under the same blanket Sieun had pulled over him earlier — but his mind was a storm. A gentle one. A warm, terrifying, heart-thudding storm made of one single sentence:

“My top priority is you.”

He mouthed the words into the dark like they were sacred.

His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the shirt he wore — Sieun’s shirt, soft and too big and carrying the faintest trace of his detergent.

He’d changed into it while Sieun had looked away. Pretended not to notice the way the gang had definitely noticed.

Now, in the stillness, every second from earlier played on loop.

The way Sieun had said it so casually. So seriously.
Like it was fact, not a confession.
Like Suho’s presence alone had reset the axis of his universe.

Suho turned his head slightly. AGAIN.

Where Sieun slept. Facing toward Suho, but not too close. Always just close enough.

He’d insisted on sleeping down there. Said Suho needed all the space. That his leg was still sore, and what if he rolled over and hurt him by accident?

Suho had wanted to protest.

But the truth was… he hadn’t.

Not because he wanted distance — but because even this kind of distance, from Sieun, felt like closeness no one else could offer.

He could hear Sieun’s soft breathing now.

Feel the invisible thread between them, stretched across the side of the bed.

“My top priority is you.”

He repeated it again in his mind.

And again.

And again.

Until the words felt less like a sentence and more like something he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.

His eyes fluttered closed, lashes brushing the edge of the pillow.

And just before sleep claimed him—

He felt it.

The soft fading of the moment.
The scent of balm slowly lifting from the air.
The leftover warmth of water against his fingertips.
The hush of laughter dimming in the background.

Like a memory folding itself back into time.

 

And just like that—
Eyes closed.
The night softened.

And the flashback slipped quietly out of reach.

 

…

 

Suho sat alone now, present-day.

In a quiet room.

His knee still ached faintly. His throat tighter.

Sieun was in Germany. Half a world away.

But Suho could still feel the ghost of that massage.

The weight of the blanket.

The words Sieun said, and the ones he didn’t.

And maybe, just maybe…

That night wasn’t just a turning point.

It was the beginning.

 

The laughter came first.

Baku’s loud voice.
Gotak telling a story that made no sense.
Juntae passing Suho a drink with that half-smile he always wore when pretending not to care.

They were here.

Still around him.

Still loud.

Still familiar.

Suho looked at them, blinking slowly.

And felt…

Full.

Not whole.

But full.

A kind of quiet happiness stitched with ache.

Because they were here.

But Sieun wasn’t.

He looked at the door.

Then at the phone.

And in his chest, one thought pulsed quietly.

 

Come back soon.
Please.

 

Because this was all enough.

But it wasn’t complete.

Not without him.

 

The flashback had ended.
But the ache hadn’t.
The warmth of that night — Sieun massaging his knees, the gang pretending to not listening, that quiet moment when Suho realized yes, I do like him — it all lingered in his chest like a memory too vivid to fade.
Now, in the present, he sat curled into the far end of the couch.
Blanket over his legs. Half-listening as the gang played a loud, ridiculous card game on the floor.
Baku was accusing Gotak of cheating.
Juntae was calmly reading the rulebook aloud with a tone that somehow felt more threatening than helpful.

Snacks crunched. Music played low in the background.
It was loud.
It was familiar.
It should’ve been enough.
But…
Suho kept checking the clock.
His phone.
But it felt like forever.
Every hour stretched longer when you missed someone in silence.

Every laugh a little less sharp without the person who made you feel grounded.

Every night colder without the quiet hand that used to tuck in your blanket, or the voice that told you — "you don’t have to pretend with me.”

He glanced at the others once again.
Baku throwing chips at Gotak’s head.
Juntae sipping from a chipped mug, unbothered as chaos unfolded.
They were here.
They made him laugh.
They cheered him up without making it obvious that they were trying.
And for that — Suho was grateful.
They kept him from feeling hollow.
But they couldn’t fill that specific shape carved in his chest.
Sieun-shaped

The room buzzing around him.

Baku was yelling about someone cheating in cards again. Gotak was threatening to eat an entire packet of raw noodles out of spite. Juntae sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a playlist with a face that said he regretted every life choice that brought him here.

And Suho?

Suho was quiet.

Curled up on the far end of the couch, blanket over his legs, phone resting in his hand — untouched, unread.

He could hear them laughing. Could feel the warmth of their presence like a soft hum in the background.
But inside?

He was somewhere else entirely.

Caught in the residue of a night that never really left him.
A quiet touch.
A hand on his knee.
A voice saying “let me take care of you.”

It used to be just a crush.

A deep, strange flutter he didn't know what to name.

But over time — years — it had bloomed into something heavier. Something rooted. Something that felt like it was stitched into his bones.

It wasn’t just like anymore.

Not even close.

 

He was in love with him.

Deeply. Quietly. Entirely.

And he didn’t know what to do about it anymore.

Didn’t know how to carry it alone.

Didn’t know how to survive it quietly.

 

His eyes dropped to his phone again.

No new messages.

He’d been counting.

Twelve days left.

Twelve more until Sieun returned.

Twelve more until the quiet chair by the window wasn’t empty.

Until someone finally checked if he’d eaten without asking.

Until a voice grounded him again just by being in the room.

 

He remembered once — maybe a few months ago — when Sieun had said, half-joking:

 

“You’ll probably fall for someone louder than me. Someone who makes noise just by existing.”

 

And Suho had laughed at the time.

But now?

That line echoed like a bruise he hadn’t realized was there.

 

How could you ever think I’d fall for someone else?

 

As if Suho even looked at anyone else the way he looked at Sieun.

As if anyone else had ever made him feel like breathing slower just to stay in the moment longer.

As if there had ever been space in his chest for someone else.

 

His phone buzzed.

Once.

Then again.

And suddenly — there it was.

Sieun calling.

The name alone made his heart stumble.

His thumb hovered.

Then pressed.

 

“...Hey.”

 

Sieun’s voice was low. Rough around the edges. Like he’d just woken up or hadn’t spoken in a while.

Suho felt the air catch in his lungs.

 

“Hey,” he whispered back. “You called.”

 

“I owed you one.”

 

“Twelve days.”

 

A pause.

“What?”

 

“That’s how many are left,” Suho murmured. “Until you’re back.”

 

Sieun went quiet.

Then—

“You’re still counting?”

 

“Every day.”

 

Another pause. Then a breath — audible even through the phone.

 

“Me too,” Sieun said quietly. “Every day.”

 

They didn’t talk long.

Just enough.

Enough to fill the silence that had stretched too far.

Enough to keep Suho from crumbling that night.

When the call ended, he stayed still.
Clutching the phone to his chest like it was the last warm thing in the world.

 

The others were still around.

Still throwing chips at each other.
Still loud.
Still here.

And Suho smiled.

He was okay.
Not completely.
But enough.

Because even if the world moved on…

He wasn’t alone.

And somewhere — across the ocean, across time zones — the person he loved was counting the days too.

 

He sat quietly on the couch, fingers brushing the edge of the phone resting in his lap. His heart hadn’t quite slowed down. His chest still felt a little too tight. But for once, it wasn’t suffocating.

It was full.

Full of longing, yes.
But also full of something else.

Something gentler.

 

“YOU’RE A FRAUD,” Baku shouted suddenly, pointing at Gotak with a chip in hand.

 

“Says the man who just asked if clovers are fake plants,” Gotak replied, scandalized.

 

“I meant fake emotionally.”

 

“What does that even mean?” Juntae asked, deadpan, still curled up with a mug of tea like this entire moment was beneath him.

 

The laughter rolled in again.

Messy. Loud. Ridiculous.

And it wrapped around Suho like a blanket.

He didn’t laugh immediately.

Just listened.

Watched.

Let it settle.

The way Baku bumped into Gotak mid-wrestle. The way Juntae calmly moved all the furniture back into place with a kind of exhausted grace. The way no one asked if he was okay — but everyone made sure he was warm, fed, and smiling.

And eventually—

He did smile.

One of those real ones.

The kind that pushes up into your eyes before you even realize it’s there.

 

“You’re being quiet,” Juntae said, flopping beside him on the couch.

 

Suho blinked. “I’m just… thinking.”

 

“You always think. Anything in particular?”

 

Suho hesitated.

Then shook his head.

Because how could he explain it?

How could he say — I just talked to the boy I’m in love with and now I’m trying not to fall apart quietly in front of you all?

Instead, he looked around again.

At the boys fighting over a blanket.

At the crumbs on the carpet.

At the way this room, this noise, this group — never let him slip too far into silence.

 

He didn’t feel whole.
But he didn’t feel lost either.

That had to count for something.

 

I’m not alone.

 

Even if one part of him was missing right now — twelve days away — the rest of him was being held in place.

By this chaos.

By this family.

 

Baku threw a pillow across the room — missed Gotak entirely and hit Suho in the arm.

Suho blinked. Looked down. Picked it up.

And threw it back.

Right into Baku’s face.

The room erupted.

“OH IT’S ON.”

“SUHO JUST STARTED THE WAR—”

“PROTECT HIS KNEES AT ALL COSTS!”

 

Gotak dove to shield him like a soldier. Juntae groaned. Someone turned the playlist up again.

And Suho—

Suho laughed.

Really laughed.

Even with the ache.

Even while missing Sieun.

Because he was still here.

Still tethered.

Still loved.

And the ache… it could sit beside all of that.

For now.

 

The pillow war ended in casualties.

Baku lay sprawled on the beanbag like a fallen general.
Gotak was using a hoodie as a makeshift flag of surrender.
Juntae, ever the mediator, had claimed the corner of the room with quiet authority and a cup of tea he somehow protected through the entire battle.

And Suho was tucked into the couch again.

Breathless.
Grinning.
A little sore from laughing.

The warmth still clung to his skin — from the call, from the laughter, from the way his friends loved him without ever needing him to say the words.

 

He could survive the day.

He really could.

With them around. With the sunlight. With noise.

The hours passed.

He made jokes. He ate. He even teased back once or twice — the kind of thing he never did before all of this.

But the thing was—

Night always came.

And night was different.

 

Now, with the lights off, the blankets pulled over them, and only the sound of the playlist humming soft piano chords in the dark, Suho lay quietly.

Eyes open.

Staring at the ceiling.

 

He could hear them breathing.

Juntae curled up nearby.
Gotak murmuring nonsense in his sleep.
Baku twitching and mumbling about “revenge strategy”.
A room full of warmth.

But he still felt cold.

Not in his body — in that strange, invisible part of him that reached.

That kept reaching.

 

He turned slightly.

Faced the space beside him.

It should’ve been occupied.

He was too used to someone sitting there at night.
Someone brushing his bangs back and checking his knee.
Someone folding the edge of the blanket over his chest without a word.

 

Too used to Sieun.

 

Too used to the steady rhythm of his breath beside him.
The weight of his silence.
The calm he carried.

And now—

There was none of it.

Only memory.

Only that quiet ache he couldn’t soothe.

 

I can get through the day, he thought.

But at night... I need you.

 

That was the truth.

The hours where laughter faded and stillness settled?

That’s when it crept in.

 

The wanting.
The knowing.
The longing.

 

He wasn’t ashamed of it anymore.

He just… missed him.

Badly.

 

He reached for his phone again, stared at the screen.

Twelve days.

Still twelve.

And it was unbearable.

 

But then—

A soft tug on the blanket.

Baku, half-asleep, groaned, “Stop hogging all the emotions, man.”

Gotak mumbled, “He’s allowed to hog… he’s soft privilege.”

Juntae, without opening his eyes, reached over and adjusted the pillow behind Suho’s back.

No one said the word.

But somehow, they all knew.

And they surrounded him again — not dramatically, not with questions — just quietly.

Soft snores. Shared warmth. Blanket edges pulled tighter.

 

And Suho… let himself close his eyes.

Still aching.
Still missing.

But not entirely alone.

He’d hold on.

He’d survive.

And when night came again tomorrow, he’d miss Sieun just as much — maybe even more.

But until then—

This?

This was enough.

 

.
.
.

 

The wind was sharp that morning.

Not freezing. But enough.

Enough to sting the skin. Enough to settle in bones that remembered too much.

Suho walked a little slower across campus. His gait wasn’t off — not enough for anyone new to notice. But he felt it.

A faint ache.
That dull, stubborn pull in his left knee.
The one that showed up sometimes.
In the cold.
In the quiet.
On days like today.

 

He didn’t complain.

Didn’t limp.

Didn’t mention it when they met at the gate.

But the gang noticed anyway.

 

Baku fell into step on Suho’s left, the side that hurt.

Didn’t say anything — just nudged his bag away so Suho had more room.

Gotak looped an arm around his neck and said, “We’re walking slow today. Earthquake drill. Mandatory. Don’t ask.”

Juntae handed him a coffee and said nothing — just made sure the straw was already in it.

Suho huffed a small laugh. “You guys are so dramatic.”

“We’re preventative,” Baku replied. “Big difference.”

 

“You haven’t mentioned it,” Juntae said after a beat, “but you’re taking shorter steps.”

 

Suho glanced down.

Then sighed. “It’s just the weather. I’m fine.”

 

“You always say that,” Gotak muttered.

 

“Because it’s true.”

 

“Doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone,” Juntae said, sipping from his own coffee like this wasn’t the softest thing he’d ever said.

 

They didn’t baby him.

Not anymore.

Those days were over — the rehab, the crutches, the long silences where he thought he’d never run again, never walk without fear again.

Sieun had been there for all of it.

Every appointment.
Every step.
Every time Suho wanted to give up, Sieun didn’t let him.

And now?

Now he could do everything again.

Run. Climb stairs. Even fight if he had to.

But that ache didn’t disappear completely.

And neither did the care.

 

In the cafeteria, they claimed the sunlit corner — warm, shielded from the breeze that crept in from the open corridor.

 

“Sit here,” Gotak said, kicking his own bag under the table.

 

“It’s warmer,” Baku added, already tearing open snacks like this was a campsite.

 

Juntae slid Suho a tray without asking what he wanted. He just knew.

And Suho?

He let it happen.

Because this was love too.

The quiet kind.

 

He stretched his leg under the table. Slowly.
Testing it.

A tiny wince pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Baku saw it — looked away like he didn’t.
Gotak changed the subject on purpose.
Juntae started telling a story about someone falling into a fountain during a political science debate.

They didn’t coddle him.

But they never let him be alone in the ache either.

 

Suho leaned back, sipping his drink.
Felt the laughter around him.
Felt the sting in his knee — and let it exist beside the warmth.

He’d be okay.

 

Because they were here.
Because they never left.
Because even now, three years later, they still made space for his healing — physical and otherwise.

He looked around the table.
At all the things he could never put into words.

And whispered in his head:

Thank you for staying.
Even after I stopped needing help... you never stopped helping.

 

.
.
.

 

Classes ended with the usual blur.

Chairs scraping, notebooks closing, Baku stuffing three pens into his pocket that didn’t belong to him. Gotak dragging a half-empty water bottle like it was a wounded soldier. Juntae casually telling the professor that the last assignment felt like “emotional extortion.”

Suho laughed. Smiled. Teased back.

And then, quietly, stepped away.

 

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t tell them he wanted a minute.

They’d catch up later — probably in the courtyard or cafeteria.

For now, he walked down the back corridor of the building, where the sunlight filtered in soft and golden, catching dust in the air like glitter. He pushed open the side door that led to the old library garden — mostly abandoned, mostly quiet — and sat down on the cool stone steps.

The ache in his knee had faded to a dull throb.

Manageable.

But the ache in his chest…

That one stayed.

 

He rested his elbows on his knees, head down for a second.

Breathed.

 

You’re fine, he told himself.

You’re okay.

 

And he was.

He really was.

But some part of him still felt tender.

Not because he was in pain.
But because he missed something.

Someone.

 

He pulled out his phone again.

Looked at the last message he’d sent:

 

Twelve more days.

 

There was no reply yet.

But that was okay.

He wasn’t waiting for a reply.

He just… wanted Sieun to know.

That the days still felt longer without him.
That the air still felt quieter.
That even after all this time — after all the rehab and healing, the jokes and the “you’re stronger now” — Sieun’s presence still felt like part of his balance.

 

He stared at the screen a while longer.

Then, slowly, opened the notes app. Not to send anything. Not yet. Just to write. Quietly. For himself.

 

It’s been three years.

And you’re still the first person I think of when it hurts.

You helped me walk again.

But what you really taught me was how to stay standing — even when I don’t feel steady.

I don’t need saving anymore.

But I still need you.

And maybe that’s okay.

 

His fingers hovered over the last line.

Then he added:

Come home soon.

 

He didn’t cry.

But his throat was tight when he hit save.

 

A breeze stirred the trees. The sound of laughter floated from another building. And Suho sat there a moment longer — letting himself feel it all.

The ache.

The strength.

The love.

 

Suho was still sitting on the stone steps, fingers loosely curled around his phone, the soft breeze brushing his hair. The sun was lower now, casting everything in that golden, honeyed light that made even silence feel full.

He hadn't noticed the footsteps at first.

They were soft — no stomping, no yelling, just quiet sneakers on gravel.

Then a familiar voice spoke, low and casual.

“There you are.”

 

Suho looked up.

Baku stood a few feet away, holding two juice boxes and a half-eaten snack. Behind him, Gotak was already kicking pebbles into the grass. Juntae had his bag slung over one shoulder, a book tucked under his arm like always.

“Didn’t mean to vanish,” Suho said softly.

 

“We know,” Juntae replied. “Still brought backup. Just in case.”

 

Baku tossed him a juice box — didn’t even wait for Suho to catch it properly.

 

“You’ve got that face,” Baku said, sitting beside him. “The one that says you wrote an unsent poem again.”

 

“I didn’t,” Suho mumbled.

 

“Did you use the notes app?”

 

“…yes.”

Gotak dropped down on Suho’s other side, legs stretched out dramatically like he was claiming territory.

“We thought maybe you needed space,” he said. “Then we remembered — you don’t like being alone after five minutes of pretending you do.”

 

Suho snorted. “Rude.”

“True.”

 

“Accurate.”

 

“And affectionate,” Juntae added, now settling behind them on the step.

 

No one asked what he’d been thinking about.

No one asked if he was okay.

They didn’t need to.

They just… stayed.

Talking about nonsense.
Complaining about assignments.
Teasing each other softly, like background music for Suho’s thoughts.

And it helped.

God, it helped.

Not because they filled the space Sieun left — no one could — but because they kept Suho from falling into the emptiness of that space alone.

 

He looked sideways.

At Baku, biting the straw of his juice like it was a survival tool.

At Gotak, now dozing with his head leaned back against Suho’s shoulder.

At Juntae, flipping silently through a book, pretending not to be listening while clearly hearing everything.

And again, Suho felt that familiar, soft warmth settle into his chest.

I’m loved.
Even when I don’t say I need it.
Especially then.

 

The ache was still there though.

The missing.

The longing.

The slow, persistent countdown in his head.

But he had them.

And because of that—
He’d be okay.

 

The gang stayed with him until the sun dipped below the rooftops.
They walked him home like bodyguards.
Gotak carried his bag even though Suho protested.
Baku pretended to hold a mic and “interviewed” him the entire way.
Juntae kept stealing fries from a random paper packet Suho didn’t even remember buying.
It was easy to laugh.
To smile.
To let the ache blur under the noise.
But the second he stepped into his apartment —
Quiet, still, just his shoes in the doorway —
It hit again.
Hard.

Suho collapsed on the bed dramatically, face first into the pillow.
Muffled scream.
Then:
Unlock. Open chat. Type. Send.
Today was weirdly cold. My knee hated it. You’d probably make me drink that awful ginger tea.
2 seconds later
Baku said I look like a tired goldfish. He’s banned from speaking now.
10 seconds later
I had fries. They weren’t as good as the ones we make at home.
5 seconds later
I’m not being clingy you’re being emotionally distant.
15 seconds later
Do Germans even believe in seasoning or are you okay.
3 seconds
I’m fine btw. Not crying.
2 seconds
I AM SO FINE.
7 seconds
Okay maybe slightly dying. Emotionally. But like cute dying.

No reply.
Obviously.
Sieun had probably put his phone down. Or was asleep. Or eating something tragic without salt.
Suho rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

Send.
I know I’m being annoying. I just… don’t know what to do with myself when I miss you this much.
Everyone else is here. And it helps. But they’re not you.
You’re the quiet I actually like. The stillness I never get tired of.
You’d probably scold me for overthinking. But I can’t help it. Because I’m so used to you being here. Talking to me. Touching my forehead. Arguing over who left the lights on.
I can get through the day.
But every night feels wrong without you.

He hit send.
Then turned the phone face down. Threw it across the blanket. Immediately panicked and pulled it back. Checked for typing bubbles.
Nothing.

Suho sighed. Rolled back onto his side.
The pillow smelled like detergent.
Not like Sieun.

And still, his fingers hovered.
Come home soon.
He didn’t send that one.
Not yet.
He just stared at it.
Wishing Sieun could hear his heart through the screen.

 

The couch cushions were scattered. Blankets were stacked. Juntae had dragged in extra futons from the hallway closet. Suho had no idea who started it, but now the floor was a warm chaos of pillows, limbs, and sleepy shuffling.

Gotak was using a hoodie as a pillow.
Baku had claimed the large comforter and only covered half his body.
Juntae was already curled up by the bookshelf, headphones in, pretending he wasn’t listening to them whisper.

Suho sat on the edge of the mattress for a second.

Just… taking it in.

 

This wasn’t some huge moment.

No big feelings. No confessions. No tears.

Just warmth.

Messy. Loud. Comforting.

The kind of warmth that held him in one piece while something inside him quietly ached for someone far away.

 

He felt the throb in his knee again — faint but there.

From the cold.

From exhaustion.

From memories of hands that used to press so gently into the ache and whisper “just say when it hurts.”

 

But tonight wasn’t for spiraling.

Tonight was for existing.

Wrapped in comfort.

Wrapped in them.

 

Baku dropped beside him with a sleepy sigh. “You look like a tragic side character staring at the moon. Come lie down before I write sad fanfiction about you.”

 

“I’m fine,” Suho muttered.

 

“That’s exactly what a tragic side character would say,” Gotak chimed in from the floor.

 

Juntae didn’t even look up. “He’s waiting for a text that’s not going to come tonight. Let him mourn in peace.”

 

“I am not waiting,” Suho said, way too quickly.

 

“You texted him fourteen times,” Baku replied, curling up against Suho’s side. “And I quote: ‘do Germans believe in seasoning or are you okay.’”

 

Suho buried his face in the blanket.

“I hate it here.”

 

“No you don’t,” Gotak said sleepily. “You love us. Tragic and all.”

 

And they were right.

Suho did.

Even when they were insufferable.

Especially then.

 

Eventually, they all settled.

Breaths evened out.

Voices faded into muffled yawns and lazy mumbles.

Suho curled up between Baku and Gotak, blanket pulled to his chin.

He stared at the ceiling, heart still heavy. Still full.

 

I miss you, he thought.
But I’m okay tonight.

 

And then — just before his eyes drifted shut — he whispered, barely audible:

 

“Come back soon.”

 

No one replied.

But someone — Baku, maybe — reached out and tugged the blanket higher over Suho’s shoulder.

 

That was enough for now.

 

The night in the house was calm.
Outside, the city had gone quiet.
Inside, the only sounds were breathing and the occasional rustle of a blanket.
Everyone had fallen asleep where they were — the couch, the floor, the futon near the window. Soft limbs tangled with comfort. Heat pooled between shoulders. Even the playlist had stopped hours ago.
Suho, nestled between Gotak’s blanket pile and Baku’s chaotic sleep-sprawled limbs, was the last to give in.
He drifted.
Eyes closed.
Breath even.
And the dream crept in like fog — slowly, gently, until it wrapped around him without warning.

It started in Sieun’s room.
The lighting was soft — that pale gold glow that always slipped in through his window just after sunrise.
The bed was messy. The blanket was half-off the edge, like someone had just gotten up.
Suho was sitting on the mattress, still wrapped in part of it. His knee ached slightly — not painfully, just enough to feel present. Grounding.
He reached over, instinctively — for the water bottle, for his phone.
For Sieun.
“You’re hogging the blanket again,” a voice said behind him.
Suho turned.
Sieun stood in the doorway, hair mussed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Barefoot, like always in the morning.
“Then come get it,” Suho replied, smile soft and sleepy.

Sieun walked closer, leaned over, tugged at the corner.

“Or I could just grab another,” he murmured. “Might be easier.”
Suho blinked.
The light shifted — cooler now.
The air too quiet.
“Why would you leave?” Suho asked, still trying to smile.
Sieun tilted his head slightly.
Didn’t answer.
Just turned… and walked toward the door.

 

And that’s when Suho saw her.
Sohye.
She stood by the doorway — radiant and quiet, like she belonged there. Long hair tucked back. Dressed like she was going somewhere calm and peaceful and far away. Her hand reached out.
And Sieun—
Sieun took it.

Suho stood up, heart racing even in the dream.
“Wait—”
“Wait, what are you doing—”
“Where are you going?”
They didn’t stop.
They walked, slowly, calmly, like he hadn’t said a word.
The light dimmed further.
Like the sun was slipping out of the sky.

 

“Sieun!”
Suho’s voice cracked.
“Please don’t—”
And then Sieun stopped.
Finally turned to look at him.
Eyes soft. Regretful. But already distant.
“It’s not about you,” he said.
“It never was.”

The door closed.

The room emptied.
Like the color drained from the world.
The ache bloomed so fast in Suho’s chest it made his breath catch.
He dropped to the edge of the bed.
Fingers shaking.
Eyes wide.
His knee burned again — sharp, this time, almost cruel.
He gripped the blanket, the one that still smelled faintly of Sieun’s detergent, and whispered:
“You said you wouldn’t leave.”
“You said I'm your top priority.”
“Why her?”
“Why not me?”
“What did I do wrong?”

 

No answer.
Just silence.
Just empty space.

 

He woke up with a start.

 

The room was dark.

The real one.

The living room.
Dimly lit from the hallway nightlight. A floor covered in friends — soft shapes in sleep, warm breaths in rhythm. Baku murmured something in his dream. Gotak shifted slightly. Juntae’s hoodie was pulled over his head like a soft shell.
But it didn’t feel safe.
Not right now.
Not with Suho’s heart pounding in his ribs, sweat clinging to the back of his neck, his fingers clutching the blanket like it might keep him from falling apart.

 

His breath was short.
Chest tight.
He turned his head toward the wall, blinking into the darkness, face half-buried in the pillow.

It was just a dream.
Just a dream.

But it hadn’t felt like one.
Because the fear was real.
Because the ache was real.
Because the thought of Sieun holding someone else’s hand felt like drowning.

He didn’t cry.
But he wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
He curled in on himself, pressing his hand against his chest.
And for the first time in a long time, he whispered something into the dark he couldn’t say out loud while awake:
“Please don’t fall for anyone else.”

“Please… not her.”

“Please still want me….when you come back.”

 

The room stayed quiet.
But in that stillness, Suho felt something shift.
Not outside.
Inside.
A deeper knowing.
That his fear?
Wasn't just fear.
It was love.
And love — the kind that waits three years, that watches and aches and chooses again every single day — it didn’t go quietly.

 

.
.
.

 

The house was unusually soft that morning.

A pale, grey light filtered through the curtains. The usual chatter was absent — like even the walls understood something in the air had shifted.

In the living room, Gotak was still curled up on the futon, snoring quietly with one sock missing. Baku had migrated to the carpet and was lying face down on a throw pillow, occasionally twitching like he was mid-dream.

Suho sat up slowly.

His chest felt tight.

Like he’d been crying all night, even though he hadn’t shed a single tear.

His hands felt cold.

His eyes were dry.

But the weight — that awful, shapeless weight — pressed heavy against his ribs.

 

He stood.

Moved like someone underwater.

Folded the blanket. Didn’t speak.

He made it to the kitchen before anyone else.

Opened a cabinet. Reached for a mug. Nearly dropped it.

His fingers trembled just slightly.

He exhaled. Tried to shake it off.

 

Just a dream.

 

But the words didn’t help.

Not this time.

 

Juntae was the first to enter.

He didn’t say good morning. He just glanced at Suho, took one look at his posture — the tight shoulders, the bowed head — and filled the kettle without comment.

Baku stumbled in next, yawning loudly, rubbing at his face.

 

“Oof,” he mumbled. “Feels like I got emotionally hit by a train last night.”

 

Suho didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even smile.

Baku noticed.

 

Gotak came in last, hair a disaster, hoodie on backward, but full of his usual energy.

 

“Is there toast or should I start a fire?”

 

He paused when he saw Suho.

And something in his face shifted.

The mood dropped.

Instantly.

 

Suho was sitting at the table now.

Mug untouched in front of him.

Eyes on the table.

Hands folded too neatly, like if he moved them something inside him might spill out.

Juntae handed him coffee. No words.

Suho took it.

Cradled it like warmth might fix what was inside him.

It didn’t.

 

He didn’t look at them when he said it.

Voice quiet. Almost like he didn’t mean to speak.

“I had a dream.”

 

They stilled.

The sound of the fridge door hung in the air and didn’t close.

 

“About Sieun,” Suho added.

 

Still no one spoke.

He looked down at the rim of his mug. Eyes dull. Voice flatter than usual.

“He left.”

 

Pause.

“In the dream, he left me.”

 

Another pause.

 

“For someone else.”

 

Juntae exhaled softly.

Gotak sat down slowly, his playful energy completely gone.

Baku opened his mouth — closed it.

Suho smiled.

A small, crooked, broken thing.

 

“I begged him not to go.”

 

“Like actually begged.”

 

His voice wavered. Just a little. Just enough.

“And he… didn’t even say… he didn’t love me.”

“He just… looked sorry.”

 

Silence.

“And then he took her hand and left.”

 

That was it.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t shake.

Didn’t collapse.

But the pain sat in the center of his chest like something living.

And the gang?

They got it.

They really got it.

Because Suho wasn’t the type to break like this.

So when he did?

You didn’t speak.

You stayed.

 

Baku reached over first — gently nudged his head onto Suho’s shoulder.

No jokes.

No drama.

Just warmth.

Gotak placed a slice of toast beside his mug. Quietly. Like an offering.

Juntae walked around the table, placed his hand on Suho’s back, and left it there.

No one said "it was just a dream."

No one said "he’d never do that."

Because they knew Suho wasn’t scared of a girl named Sohye.

He was scared of not being chosen.

He was scared that after all this time — all that care, all those small touches, all that almost — Sieun might not feel it the same way.

 

Suho sat there for a long time.

No one rushed him.

No one moved.

The house stayed soft.

And for the first time since the dream, he felt like maybe he could breathe again.

 

.
.
.

 

The sun was out.

Cafeteria lines were long. Someone was blasting music from a Bluetooth speaker by the fountain. A group of second-years was rehearsing a dance set near the front gate.

Everything on campus looked normal.

Familiar.

Loud.

But Suho wasn’t really in it.

 

He walked behind the others, hoodie sleeves hanging over his hands, eyes fixed on the pavement as though he was counting cracks. His backpack felt heavier than usual. The sky felt too blue. His mind too noisy.

Baku was saying something about a guy in their class who cried during yesterday’s economics presentation.
Gotak was reenacting it dramatically — like always.
Juntae was sipping iced coffee like nothing in the world could touch him.

And Suho?

He kept thinking about the dream.

About the look on Sieun’s face.
About the way he didn’t argue.
About how it felt so easy for him to walk away.

His throat tightened.

He blinked back to reality when Gotak tapped his shoulder.

 

“You good?”

 

Suho nodded.

“Just tired.”

 

“You’ve been tired since last year,” Baku muttered, elbowing him. “You’re like a human moodboard for melancholy.”

 

Suho gave a weak laugh. Just enough to make them leave it alone.

For now.

 

They reached the library steps.

Sunlight was cutting across the marble tiles. A slight breeze ran through the trees. A few students passed by with cold drinks and sun hats.

The gang settled on their usual bench by the back wall — tucked under ivy, half-shaded, never too loud.

Suho sat with his chin in his palm.

Gotak sprawled on the ground with a soda.

Baku was busy reviewing yesterday’s notes incorrectly on purpose.

And Juntae?

He didn’t say much.

But Suho could feel his gaze flick over to him once. Then again.

Then stay.

 

Finally, after a long silence:

 

“Do you really think he’d stop loving you just because he’s far away?”

 

The words dropped like a pin in still air.

Suho’s head snapped toward him.

“What—?”

 

Juntae didn’t even blink.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t tease.

“You’ve been overthinking since yesterday.”

 

“You’re quieter than usual, and somehow even paler, which is impressive.”

 

Suho looked away.

Baku went completely still.
Gotak sat up straighter.
No one said anything.

Juntae continued, voice calm but firm.

 

“I don’t know what your dream told you. But I do know Sieun.”

 

“And I know you.”

 

“And I know you don’t just fall out of someone’s heart after loving them like that.”

 

“Not the way you’ve been loved.”

 

Suho’s throat closed up.

He blinked fast, jaw tight.

 

“You don’t know everything,” he said, barely above a whisper.

 

Juntae nodded once. Not arguing.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

 

“But you keep expecting to be left.”

 

“And none of us — none of us — have ever given you a reason to think we’d go.”

 

Another pause.

“Especially not him.”

 

Suho looked down.

Fingers knotted in the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes stung — not enough to cry, but enough to feel full.

 

Gotak reached over, bumped his knee.

“You wanna eat your feelings? We’ve got enough sugar to kill a man.”

 

“You wanna skip class and go sit by the river?” Baku asked.

 

“You want to scream into the void?” Gotak added. “We can rent a megaphone.”

 

Suho huffed a laugh. It cracked a little in the middle.

 

“No. It’s fine.”

 

He paused.

Then looked at Juntae.

“Thanks.”

 

Juntae smiled.

“Don’t thank me. Just stop spiraling about girls from fictional dramas and people who aren’t going anywhere.”

 

Suho’s eyes welled again.

But he nodded.

Soft. Small. Honest.

“I’m trying.”

 

And that?

Was enough.

 

They’d all gone inside eventually.
The bench was too warm. Gotak had to pee. Baku got hungry again. Juntae had muttered something about “hydration and introvert recharge time.”
But Suho stayed behind.
On the steps, alone now.
Knees pulled up to his chest, chin resting on his arms. A soft breeze played with his hair. He could still hear laughter echoing faintly from inside the building.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t look up.
Because the thoughts were back.
And this time, he let them stay.

 

Why didn’t he tell me she was there?
Sohye.
It wasn’t even about her.
It was about what it meant.

Sieun told him about the weather. The food. The project timeline. A museum he liked. The coffee he hated.
But not her.
Not once.
Maybe he didn’t think it mattered.

 

Maybe it didn’t… to him.

But Suho’s chest felt hollow now.
Because deep down, he knew — Sieun never said things that didn’t matter.
And he never forgot to say things that did.
So what was this?
Was it distance?
Or… was it a choice?

And then — like a match struck to dry kindling — the second wave hit.
What if he’s hurt because of Jiyun?
Suho’s jaw clenched.

That night — days before Sieun left — Suho had spent time with Jiyun. A little too long. Too late. Not alone, but not not-alone.

Sieun hadn’t said anything.
But he’d been quiet after.
More than usual.

Maybe he thought I didn’t care.
Maybe he stopped trying because he thought I already let go.

 

Suho blinked down at his hands.
They were cold. Clenched.
His chest was getting tight again — that awful squeeze that came from silence and not knowing and years of waiting for someone who never gave a name to what they had.
He didn’t doubt Sieun’s care.
But care wasn’t the same as love.
What if he doesn’t love me?

 

What if I’m just… safe to him? Familiar?
Something easy to come back to until he finds something better?
What if I’m just a person he helped once, and stuck with out of guilt?
Suho shut his eyes.
It was a cruel thought.
But it came anyway.

He didn’t cry.
He never really did.
But something inside him cracked just a little more.
And when he finally opened his eyes again, he whispered—
“I don’t even know if he wants me the way I want him.”
The words felt ugly. Exposed.
He hated hearing them aloud.
But they were real.
And they were his.

He sat there a while longer.
Not waiting for a message.
Not expecting anything.
Just letting the fear settle like dust.
Because love, when it’s unanswered — or worse, unconfirmed — becomes something sharp.
Something lonely.
Something you carry alone.
Even in a house full of people.
Even with laughter echoing down the hallway.

 

He didn’t move.

Not when the breeze turned cool.
Not when the bell rang.
Not when the world shifted from golden to grey around him.

The courtyard slowly emptied.
A bird chirped.
A door creaked open in the distance, then clicked shut again.

But Suho stayed.

Sitting on the stone step, still curled up, hands limp between his knees, phone heavy in his pocket.

He didn’t take it out.

Didn’t check.

Didn’t want to see nothing.

Not again.

 

If he loved me... wouldn’t I know?

 

That was the question that kept clawing at his ribs.

Because Sieun had always been constant. Quiet, but steady.
He helped. He stayed. He never let go when Suho needed him.

But he never said the words.

Never crossed the line.

Never held Suho’s hand just a second longer than necessary.

Never looked at him the way Suho looked at him — like he was the only gravity left in the world.

 

Maybe it had always been one-sided.

Maybe Sieun loved them — all of them — equally.

Maybe Suho had just been selfish.

Maybe he wanted too much.

 

What if I’m the only one who ever fell?

 

What if I read everything wrong?

 

What if the only reason he stayed was because he felt responsible for me?

 

The thought made him sick.

It made his fingers curl into his sleeves.
Made his throat tighten.
Made his chest burn with something that wasn’t anger — but felt like grief.

 

He blinked hard, staring at the gravel near his shoes.

A small ant was carrying a crumb, struggling uphill.

He watched it.

Longer than he should have.

Because if he didn’t stare at that ant, he’d think about the door closing in his dream.

About Sieun not looking back.

About how real that silence had felt.

 

Maybe Suho had built something out of soft glances and shared meals that were never meant to mean more.

Maybe he’d fallen in love with someone who never promised him anything in the first place.

And now?

Now he was just waiting for someone who might not be coming back the same.

 

“Just say it,” Suho whispered.

 

Voice so low it nearly vanished into the air.

“Say it if you love me. Say it if you don’t.”

 

But Sieun wasn’t there.

And silence doesn’t answer questions.

 

So he sat.

Still.

Hands numb.

Afraid that this was the only answer he was ever going to get.

 

It was Juntae who found him.

Back still hunched, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, sitting on the stone step long after the sky had gone from gold to grey.

“You didn’t come in,” Juntae said, soft. “That’s not like you.”

 

Suho didn’t respond.

He didn’t have the strength to lie.

So Juntae didn’t press.

He just reached out, placed a hand on Suho’s shoulder, and quietly said,

“Let’s go home.”

 

The house was loud when they got back.

Not because anyone was shouting — but because everyone was trying not to panic in the way they panic.

Baku handed Suho water. Gotak shoved a heat pack into his lap. Juntae dragged a blanket from the couch and threw it over him like a silent declaration of protection.

No one asked what happened.

But they hovered.

Like he was made of glass.

 

.
.
.

 

It was supposed to be just another night.

Soft heater hum. Blankets on the couch. Baku scrolling aimlessly. Gotak trying to decide if it was too late for a third round of snacks. Juntae was nearby, flipping through a magazine, clearly not reading it.

Suho sat between them all — present in body, absent in everything else.

Then his phone buzzed.

Sieun ♡(Video Call)

His stomach dropped.

The others immediately looked up.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Baku whispered, like they weren’t all watching.

 

Suho said nothing.

His thumb hovered over Accept.

He tapped it.

The call connected.

 

The screen lit up with soft yellow glow.

Sieun.

In bed, hair messy, half-hidden beneath a pale blanket. His voice was hoarse and low when he spoke:

“Suho…”

 

The sound of his name — like a tired exhale — knocked the breath out of Suho’s lungs.

Sieun blinked slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Suho didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust his voice.

Sieun’s gaze moved across the screen. Noticing too much. Noticing him.

 

“Your ears are red,” he murmured. “Is it cold there?”

 

“Did your knee start hurting again?”

 

“Use the balm. Not the mint one — the blue one in the bottom drawer.”

 

Suho’s hand trembled slightly.

He looked down, lips parted, chest tight.

Sieun continued — gentle, sleepy, but still watching him closely.

 

“You haven’t eaten, have you.”

 

“I knew it.”

 

“You always look like that when you haven’t eaten.”

 

A laugh wanted to come out.

But Suho didn’t laugh.

He cracked.

Just a little.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me Sohye was there?”

 

His voice dropped like a stone into the silence.

The room went still.

Gotak froze with a drink in his hand.
Baku slowly turned his head toward Suho.
Juntae stopped flipping the magazine.

On the screen, Sieun blinked — slower now, confused.

“What?”

 

“Sohye,” Suho said again. “Last time. When you video called. She waved. She talked to me.”

 

“You didn’t say anything. Not before. Not after.”

 

“Why?”

 

Sieun sat up straighter now. The blanket slipped off his shoulder. His brows furrowed.

 

“Wait—what?”

 

“She was there that day, yeah. But… I didn’t know she was coming.”

 

“Her name wasn’t on any of the lists. I didn’t find out until she walked in during the room assignments.”

 

“She’s not even staying in our section.”

 

“I’ve seen her maybe twice.”

 

Suho stared.

 

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

 

Sieun hesitated.

 

Looked genuinely surprised.

 

“Because… I didn’t think it mattered.”

 

Suho blinked.

Once. Twice.

“It did,” he said quietly.

 

His voice shook. Just a little.

“To me, it did.”

 

On the couch, Baku’s lips parted slowly.

Gotak leaned forward slightly, eyes wide but unreadable.

Juntae’s fingers rested still over the edge of the magazine now folded in his lap.

They weren’t teasing anymore.

They were listening.

Really listening.

 

Suho lowered the phone a little, not enough to hide, just enough to keep breathing.

 

“I thought you were mad,” he confessed, voice raw.

 

“Because of Jiyun. Because of how I’ve been acting.”

 

“I thought… maybe you were mad and didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

 

“Or worse—”

 

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

Sieun’s expression changed again — softening in confusion, not anger.

 

“Suho… I wasn’t mad.”

 

“I told you before. I didn’t think you owed me an explanation about Jiyun.”

 

“And I wasn’t avoiding you. I was just… giving you space.”

 

“You looked like you needed it.”

 

“And I didn’t want to be another pressure on your mind.”

 

Suho’s lip trembled.

“You always say that.”

 

“That you didn’t want to pressure me.”

 

“But it always ends with me wondering if I’m the only one feeling too much.”

 

Silence.

Sieun stared at him.

Confused. Concerned.

But he still didn’t know.

Didn’t realize.

Not really.

 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he said softly.

 

“You’re not alone in this.”

 

Suho inhaled sharply.

His voice didn’t come back.

Not yet.

 

And behind him?

The gang didn’t say a word.

But everything changed.

Gotak’s expression shifted — realization flickering behind his eyes.

Baku looked down, jaw tight, fingers clutched around a pillow he wasn’t holding seconds ago.

And Juntae?

He closed his magazine fully.

Rested his arms across his knees.

Stared at Suho like he’d been seeing him clearly for the first time.

 

“Just tell me next time,” Sieun said quietly.

 

“Even if it’s about something that doesn’t matter.”

 

“Especially if it’s something that doesn’t matter.”

 

“Because if it’s you, then it does.”

 

Suho’s eyes burned.

But he just nodded.

“Okay.”

 

And they stayed like that.

No confessions.

Nothing.

Just a boy curled up in a hoodie on the other side of the world—

—and the one left behind,

learning that sometimes the hardest part of love is not being sure the other person even knows it’s there.

 

They stayed like that for a while.
Just… watching him.
Yeon Sieun — across the globe — curled on a stiff hotel mattress in Germany. Behind him, a curtain glowed with distant city lights and shadows of passing traffic. A folded conference lanyard hung on a hook near the door. There were muffled voices from the hallway. The occasional slam of someone else's door.
He wasn’t alone.
Not really.
There were probably three other students in the next room. Maybe one just outside. Maybe someone he barely knew had made a joke at dinner and everyone had laughed and he’d forced a polite smile even though he didn’t want to.
Because Sieun — the one on the screen right now — looked tired.
Not just physically.
He looked like someone who’d been surrounded by people all day, answering polite questions, navigating schedules, pretending like it didn’t feel strange to be so far from his own rhythm. From his own world.
From them.
The hotel lamp behind him cast a warm yellow glow, softening the mess of his fringe. His collar was askew. One shoulder exposed above the blanket. The edges of his voice were hoarse, his throat scratchy from speaking too little or maybe too much — no one could tell.
And Suho couldn’t stop staring.
His thumb hovered over the screen like it might offer warmth.

And then the silence grew thick.
Until—
“Okay but what the hell,” Baku exploded, flinging his arms up. “Why does he look like that?!”
Gotak blinked. “Like what?”
“Like—tragic. Like he’s about to be the lead in an indie short film about long-distance heartbreak and rain.”
He pointed at the screen. “Look at him. Hair all messy. Blankets all dramatic. Mood lighting?! I’m gonna cry.”
Sieun blinked. “I’m literally just lying down.”
“And looking cinematic as hell while doing it!” Baku cried. “Is this what Germany does to people?! Should I book a flight?!”
Suho sighed heavily, already rubbing his temple.
But Baku was on a roll. “No, like—this is why you’re ignoring our texts lately? Because you’re out there falling in love with foreign pastries and architecture and emotionally distant violinists?”
Gotak gasped. “Oh my god. Did he fall in love in a cathedral? Did he?!”
Sieun squinted. “What—”
“I KNEW IT,” Baku declared. “He's been chosen by the European romance gods! He’s leaving us for someone named Klaus!”
That was when Suho elbowed him.
Hard.
Baku choked. “Violence!”
“Do you have a death wish?” Suho snapped, eyes wide, ears burning pink.
On the screen, Sieun tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable — but his eyes flicked briefly toward Suho’s flushed face, then down to the way his hand was curled tight around the phone.
He said nothing.
But he saw everything.
And off to the side, Juntae finally sighed — the long, quiet kind of sigh that made everyone else shut up.
He folded his magazine. Set it aside.
Looked straight at Sieun through the screen.
“You really do look like one of those late-night calls,” he said. “Where the main character stares at the person they miss and doesn’t know how to say it.”
Sieun blinked slowly. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You don’t need to,” Juntae whispered.
And just like that — something cracked.
Not loudly.
Just… enough.
Juntae’s voice trembled as he added:
“I miss my true best friend.”
The room stilled.
Gotak sat up, looking betrayed. “Excuse me?”
“There’s no one here who understands me like you do,” Juntae said, dabbing his eyes with his sleeve like it was no big deal. “Even when you just stare at me and tell me to shut up. That’s still more comfort than anything I’ve had this week.”
Baku let out an audible gasp. “Wow.”
“I peeled you an orange,” Gotak muttered. “You said ‘cool’ and kept watching your show.”
“I made you tea!” Baku protested. “You ignored me while watching cat videos!”
Juntae shrugged. “Sieun doesn’t need to watch cat videos. He’s already emotionally complex.”
The offense was universal.
Baku collapsed into the pillows with a dramatic cry. “That’s it. I’m done. The true friend era is over. Don’t talk to me or my oranges ever again.”
Gotak joined him on the floor, wailing, “This home is too empty without its cold-hearted princess! Who gave you the right to leave us behind?!”
Through it all, Suho said nothing.
But his hand trembled slightly around the phone.
And when Sieun glanced back at him — quiet, calm, not even trying to hide the concern behind his gaze — he caught it.
Suho wiped the corner of his eye quickly.
But it was too late.
The room was filled with emotion now.
And the one they missed most had no idea how to respond.

 

Sieun blinked slowly at the screen — the soft lamp behind him casting golden halos across the white hotel sheets and beige curtains. His posture was lazy, but not careless. Tired, but alert. A hoodie slipped down one shoulder, revealing a collarbone that shouldn’t be that distracting, but somehow was.

His hair was a little messy — like he’d towel-dried it and then forgotten about it — and his voice, when he spoke, held that usual deadpan stillness… but with a gentler edge tonight. Like he missed them. Just a little.

Suho stared, completely gone.
He’s so pretty. So SO pretty.
Even exhausted, half-lit by a hotel lamp, he looked like a painting you only get to glance at once in a lifetime. And Suho…

He wanted to be there.
He wanted to wrap a blanket around Sieun’s shoulders and press a kiss to his hair and whisper, "You’re still beautiful even when you look like you want to slap everyone in this country."
He wanted to stay — stay so close that Sieun could never forget him. Not even for a second.

But all he got was his name.

“Suho.”

The boy blinked. “Huh?”

Sieun tilted his head, studying him. “Did you eat?”

Suho looked down at the corner of his blanket.
“…No.”

A sigh. Classic Sieun.
Not angry. Not surprised. Just deeply unimpressed in that quiet, deeply caring way only he could manage.

“And use that balm on your knee,” he added, gently.
“The blue one. Bottom drawer.”

Suho mumbled something that may have been “okay” or “fine” or maybe even I miss you so bad it hurts — but Sieun was already moving on.

“What about the rest of you?”
He looked at Baku and Gotak.

“Dinner?”

“Uhhh…” Baku scratched his head. “Does three slices of cold pizza count?”

“Absolutely not,” Sieun replied, dry.

Gotak raised a pack of snacks. “This?”

Sieun blinked. “That’s dog food.”

“WHAT—It’s not!!”

“You literally said it tasted like cardboard last week.”

“Yeah but like… edible cardboard.”

Juntae piped up. “I made rice, but then forgot it on the stove. It turned blue.”

Sieun sighed deeper now — not at them, but at the entire universe.

“You all need proper food,” he said, shifting the blanket higher over his shoulder.
“Real food. Not dog snacks or blue rice or—”

His gaze shifted back to Suho for a second.
“You too. That biscuit doesn’t count.”

Suho stared. “You weren’t even looking—”

“I know you.”

Silence.

Then, quietly:
“I’ll hang up now.”

Like thunder. Like heartbreak.

“WAIT—NO—”
Suho sat up so fast the blanket tangled around him.

Baku clutched his phone like a life raft. “WE JUST STARTED TALKING.”

“You’re not allowed to leave until we emotionally stabilize,” Gotak announced, smacking his own chest like it was an emergency.

Sieun looked mildly confused. “But… you all need to eat.”

“We can eat AND fall apart emotionally,” Baku said firmly.

Suho didn’t say anything.
He just stared at the screen like Sieun might disappear if he blinked.

His hands clenched tighter on the phone.

Sieun saw.

Of course he did.

But he didn’t call attention to it. Didn’t ask what was wrong.
He just softened. A little.

“Ok. But just eat already. It's getting late. You too, Suho. Real food. Something warm. Please.”

“…Not hungry.”

“Suho.”

Just his name. Soft. Commanding.

And Suho caved like wet sand.

He grumbled, “Fine.”

Sieun nodded like a parent giving silent approval.

“Good.”
Then, to the others: “You too. Not cheese sticks. Actual food.”

“But cheese is a food group—”

“Real food, Baku.”

“…Yes, Your Highness.”

Sieun’s eyes fluttered shut for a second like his body was finally registering the jetlag, the language barrier, the lack of alone time — but then he opened them again.

And softly, with no drama this time:

“I’ll stay on call. Just till you finish.”

Juntae exhaled, audibly.
Gotak wiped his eye and claimed it was allergies.
Baku declared it was “the most romantic long-distance babysitting ever witnessed.”

And Suho?

He smiled.

Small. Crooked. Sleepy.

But real.

And he never looked away from the screen.

Sieun, wrapped in a blanket with the soft hotel lights behind him, he watched the gang from his phone screen.

Suho, red-cheeked and sulky, was finally seated at the dining table. Right next to him were the rest — Baku, Gotak, and Juntae — all awkwardly chewing after being bullied into the kitchen.

Bowls of kimchi fried rice, ramyeon with egg, a side of gyeran mari, and reheated eomuk bokkeum sat between them. Juntae had even placed out metal chopsticks and soup spoons like they were royalty.

“Are you eating properly?” Sieun asked Suho again, voice low.

Suho nodded, still chewing. “I added the sesame oil like you said…”

“Good.”

Sieun’s voice was calm — the tiniest hint of affection in the corner of his mouth.

Baku pointed his spoon dramatically. “You made us cook. This is emotional manipulation.”

“This is survival,” Sieun corrected.

Gotak chimed in, already halfway through his ramyeon. “We would’ve eaten choco pies again if you hadn’t threatened us with the ‘real food’ line.”

“You needed nutrients,” Sieun replied.

“We need YOU,” Baku shot back. “Our emotional nutrients.”

Suho nearly choked on his rice.

“You’re not allowed to flirt with him,” he muttered.

“I’m emotionally starving!” Baku cried, pressing a hand to his chest. “I haven’t heard His Highness’ sarcasm in days. Do you even know what that does to a man?”

“We almost fought over a broken spoon this morning,” Gotak added solemnly.

Sieun blinked. “Why would you—”

“You weren’t here to break the tension,” Baku said. “Or hit us with a death stare.”

Juntae nodded slowly. “The house feels wrong without you.”

Sieun looked stunned for a moment. Like the weight of being missed had just hit him across the chest.

He exhaled slowly, and for once, didn’t hide behind sarcasm.
“You’re all such idiots,” he said, voice soft.

The call didn’t end.

No one told him to hang up.

Instead —

“So… tell me,” he said, arms folded on the blanket over his knees. “What else did I miss?”

And just like that —
They started talking.

Messy. Chaotic. Overlapping.

Baku shared how he saw a guy who looked like Sieun at the convenience store and nearly hugged a stranger.
Gotak went on about his new gym crush.
Juntae brought up a weird professor comment Suho made yesterday that had everyone laughing.
Suho listened mostly — but whenever Sieun reacted (even if it was a single blink or an eye-roll), he lit up quietly like someone had switched his soul back on.

And Sieun — exhausted, jetlagged, far away — just sat there.

Not smiling exactly. But softer.

The corner of his lips curled. His voice got warmer.

And maybe, just maybe —
The call could stay on a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Until it felt like home again.

 

The bowls were mostly empty now. Someone had switched off the overhead light, leaving only the warm kitchen glow and the dim flicker of Suho’s phone screen.

They were still seated around the table — or slouched, rather.
Baku was leaning back in his chair like a washed-up K-drama second lead.
Gotak was balancing a spoon on his nose, eyes drooping.
Juntae was half-asleep, head resting on his folded arms.

And Suho…

Suho was staring at his screen like it was the only real thing in the room.

Sieun.

Still wrapped in that hotel blanket, hair slightly damp from a late shower now, glasses pushed up, voice softer than it had been all night.
He wasn’t saying much anymore — just nodding now and then. But Suho could tell.

He was tired. Exhausted, even.

And yet… he hadn’t hung up.

Suho stared a little longer.

At the faint shadows under his eyes. At the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
At the way his eyes fluttered shut for just a second — too long — before opening again.

Anyone else would’ve told him to sleep.

Suho didn’t.

Because he didn’t want this to end yet.

Call him selfish. He was.
He missed him too much. And it had only been a week.

“...You’re sleepy,” Suho murmured, almost to himself.

Sieun blinked. Once. Then twice.

“...Not really.”

Suho smiled.

“Liar.”

From across the table, Baku mumbled, “His Highness never sleeps. He enters a power-save mode.”

Gotak added, “He meditates in silence while judging our entire existence.”

Sieun didn’t respond.

Because his eyes were closed again.

Just for a second.

But it was enough to make Suho’s chest ache.

 

And that’s when Suho said it.

He didn’t mean to.
Didn’t plan it.
It just… slipped out.

“I miss you.”

The room went very still.

Gotak looked up.
Baku blinked like he’d just heard something illegal.
Juntae slowly sat up and raised one eyebrow.

Sieun’s eyes opened — just slightly — but his face stayed unreadable.

Quiet.

Then:

“I know.”

That’s all he said.

But Suho?
His ears were burning.

Why did I say that?
Why out loud?! In front of everyone?!

He buried his face in his hands.

The rest of the gang didn’t say a word.
For once, they just… stayed quiet.
Respectful.

Kind.

Letting the moment hang.
Letting it settle.

And after that long, delicate silence, Sieun stirred again and sat up straighter — rubbing his temple.

“...You all should sleep.”

His voice was barely above a whisper now.

They nodded slowly — even though none of them really wanted to.

“I miss you too,” Baku said it this time, softly.

“You better come back soon,” Gotak mumbled, voice almost pouty.
“And don’t fall in love with some German.”

Suho turned his head.

Slowly.

Like a door creaking open to hell.

“I think YOU do have a death wish,” he said calmly.

Gotak squeaked.
“I WAS KIDDING—!”

Sieun just blinked. No denial. No expression.

Typical.

Baku laughed weakly.
Juntae just smiled sleepily.

One by one, they waved lazily at the screen — not to say goodbye, just to shift positions and settle back.

No one said goodnight.

 

The call was still on when Suho left the living room.

 

His fingers curled gently around the phone as he walked the familiar hallway — lights low, the warmth from the heater spilling softly into the corridor. His socked feet made no sound.

The others had gone quiet. No more teasing. No more chaos.

And Sieun?

He was still on screen.
Still there.
Still watching.

 

Now it was just him.

Just him.

And Sieun.

 

He paused at the door.

Sieun’s door.

Though... not just Sieun’s anymore.

Suho stepped inside.

The room greeted him with stillness — not silence, not cold, just still. The kind of still that smelled like worn cotton, laundry soap, and something soft he couldn’t name. The kind of still that hummed with memory.

The overhead light stayed off.

Instead, Suho reached for the bedside lamp — the amber-toned one Sieun always used when studying at night. The room filled with a soft glow, golden and quiet, shadows stretching gently across the wall.

The bed was made — not perfectly. The way Sieun always left it: functional, slightly uneven, pillow sunken just enough to show where his head had rested.

Suho stood there for a second, letting the weight of it settle in his chest.

The phone buzzed faintly in his palm. He raised it.

Sieun was there.

Lying on his side, hoodie half pulled up to his chin, hair messy across his forehead. The light behind him was low — a single lamp glowing behind a curtain. His cheek was pressed into the pillow, one arm folded beneath his head, other hand loosely visible by the edge of the blanket.

He looked—

So pretty.

Not in any dressed-up, dramatic way.

Just... quietly pretty. Eyes half-lidded, lashes shadowing under the lamp. Mouth soft, not smiling, but relaxed. Familiar. Real.

And Suho missed him.

So, so much.

 

Suho climbed onto the bed — slowly, reverently — and curled into the blanket.

He tucked his knees in. Let his body lean toward where Sieun used to lie. His phone rested on the pillow now, the camera tilted to catch just the side of his face and the edge of the lamp-lit room.

Sieun blinked.

Spoke, voice low, rough with sleep.

“You’re in my room.”

 

It wasn’t a complaint.

Just a simple fact, spoken with no emotion behind it — but full meaning beneath it.

Suho turned his head toward the phone, eyes half narrowed.

“Our room.”

 

Sieun didn’t respond.

Didn’t react.

But his eyes didn’t leave the screen.

Suho went on, voice soft, lazy, like it was something he’d said in his mind a thousand times.

“It’s Suho and Sieun’s room now.”

 

“Mine and yours.”

 

He blinked at the ceiling, then glanced back at the phone.

 

“It sounds nice, right?”

 

There was a pause.

Sieun’s gaze stayed unreadable.

Only the soft shift of his lashes, the faintest rise of his chest.

But Suho didn’t need an answer.

He smiled quietly to himself.

 

“It’s the only place I sleep okay.”

 

Another pause.

“I think I started calling it ours without even realizing.”

 

Sieun exhaled through his nose.

Settled a bit deeper into his blanket.

And Suho swore — if only for a second — his eyes softened.

Like maybe... he liked hearing that.

 

Suho shifted on the bed, suddenly aware of his oversized shirt clinging a little weird, hair a little messy, skin sticky from the heat.

He sat up slightly, brushing a hand through his hair.

 

“Hey...”

 

His voice dropped lower.

More tentative.

Sieun blinked lazily on-screen.

“Hm.”

 

“Can you wait?”

 

Sieun said nothing at first.

So Suho rushed—

 

“I just wanna wash my face. Change clothes.”

 

“I’ll be quick.”

 

Sieun adjusted on the pillow, his voice barely a murmur now.

 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Suho paused.

Let out a soft breath.

“Okay.”

 

He placed the phone gently on the pillow — screen facing the middle of the bed. Like Sieun was still there. Still with him.

And as Suho padded toward the drawer to grab fresh clothes, he didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

Because Sieun?

He hadn’t gone anywhere.

 

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, but Suho didn’t rush.

He stood by the sink, water running quietly, fingers gripping the edges of the porcelain.

The mirror reflected a face he barely recognized — not because it had changed, but because he had. His skin was still warm from the blankets, his eyes still dazed from the way Sieun had looked just now — sprawled on a bed thousands of miles away, not even trying, and still... ruining him.

He washed his face slowly.

Ran his fingers through his hair.
Dabbed his neck with a towel.
Tried to breathe.

Then, on his way out, he paused at the edge of the bathroom door and looked down the hall — into their room.

The light from the night lamp was off now.

But the window was open just enough to let the city spill in — a soft wash of silver moonlight and faint neon shimmer laying across the bed like a second blanket.

 

Now Suho stood in the quiet of their bedroom, towel in hand, hair still wet from the shower. The rest of the apartment was quiet — Baku had crashed on the couch, mumbling something dramatic about back pain; Juntae had disappeared into his room with his usual giant water bottle and study notes; Gotak was likely snoring already. The lights outside the windows were dim now, the city reduced to soft murmurs and lazy glows.

The only light in the room came from the hallway — and from him.

From Sieun.

His screen glowed faintly on the bed.

And he was there.

 

Suho didn’t move at first.

His heart was already doing enough.

There was something strange about the stillness — not just the silence, but how the moonlight made everything feel like a dream.

Sieun was lying on his side, facing away at first. The city lights from his window framed his profile — a faint blue glow caught along the edge of his cheek, casting quiet shadows down his throat and onto the dip of his collarbone.

Then he turned.

Just slightly.

Just enough for Suho to see him properly.

And Suho stopped breathing.

 

Baku had once joked — loudly, obnoxiously — that Sieun looked like a “sentient creepypasta” when he stared at nothing like that. “Bro’s default face is criminal behavior,” he’d said, cackling with his mouth full of chips.

But Baku was wrong.

He was so wrong.

Because right now — this right now — Sieun didn’t look creepy.

He looked pretty.

So goddamn pretty that it hurt.

 

His lips were parted slightly, eyes half-lidded with sleep. That messy fringe had fallen over his forehead, and the light outside curved across his lashes like they were painted there. He wasn’t doing anything special. Just… existing. Lying there in a soft hotel bed, hoodie loose around his collar, face bare and tired.

And Suho?

Suho felt ruined by it.

His hand tightened around the towel.

The ache in his chest spread deeper.

 

Then — without thinking — Suho moved.

He brought his hand to the hem of his shirt, breath held as if the sound might wake something.

And slowly, deliberately, he lifted it over his head.

The fabric slid up his stomach, revealing warm skin inch by inch — and then higher, up past his chest, his shoulders, and finally off.

It clung slightly as it passed his damp neck and messed up his hair — but Suho didn’t flinch.

Because Sieun turned his head.

Just barely — but enough.

Enough to watch.

And Suho met his gaze — didn’t blink, didn’t smile — just looked.

And didn’t look away.

 

He reached for his joggers next. The waistband dipped low on his hips before he slowly pushed them down, past his thighs, letting them fall to the floor.

The air was cooler now. His skin prickled. But not from cold.

From heat.

From that look on Sieun’s face — too tired to react, too surprised to look away.

And Suho?

He didn’t stop.

He pulled on a clean t-shirt — loose, soft, clinging a little to his damp back.

Then slid into cotton sleep pants, movements slow and almost hypnotic.

And all while their eyes stayed locked.

 

In his mind, Suho couldn’t even explain why he was doing it.

Why he was being bold. Why he was standing there like a quiet dare, letting Sieun see him like that — letting that silence stretch, burn, ache.

He just knew—

He wanted Sieun to want him.

Not just miss him.
Not just need his voice.
Not just call him clingy and smile through it.

He wanted Sieun to feel it.

Physically.

The way he felt it — constantly, all-consuming, eating him alive in the quiet.

 

Suho climbed into bed again — slow, careful, blanket tugged to his chest.

His phone lay propped beside him, and Sieun — God, Sieun was still staring.

 

“What were you looking at?” Suho asked, voice low.

 

A beat.

Then Sieun turned his head and answered, smooth as ever.

“The lights. City looks good tonight.”

 

He shifted the phone to show Suho the skyline — long apartment buildings, soft glows, scattered windows.

 

“It helps me sleep sometimes,” he murmured.

 

Suho barely looked at the skyline.

He didn’t need to.

He was still looking at him.

“I wish I was there.”

 

A whisper. Too soft.

Then a little softer—

“It really is pretty…”

 

But he wasn’t talking about the skyline.

He was talking about Sieun.

About that mouth, soft and pink, parted slightly in tired silence.

About those long lashes casting shadows across his cheek.

About the way his hoodie dipped at the collar, exposing just the edge of his collarbone.

About the way Suho wanted to touch him.

Kiss the sleep out of his face.

Wrap himself around him until every inch of him was warm.

 

He didn’t speak again.

Just stared.

And for a second — with all the lights off, the moon peeking through the window, and Sieun’s voice still humming in his ears — Suho let himself fall into that fantasy.

If Suho was there...

He would’ve laid on top of him.

Pressed his lips to Sieun’s throat.

Kissed slow and long and without a single word of apology.

Made him feel it — that desperate, messy, aching kind of love Suho didn’t know how to name.

But instead…

He whispered, just for himself:

 

“Baku was wrong.”

“You’re not a creep.”

“You’re beautiful.”

 

But Sieun didn’t hear.

The screen stayed quiet.

And Suho just kept staring — starving.

 

The room was quiet.

Moonlight spilling gently across the bed, catching the tips of Suho’s damp hair and the edge of the phone screen resting beside him.

Sieun hadn’t moved much — still lying half-turned on his side, his voice soft in Suho’s ear. His hoodie had slipped just slightly off one shoulder, revealing the clean line of his neck, pale and bare in the bluish glow of city lights.

Suho stared.

His heart felt full and aching all at once.

He knew Sieun was tired — his eyes had started to flutter more often, his voice slowing.

He should let him sleep.

He should.

But Suho wanted to be selfish tonight.

He wanted to talk more. Maybe all night. Maybe until morning came and the screen went dark and their hearts felt a little less heavy.

So he asked questions.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just… warm. Quiet. A selfish attempt to stay.

“Do you like talking to me like this?” he asked, eyes searching the screen.

Sieun blinked slowly.

“…It’s nice.”

Suho smiled a little.

“Is it weird?”

 

“No.”

 

A pause.

 

“Comfortable.”

That word made Suho breathe out slower.

Then he sat up slightly, shifting under the blanket. His voice dipped lower — too careful, too close.

“Do I… look different now?”

Sieun tilted his head slightly.

Suho’s tone stayed soft, teasing, but it carried something beneath it — something insecure, something desperate to be seen.

“I mean…” Suho exhaled. “Since before. Since therapy. The hospital.”

Sieun didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him.

His eyes dipped slowly across the screen — trailing from Suho’s face to his collar, the loose neck of his shirt, the soft outline of his shoulders under the cotton.

Then… he swallowed. Just once.

Suho saw it.

And his breath caught.

“There’s progress,” Sieun finally said, voice quiet. “You’re stronger now.”

Suho blinked.

Of course he would notice. Of course Sieun would know. He was there through all of it. Every moment Suho couldn’t even sit up by himself. Every time he needed help to even hold a spoon. Every night Sieun bathed him, carefully, patiently — always turning around until Suho said it was okay, always letting him go at his pace.

Even when Suho couldn’t lift his arms.

Even when his body felt like a stranger’s.

Sieun never looked away. And never crossed a line.

But now…

Now Suho watched the soft slope of Sieun’s neck again.

The way his hoodie dipped just slightly, baring the clean skin at the side of his throat.

It made something hot twist in Suho’s stomach.

He wanted to touch him there.

Not just touch — kiss.

Slow at first.

Then deeper. Harder. Enough to leave a mark.

He wanted to bury his face there, teeth grazing the skin, lips leaving proof. He wanted to mark him like a creature claiming what’s his.

He wanted to curl inside that hoodie, burrow his way through it, press chest to chest until there was no space between them.

He wanted to fall asleep like that.

Wrapped in the cotton warmth of Sieun’s clothes. In his smell. In the press of his skin.

And for a second, Suho almost said something reckless.

Almost reached for the screen. Almost whispered something that would change everything.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just stared.

And when Sieun blinked at him again — tired, quiet, beautiful — Suho only whispered:

“Can you stay a little longer?”

Sieun hummed, eyes closing halfway.

“…I’m here.”

And that was enough.

 

Suho didn’t even realize how long they’d been talking. One moment he was watching Sieun lying there, half-curled into his hoodie, moonlight sliding down his cheek like something sacred — and the next, he found himself wanting more.

Not more time.

But more of this.

Of him.

Of whatever this breathless space was between them — where neither of them confessed a thing, and yet everything was laid bare in the silence.

Suho knew he should’ve let Sieun sleep now. He looked tired. His voice was quieter. The kind of low that meant his body had been begging for rest long before the video call had even started. He should stop it for real now.

But Suho couldn’t stop.

Not yet.

He was being selfish. AGAIN.

He wanted to talk the whole night. He wanted to ask everything. Anything.

So he did.

 

“Do you think I’ve changed alot?”

 

“Do I seem like myself again?”

 

“What did you eat today?”

 

“Did anyone flirt with you?”

 

“Did you miss us?”

 

Sieun answered, one by one, in that same calm voice. Short sentences. No teasing. No drama. Just enough to keep Suho from spiraling.

But then —

 

“Do you know how many days it’s been since you left?”

 

Sieun blinked.

Didn’t answer.

So Suho did it for him.

“Seven.”

 

“It’s only been seven.”

 

His voice cracked a little. Barely noticeable. But Sieun noticed.

Suho sucked in a breath.

 

“I miss you,” he said softly.

 

“Like crazy.”

 

Sieun went still. His eyes didn’t look away, but something in them flickered.

 

“I wish I could take back what I said that day.”

 

“That dumb comment.”

 

“About my birthday.”

 

He rubbed the side of his hand against his eye. Voice still soft, but shaking at the edges.

 

“I didn’t mean it.”

 

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

 

Sieun didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush him.

Just waited.

And then, quietly —

 

“Why are you blaming yourself?”

 

Suho looked at him.

And didn’t know what to say.

Because how do you explain the guilt that coils around your ribs when the person you love walks away and you don’t stop them? How do you explain the way regret eats you alive when you realize your words were the reason their expression cracked for the first time in months?

 

“I don’t know.”

 

He finally whispered.

 

“I just… I wish I hadn’t said it.”

 

“I wish I hadn’t hurt you.”

 

Sieun didn’t nod. Didn’t offer platitudes.

He just said, calm and even —

 

“You’re doing great.”

 

“You’ll be okay.”

 

But Suho knew it wasn’t true.

Not this time.

Because he wasn’t okay.

And Sieun didn’t know how hard this was — how many nights Suho had curled into the space where Sieun’s hoodie used to be, how many mornings he had sat in the dark hallway pretending to scroll through his phone, waiting for Sieun’s name to appear on screen.

But Suho didn’t say all that.

He just exhaled.

 

“I miss you,” he whispered again.

 

“I miss you so much.”

 

And Sieun —

Didn’t say anything.

Just watched him.

And sometimes, that was more than enough.

 

Suho kept talking.

Even after Sieun quietly told him he was doing great.

Even after Sieun asked, “Why are you blaming yourself?”

Suho couldn’t answer that. He didn’t even try.

Because there were no words to explain the guilt that wrapped around his throat like a leash — no easy way to explain how badly he just wanted to stay in this moment, hearing Sieun’s voice, even if it made him selfish.

So he asked another question.

And another.

And another.

Not because he needed the answers — but because he needed to keep Sieun close.

Because if he let the silence in now, he’d drown in it.

 

Eventually, his voice softened to a murmur.

His body curled tighter around the blanket — Sieun’s blanket — like he could pull him back if he held on tight enough.

The t-shirt he wore hung loose around his collar, worn soft with age, still carrying the scent of home. Of him.

One hand clutched the phone.

The screen glowed beside him, faint and warm.

And Sieun watched.

Didn’t say much.

Didn’t look away either.

Just… watched. Eyes steady. Quiet. Unreadable.

Until Suho’s breathing evened out, long and slow and exhausted.

Only then did Sieun reach for the call and whisper a quiet goodbye in text.

“Goodnight.”
“You did well today.”
“Sleep warm.”

 

That night, Suho dreamed.

Not in memories. Not in trauma.

But in something so real, so vivid, it felt like waking.

He dreamed of the hotel room.

Of Sieun on the bed — exactly as he had been earlier. Hair messy. Hoodie slipping. Neck half-bared in that unintentional, devastating way that only Sieun could manage.

But in the dream, Suho wasn’t on a screen.

He was there.

 

The room was bathed in a low amber glow — like the city had spilled honey through the windows.

The sheets rustled softly beneath him. Sieun was close. So close.

His face was turned slightly, lips parted, lashes fanned over pale cheeks.

Breathing slow. Gentle. Unaware.

Suho didn’t speak.

He just reached out — brushed his knuckles along Sieun’s cheek, then trailed his fingers down the delicate slope of his neck, to the curve of his collarbone.

He could feel the warmth of him. The steady rise and fall of his chest.

He leaned in — pressed their foreheads together.

Held it there for a second. Longer.

Until even the air between them stilled.

And then...

He kissed him.

Softly. Carefully.

And then again.

And again.

Until Sieun sighed into his mouth — in his sleep — and pulled him closer, fingers curling into the back of Suho’s shirt like his body remembered him. Like he’d been waiting for this too.

Their bodies pressed together.

The space between them vanished.

And Suho—

He made love to him.

Not with roughness.

Not with haste.

But like it meant something. Like every touch was a confession. Every kiss an apology. Every breath a promise.

All the moments he’d missed. All the nights he’d ached. All the times he’d looked at Sieun and silently wished, please, please be mine.

And then—

Sieun’s eyes fluttered open.

Still hooded with sleep. Hazy. Hungry.

Heavy with something Suho had only ever dreamed of seeing.

Desire.

It shattered Suho’s restraint.

Because how was he supposed to control himself when that face — his angel — was looking at him like that?

He kissed him again, deeper, desperate — like he’d fall apart if he stopped.

He pushed Sieun gently back into the mattress.

Climbed over him.

Pressed down, chest to chest, breath to breath — like he needed to get closer. Closer still. Until there wasn’t even space left for air to pass between them.

He moved with care — reverent, breathless.

Like Sieun was something sacred.

And Sieun…

Sieun welcomed him.

Touched him back like he’d memorized every inch of him already — like this wasn’t new, but familiar. Safe. Home.

And Suho?

Suho wanted that touch everywhere.

He asked for it.

Whispered it.

“Touch me.”

He took Sieun’s hands — guided them to his face, his arms, his back, his waist — even to the places no one else had ever been allowed to see.

Not ever.

Not like this.

There were no words in the dream.

Just movement.

Breath.

Fingertips.

The kind of connection that left no room for fear. Or shame. Or loneliness.

The kind that burned slow — deep — but didn’t scar.

Only warmed.

He made love to Sieun slowly at first — cherishing him.

Kissed everywhere.

But it became too much to hold back.

Too much to bear.

The way Sieun gasped. The broken, breathy moans he couldn’t contain.

And Suho — gods — Suho felt proud.

Proud he could make him feel like this. That he could be the one to unravel him.

And he needed more.

To claim him. To mark every inch of him as his.

The pace shifted.

Faster. Harder.

Hungry. Brutal.

Not out of cruelty — but out of aching, relentless need.

Like the years he’d spent not touching Sieun had finally caught up to him all at once.

And Sieun?

Sieun took it.

Held him close.

Let Suho fall apart and come together in his arms again and again, until neither of them knew where one ended and the other began.

Until there was nothing left but warmth.

And the knowing.

The kind that lived in bones.

That this wasn’t just a dream.

This was everything.

 

When Suho woke the next morning—

He was tangled in Sieun’s blanket.

His body was flushed. Aching in a way that left no question.

He exhaled, shakily.

Face hot. Chest rising.

He glanced down, cheeks burning, and then closed his eyes as reality slowly pressed itself against his skin.

The dream…

It hadn’t been just a dream.

Not to his body. Not to his heart.

It had felt real.

So real he could still taste the shape of Sieun’s name on his tongue.

 

And then—

His phone buzzed.

A message.

From Sieun.

 

“Hope you slept okay.”
“Let’s talk more tonight if you want.”
“I’ll make time.”

 

Suho stared at the screen.

Then pressed it to his chest.

Curled up in the sheets, breathing hard.

And whispered into the pillow:

“I don’t think I can wait until tonight…”

 

Because after a dream like that —
After remembering what it felt like to have him —
How was he supposed to survive another day with just memories and a screen?

 

.
.
.

 

The sun filtered in through the slits in the curtain — dull and reluctant, just like Suho’s eyes.

He hadn’t moved much.

Still buried in the blanket that smelled like him, his hand still loosely clutching the phone, now dim and black.

But Suho’s mind was loud.

So loud.

The dream had clung to his skin like sweat. The heat, the weight, the way Sieun had looked at him — the way he’d let him. Every frame still burned behind his eyelids like an afterimage of something he wasn’t supposed to have.

He should’ve gotten up.

Should’ve washed his face. Made tea. Pretended like things were normal.

But instead—

He rolled over, face pressing into the hoodie Sieun had left behind, breathing it in like a lifeline.

And whispered, “I miss you.”

Out loud.

To no one.

But it felt like maybe Sieun would hear it anyway.

 

It was past 9 by the time Suho stumbled into the living room.

Hair a mess. Eyes a little puffy. Still wearing Sieun’s oversized t-shirt that hung just a bit too low on the collarbone.

And the look on his face — dazed, floaty, and faraway — told everyone exactly who he’d been thinking about.

Gotak blinked. Baku paused mid-bite. Juntae raised a brow over his glasses.

The silence was broken by Baku nudging Gotak with his elbow and whispering, “You think he’s okay?”

Juntae didn’t even look up from his book. “No. He’s lovesick.”

 

Suho padded to the kitchen like a ghost.

Opened the fridge.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Stared blankly.

Then muttered, “I forgot what I wanted.”

Baku leaned back on the couch. “He’s gone full zombie mode.”

Gotak frowned. “You think he dreamt about Sieunie again?”

Juntae finally looked up.

And this time, he closed the book.

 

They watched as Suho sat at the table with a bowl of cereal he never actually ate.

He just stirred it around. Mind elsewhere. Face flushed like he’d just remembered something.

Then he let out a deep sigh. Soft. Long.

Like something inside him was hurting.

 

“Okay,” Baku said suddenly. “This is bad.”

Gotak nodded. “This is heartbreak in HD.”

“Should we do something?” Juntae asked.

There was a long pause.

Then Baku, cracking his knuckles, grinned. “Obviously.”

 

No

Back at the table, Suho was now resting his head on the surface, cheek squished against the wood, phone held loosely in one hand.

He wasn’t crying.

He wasn’t pouting.

But the look in his eyes screamed, I miss him. I miss him so much it physically hurts.

 

Juntae stepped into the kitchen quietly and placed a small mug in front of Suho — chamomile. Warm. Comforting.

“You should eat something,” he said, gentle.

Suho blinked slowly. “Not hungry.”

“Still.”

 

Later, as the others started planning in hushed tones from across the room — maybe a group video call, maybe a surprise delivery, maybe something that would make Suho smile — Suho just stared at his screen.

Opened the chat.

Typed:

“How was your sleep?”
Deleted it.

 

Typed:

“I dreamt of you.”
Deleted it again.

 

Instead, he sent nothing.

Just stared at the blank box like it might save him.

 

Because the truth was—

Suho wasn’t just missing Sieun anymore.

He was yearning.

Needy.

Achingly vulnerable.

And for once, he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

And the others? They weren’t about to let him drown in it.

Not when they’d seen that look before.

Not when they knew the answer to it was just one person away.

 

.
.
.

 

Suho hadn’t said much all day.

He sat on the floor with his back against the couch, a book open in front of him that hadn’t been flipped in over twenty minutes. The TV was on. Some background movie playing. But he wasn’t watching.

Instead, he stared at the corner of the coffee table.

Quietly.

Breathing slow.

Counting.

 

“One, two, three…”

 

“Seven.”

“Seven days since he left.”

 

He opened his phone again — went to the calendar.
Tapped the day Sieun was supposed to return.
Eleven more days.

Two hundred fifty eight hours.

He hated that he knew the exact number.

He hated more that it felt like a lifetime.

 

Baku walked in with a sandwich and placed it near Suho.

“You’ve eaten one meal today,” he said plainly.

Suho gave a non-committal hum.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t speak.

Gotak flopped onto the beanbag nearby, watching Suho like he was something fragile.

“I didn’t know someone could be this dramatic over a video call,” he mumbled.

“It’s not just a video call,” Suho muttered, finally.

 

His voice was quiet. Honest.

“It’s him.”

 

The others fell silent.

 

Later that evening, they sat around the living room, pretending to be productive. Suho kept his hoodie drawn up, sleeves pulled over his hands. The one that smelled faintly of Sieun. The only thing that made him feel somewhat steady.

Juntae looked up from his notes.

“You okay?”

 

Suho didn’t answer.

Just blinked at the floor.

Then quietly:

“Do you know how many days it’s been?”

 

No one replied.

So Suho answered himself.

“Seven.”

 

“Feels like Seventy.”

 

He exhaled shakily.

And then, almost too softly:

“I miss him.”

 

The words slipped out like air from a balloon — a quiet ache, uncontainable.

“Like… so much I don’t know what to do.”

 

The gang exchanged glances.

They didn’t know how to fix it.

They couldn’t bring Sieun back early — the trip was important, he had commitments.

But maybe… maybe they could bridge the distance a little.

 

When Suho had retreated to the room — nose buried in Sieun’s blanket again, curled up with his phone — the others quietly got to work.

 

Juntae texted Sieun.

 

“Hey. He’s not okay.
Can we plan something?”

 

Sieun responded quickly.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He’s counting days. He doesn’t eat unless we place it in his hand. He wears your hoodie all day. He talks in your direction like you’re still here.”

 

There was a long pause.

Then…

“I’ll send him something.”

 

The next morning, Suho woke up to his screen lighting up.

There was a voice note.

He stared at it for a long time before hitting play.

And there it was —

Sieun’s voice.

“Morning.”

 

“I know it’s been eight days. I didn’t forget.”

 

“I saw the hoodie on your story. You need to wash it.”

 

“…I miss you too.”

 

It ended there.

No over-the-top sweetness.

No dramatic confessions.

But Suho held the phone against his chest like it was a lifeline.

Because Sieun said it back.

Even just those words — “I miss you too” — felt like a balm.

 

He didn’t cry.

But he didn’t move either.

And when he came out of the room a while later, hoodie sleeves too long and hair still messy from sleep—

The gang didn’t say anything.

They just made space on the couch.

Passed him a hot drink.

And let him sit there.

Breathing.

Waiting.

Because ten days was still too long.

But now, it felt a little more possible.

 

.
.
.

 

The afternoon light had turned sharp — that golden-white kind that spills through the windows and makes everything look clearer than it should. It didn’t help.

It just made the room look too quiet. Too still.

Suho was curled up on the couch again. One leg folded under him, the other dangling loose. Hoodie sleeves stretched over his hands, the same hoodie he hadn’t taken off since the day Sieun left.

The room was filled with soft noises — a ticking clock, the hum of the fridge, someone flipping pages from the corner. Gotak had opened a packet of chips and offered it to Suho earlier. He hadn’t even blinked.

 

Baku tried to make a joke.

Something about how Suho was starting to look like Sieun — blank and dramatic.

But it didn’t land. Not even with Baku himself.

He just glanced down, chewing slower than usual.

 

Juntae sat at the table, books open but untouched. His pen hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

His eyes kept drifting back to Suho.

Something about the way Suho was sitting — like he was holding himself together by sheer muscle memory — made Juntae feel sick.

He opened his phone.

Typed out a quick message.

 

Juntae: He’s really not okay.
Juntae: It’s Suho.

 

Juntae: He’s getting worse.

 

The reply came fast.

Sieun: ????

 

Just that.

No punctuation. No emotion. Just Sieun being... Sieun.

 

Juntae exhaled slowly and stared at the screen.

Then began typing again — slower this time, choosing each word carefully.

Juntae: He barely talks to us now.
Juntae: He’s not eating properly.
Juntae: He hasn’t smiled in days.
Juntae: Not even when Gotak tripped over the mop bucket.
Juntae: He just stares at your room when he thinks we’re not watching.

 

Juntae: You left your hoodie? He’s wearing it every day like a second skin.
Juntae: He keeps asking how many days are left until you're back.
Juntae: And he’s still blaming himself for that birthday comment.

 

Juntae: You know the one.

 

Juntae: He regrets it so much, it’s like he thinks he broke something that can’t be fixed.

 

The reply didn’t come.

Minutes passed.

The light outside shifted again.

Suho didn’t move. He had his head against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded but not sleeping.

Just... there. Barely there.

 

Finally, Juntae’s phone buzzed.

Sieun: He’s stronger than we think.
Sieun: He’ll be okay.

 

Juntae stared at the words.

Something twisted in his chest.

He wanted to believe it. Maybe a few days ago he would have.

But not now.

Because this — this version of Suho — was quiet in all the wrong ways.

 

And the worst part?

They all knew why Suho was like this.

They all remembered the day he said it — the stupid birthday comment.

How he’d snapped out, not so serious, about how Suho could just celebrate it with someone else.

They knew he didn’t mean it.

They knew he was just joking.

But still—he said it.

And now he was punishing himself for it every second of the day.

 

Baku tried to say something again. Stopped halfway.

Gotak opened his mouth, closed it.

No one knew what to tell Suho.

Because how do you comfort someone when yeah, he messed up — even if he didn’t mean to?

 

Juntae looked at Suho again.

Still curled into the hoodie.

Still clutching Sieun’s blanket from his room like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He typed another message.

Didn’t send it.

Just stared at the blinking cursor.

Only if you could see him.

 

Only if you knew how much he's unraveling quietly.

 

Only if you looked harder, maybe you’d know—

 

But he deleted it all.

Because what would be the point?

Sieun was far away. And Sieun didn’t do feelings. Not like Suho did.

Notes:

The flashbacks from Suho’s recovery are especially important to me. I hope they help you understand just how deeply he loves Sieun. Because one way or another, Sieun literally taught Suho how to live again. Their upcoming journey is going to be both beautiful and difficult, and I genuinely hope I’m doing justice to their story. 💔🌸

Please also know it’s not easy doing everything alone—from writing to proofreading and editing. 😮‍💨 So if you ever spot any repeated parts or anything that feels off, feel free to let me know! Your support and feedback really mean the world to me. 💛

Also… I’ve totally lost count of the days in the storyline 😅 Like how many have passed or how many are left. If anyone’s been re-reading or following along closely, and knows the exact timeline, please do let me know! Right now, in the part I’m currently writing, it’s still just five days since Sieun came back. And even though it’s been nearly a month since I started writing this arc… it still isn’t over 😭 I don’t know if I’m unintentionally stretching it or not, but honestly? I’m pretty satisfied with how it’s coming along. 🥹💭

And and... today was my last day of internship, and I have a week-long break before college starts again! I’m hoping to balance my studies and still write enough to bring you at least half a month’s worth of updates during this time. Fingers crossed 🤞💻

Posting this at night—it’s 10:35 PM here. 🌙 I personally love reading at night, so that’s why you’re getting this update now 😅

Thank you so much for reading! I’ll be back with the next chapter very soon. 🥺❤️

Chapter 37: The God I Failed, The Boy I Followed

Notes:

Hello everyone!
It’s been over a week since I last posted an update — and I’m so sorry for the delay . Honestly… I’m kinda ashamed to admit this, but during the 6-day holiday, I did absolutely nothing productive. I just watched K-dramas, ate like a queen, and slept a lot — like “binge all night and then crash all day” levels of sleep.

You know when you just lie in bed doing nothing important, endlessly scrolling or just…existing? Yeah, that was me. But hey, I guess you could say I rested. (Probably still need more, to be honest)

Getting back to college after this break has been rough. I’ve completely lost the habit of waking up early. The train rush? The exhausting commute? Ugh, I don’t want to do it. My internship routine was so different — stressful, sure, but at least my brother dropped me at the bank and picked me up later. It was just a 7-minute bike ride. Now… I’m back to battling ticket apps, long travel, and early alarms. In fact, today the booking app server crashed and I had to buy my ticket in person . The struggle is real.

Anyway — sorry for this rant. I know it was kind of irrelevant

What I really wanted to say is:
I’m sorry for being late with the update.
And I truly hope this chapter is worth the wait… (if you did wait, that is)

The room had gone quiet.

Juntae sat at the table, elbows on his knees, phone in hand. He tilted it slightly, snapped a photo of Suho from the side — slouched into the couch, face half-buried in the sleeve of Sieun’s hoodie, fingers holding the edge of a blanket like it anchored him.

No filter. No caption.

He just sent it.

To: Sieun [📷 attached]

 

Nothing came back.

The message marked “seen.” But no reply.

Not even an emoji.

 

Juntae sighed softly and leaned back. Maybe that was too much. Maybe—

"Let’s play a game."

Gotak’s voice, suddenly loud, cut through the heavy silence.

Everyone looked up.

Suho blinked, eyes dazed, like he wasn’t sure if that was a suggestion or a command.

Gotak threw a random snack pillow at Baku, who caught it on instinct and scowled.

"A game?" Juntae asked, already wary.

"Yeah," Gotak said, flopping onto the floor. "Let’s do something dumb. Everyone’s too serious."

Baku narrowed his eyes. "It’s literally 3 PM."

"Exactly. That’s peak stupid o’clock."

No one replied, but no one objected either.

 

Gotak grinned. “Okay, here’s the game.”

He looked at Suho. “Share one memory of THE YEON SEIUN you’ll never forget.”

Suho blinked.

“Comforting or ridiculous,” Gotak added. “No trauma dump allowed. This is a Sieun Appreciation Session.”

“Do we even like him that much?” Baku muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Everyone threw something at him.

 

Juntae went first. He smiled faintly.

“That time he straight up told the professor her marking scheme was ‘statistically unbalanced’—and she nodded like he just handed her a research paper.”

Gotak laughed. “Yeah, and then she gave him full marks and we got docked five each.”

“Worth it,” Juntae shrugged.

 

Gotak grinned. “Mine’s easy. That time he caught me and Baku trying to cook instant noodles with energy drink instead of water and he didn’t even yell—he just left the room. Like he couldn’t emotionally process it.”

“That’s because he couldn’t,” Baku groaned. “His soul left his body. I think he texted his will that day.”

Everyone burst into laughter, even Suho, just barely.

 

Juntae glanced at Suho—just for a second—and saw something tiny shift in his expression. A flicker. A softened corner.

“Okay, Suho. You’re up.”

Suho blinked. “Huh?”

“Unforgettable memory,” Gotak said, flopping upside down on the couch like a starfish. “Something Sieun did that lives rent free in your brain.”

Suho hesitated.

Then his lips twitched, just a little.

“That one time he used a permanent marker on my hand to label the medicine schedule during rehab. I told him I’d forget. So he literally wrote it.”

“Oh my god,” Baku laughed. “He tagged you like a whiteboard.”

“Better than a post-it,” Juntae grinned.

 

“And he didn’t even look guilty,” Suho added. “He just said, ‘Don’t wash it until Thursday.’ Like that was a normal sentence.”

They all laughed again — light and echoing, the kind that fills up the quiet places.

The kind that feels like a band-aid over a bruise.

Even Suho smiled more openly now, the kind that didn’t look so broken.

His fingers were still clutching the blanket. But he was listening. He was here.

 

“Okay, okay,” Gotak said, pushing himself up again. “Round two. Memory you’re glad only you witnessed.”

“Oh god,” Baku groaned. “Do we want to remember these?”

“Yes,” Juntae and Gotak said in sync.

Suho looked down at his phone just then, absently checking. Still no reply from Sieun.

But... he didn’t feel as alone anymore.

He looked back up. The others were still mid-chaos.

 

It just felt like... they were waiting. With him.

Until Sieun came back.

 

The game had spiraled fast — from soft memories to full-on comedy hour.

Juntae was still wiping tears from his eyes after Gotak’s impression of Sieun’s “statistically unbalanced” death stare.

Baku sat up like he was about to drop a war story.

“Okay, my turn,” he declared, cracking his knuckles like a boxer before a match. “Y’all aren’t ready for this.”

Gotak flopped dramatically onto the carpet. “We were never ready for you, king. Proceed.”

Baku nodded solemnly. “So—picture this. Me. Thirsty. It’s summer. The sun’s hotter than my future. I walk up to this vending machine, right?”

Suho blinked slowly. “This is already dumb.”

“Hush. Let the art flow.” Baku held up a hand. “I put my coin in. Nothing happens. Coin number two — nada. I shake it. I whisper to it. I even call it ‘baby.’ It eats my money and gives me air.”

Gotak snorted. “Romance is dead.”

“I’m losing my mind,” Baku went on. “And then—he walks by.”

Everyone collectively understood.

Sieun.

The calm menace. The unbothered legend.

“Bro didn’t say a word. He just stops. Looks at the machine like it personally offended his ancestors. Takes one coin, inserts it—”

Juntae leaned forward, eyes wide. “No way.”

“And the thing—like—it purrs. It pops out my drink like it was summoned.”

The room howled.

Baku stood, full reenactment mode now. “And he—he just hands it to me. Doesn’t even blink. Just goes:”

“Maybe it just doesn’t like you.”

 

Gotak screamed. Juntae choked on his water.

“NO HE DIDN’T—” Suho wheezed, burying his face in the pillow.

“He DID,” Baku confirmed, eyes wide with fake betrayal. “Then he walked away like a Studio Ghibli spirit. Silent. Mysterious. Beautiful. A menace.”

Suho was laughing now — really laughing, the kind that made his shoulders shake.

“He never explained it,” Baku added, clutching his chest. “To this day I don’t know if the machine liked him, or if it hated me that much.”

Juntae wiped his eyes. “Honestly? Both.”

Gotak grinned. “That’s probably when the machine fell in love with him.”

Baku gasped. “Plot twist: I’m the machine.”

The room erupted.

Even Suho laughed so hard he had to press the hoodie sleeve over his face.

It didn’t hurt to breathe.

Not as much.

 

Gotak didn’t speak at first.

He was chewing something — probably gum, maybe paper, no one ever knew — and staring into the corner like he was consulting ghosts.

Then he said with a straight face:

 

“Okay. My memory is the day Sieun emotionally destroyed someone in the library... with a stapler.”

 

Everyone blinked.

Suho froze mid-sip of juice. “What?”

Gotak nodded solemnly. “It was beautiful. Changed me as a person.”

Juntae looked horrified. “Wait—he hit someone with a stapler?”

 

“No,” Gotak said, offended. “He used it. As a statement.”

 

He leaned forward, totally serious.

 

“So this guy — a total sleazebag from another class — tried hitting on Sieun in the law library. Real ‘what’s a pretty face doing with books’ energy.”

 

Baku rolled his eyes. “Oh that type.”

 

“Exactly. Sieun ignored him. Obviously. But this dude keeps talking — bragging about internships, car, whatever. Then he leans across the table, points to Sieun’s neatly sorted documents, and goes, ‘You know, if you smile more, you could be the type to sit in the passenger seat of a car like mine.’”

 

There was a collective groan from the group.

“Now here’s where it gets divine,” Gotak grinned. “Sieun didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at the guy. He just... picked up his stapler. Calmly stapled the top-left corner of every single one of his documents—”

 

Suho blinked. “Okay…”

“—except one. He left one page unstapled. Looked the guy in the eyes for the first time. And said…”

 

Gotak dropped his voice into a flawless Sieun impression:

“That one’s for your obituary. Figure out the rest yourself.”

 

Everyone lost it.

Juntae choked on his drink.

Baku fell over backward.

Suho was wheezing silently, face buried in the blanket.

“I think about that once a week,” Gotak said reverently. “He didn’t yell. Didn’t raise a brow. He just stapled like a goddamn assassin.”

 

Juntae wiped his eyes. “Wasn’t that guy too scared to come back to the library after that?”

“Yeah. He transferred to another floor. I’ve never respected anyone more.”

 

Suho finally said between laughs, “He didn’t even need the stapler to make it hurt.”

 

“Exactly,” Gotak nodded. “He weaponized office supplies and existential dread. Iconic behavior.”

 

And just like that — the room filled with laughter again.

Not just polite chuckles this time.

Real laughter. Big, open, unfiltered.

And for a few minutes, it was like everything didn’t hurt so much.

 

Juntae leaned his head back against the wall and sighed.

The laughter from Gotak’s chaotic library story still lingered in the room, but his tone was quieter. Soft.

 

“Mine’s not funny,” he said. “But… I think about it a lot.”

 

Everyone turned toward him.

Suho was watching with curious eyes — the kind he only gave when someone said “Sieun” and meant it.

Juntae fiddled with the drawstring on his hoodie.

 

“Finals week. Last semester. You all remember how my sleep schedule was basically dead and buried.”

 

Gotak muttered, “You were sleepcoding while eating cereal.”

 

“Exactly. So one night, I stayed back at campus after class to fix a code error that kept crashing our research app. I hadn’t eaten. Barely drank water. And I was getting mad at the keyboard like it was alive.”

 

He paused, a little smile tugging at his lips.

“I didn’t even know anyone else was still there. But at some point, I looked up—and Sieun was just there. Sitting at the next desk with his books. Quiet like always.”

 

Everyone stayed quiet.

“I was too out of it to say anything. So I just looked back down. Thought maybe he’d just found an empty spot to revise.”

 

Juntae’s fingers stilled.

 

“But after a while, I noticed something weird. Every time I stood up to go grab water or blinked at the whiteboard, there was... new stuff on my table.”

 

Suho blinked. “Like what?”

 

“A warm pack of soymilk. Granola bar. A neck pillow. Then later, his charger plugged into my dying laptop.”

 

Juntae’s smile went soft.

 

“He never said anything. Never asked. He just… stayed. Kept studying. But kept checking if I was okay. Without making me say it out loud.”

 

He exhaled slowly.

 

“And when I finally fixed the bug and just sat there staring at the screen like a broken robot—he got up, took off his jacket, folded it, and put it under my head.”

 

“Didn’t even let me say thank you. Just said—”

 

Juntae closed his eyes and repeated, in Sieun’s quiet voice:

“You can rest now.”

 

The room fell still.

Suho’s hands were curled tighter around the blanket.

Gotak had stopped fidgeting.

Baku looked down, like he was pretending he had something in his eye.

Juntae opened his eyes again, soft but steady.

“That’s my memory. I didn’t tell anyone at the time. But… yeah. That one stays.”

 

“He knew. Even when I didn’t say it. And he didn’t make it a big thing. Just… gave me space to breathe.”

 

Suho’s throat felt tight.

It was so Sieun. All of it.

Not flashy. Not loud. Just being there. In a way that mattered more than words ever could.

 

“God,” Baku muttered after a pause. “Now I feel like my story was about a dumbass cartoon.”

 

“It was,” Gotak said proudly.

 

Everyone laughed again, but it was gentler now — like a wave settling after crashing. Still warm. Still here.

And Suho…

Suho smiled.

Eyes shining. Heart aching. But smiling.

Because yeah.

That’s the Sieun he missed.

And somehow, hearing it like this — hearing them remember him like this — made it all feel a little more bearable.

Like Sieun wasn’t so far away.

Like he was still right here, in every memory that mattered.

 

The room had stilled.

Suho’s words still hung in the air like the last line of a song:

“I miss him like crazy.”

 

“And it’s my fault he’s not here.”

 

No one moved for a second.

Even the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains seemed softer. Dust drifting in slow spirals. The room felt like it was holding its breath.

Then—

 

“Hey,” Baku said, nudging Suho’s knee with his own, “you know that’s not true, right?”

Suho didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor.

 

Juntae sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “You’re not the villain here. You’re just... a dumb idiot who said something very nonsense.”

 

“That’s not better,” Suho mumbled.

 

Gotak raised an eyebrow. “You want a hug or a punch? Because I’m qualified for both.”

That got a small snort out of Suho. Not quite a laugh. But something.

 

Baku tossed a cushion at him. “Seriously, Suho. If we canceled friendships every time one of us said something stupid, we’d all be strangers.”

 

“I don’t think Sieun thinks like that,” Suho murmured.

 

“No, he doesn’t,” Juntae said quietly. “That’s the point.”

 

Suho looked up, eyes tired but confused.

 

“He doesn’t cut people off,” Juntae said. “He just... steps away until he’s ready. And then he comes back. Always.”

 

Gotak leaned his head against the back of the couch. “You think this is the first time someone hurt his feelings? Please. He deals with half the law department on a daily basis.”

“But this is different,” Suho said, almost to himself. “It was me.”

“Yeah,” Baku said gently. “And you’re the one he lets be close to him. You’re not the reason he left, Suho.”

“You’re the reason he wants to come back.”

Suho blinked. Hard.

His voice cracked. “What if I ruined that?”

Juntae didn’t hesitate. “Then we’ll wait with you until he’s ready again. Like we always do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was warm.

Gotak passed Suho a glass of water. “You’re allowed to be a mess, okay?”

Baku pointed at the hoodie Suho was still wearing. “Especially in that. He looks like a sad ghost.”

“Shut up,” Suho muttered, but he smiled. Just a little.

“Bro,” Gotak grinned. “You’ve been inhaling that thing like it’s Sieun-scented therapy. It’s borderline concerning.”

“It is Sieun-scented,” Suho said without thinking.

They all groaned.

“Okay, nope. We’re cutting you off,” Baku said. “You’re not allowed to be both emo and down bad.”

“Pick a struggle,” Gotak agreed.

Suho laughed then — a real one this time.

Short, surprised, but real.

Juntae just leaned back, eyes soft. “See? Still here. Still stupid. Still with you.”

And Suho looked at them — really looked — and for the first time all day, something in his chest unclenched.

They couldn’t fix everything.

But they weren’t leaving either.

 

Juntae nudged Suho’s foot gently.

“Your turn. Sieun memory. Unforgettable, comforting, maybe even a little dumb. We won’t judge.”

Suho blinked.

The room was warm with laughter and lazy chaos — snack wrappers strewn across the table, the sun casting stripes of light across the carpet — but inside Suho, something stilled.

He leaned back, slow, like even the movement tugged at something he hadn’t touched in a while. His eyes dropped, as if digging through memory.

And then — quietly, almost absently — he smiled.

“There was this one afternoon,” he began, voice soft.

“Back in school. Before the coma. Before all of it.”

 

The rest of them went quiet with him.

 

“It was after lunch. Last lecture of the day. I had just pulled an overnight shift at the restaurant — completely wiped. I could barely keep my head up.”

Suho’s voice was slower now, deeper — like the moment was unfolding behind his eyes in real-time.

“I was sitting sideways on the bench. Elbow on the desk, chin in my hand. I remember the way my eyelids kept drooping, how my neck kept dipping forward. But I didn’t want to sleep. Not yet.”

He paused, a breath catching gently in his chest.

“I was in my usual uniform pants. Red t-shirt. That awful red windbreaker you all hated? I had it zipped halfway, like it’d protect me from passing out.”

Baku groaned. “The one that made you sound like a crinkly snack bag?”

Suho let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. That one.”

Then his voice quieted again.

“And right next to me... was him.”

 

“Sieun.”

He said the name like an anchor.

“He had his grey jacket on — always neat, always clean. He sat beside me, calm as ever, pulling out his pencil pouch, opening his book. Then he started writing.”

“He didn’t talk. Didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t scold me for being tired. He just... started underlining things. Studying. Like usual.”

Suho closed his eyes for a second, letting the image settle.

“It was quiet. Like — completely quiet. But not the awkward kind.”

His fingers curled slightly around the edge of his sleeve.

“It was so peaceful.”

His voice dipped even lower.

“I remember watching him move — the way his brows furrowed, how precise his writing was, the way he flipped a page without making a sound.”

“And it felt... safe. Like I could just sit there and breathe.”

 

“I was so sleepy. But I didn’t want to stop looking at him.”

Suho glanced down at his hands, fingers lightly brushing his palm like he could still feel that desk beneath them.

“I didn’t understand it back then. Why just sitting next to him like that made everything feel okay. Why even when I was exhausted, my heart felt... light.”

He looked up again, a soft smile ghosting over his lips.

“But now I know.”

 

The room was still.

Not because anyone told them to be quiet — but because none of them wanted to break whatever Suho had just stitched into the air.

Gotak muttered first. “Bro. You fell in love during self-study.”

Baku blinked. “He was literally just highlighting his textbook.”

Suho gave the smallest smile.
“Yeah. But it was him.”

Juntae gave a low exhale through his nose, nodding.
“Of course it was.”

 

The silence lingered — not awkward, just whole — like the kind that settles over you after someone says something you didn’t know you needed to hear.

Then Gotak cleared his throat.

“Okay but… imagine falling in love next to a math book. That's an elite level hopeless romantic.”

Baku tilted his head. “Was he at least doing something hot? Like chewing the pen or fixing his hair?”

Suho laughed under his breath. “Nope. Just existing.”

“Wow.” Juntae shook his head with a smile. “That’s the most Suho way to fall in love. No sparkles, no drama. Just… him breathing near you.”

“And me watching him like a creep,” Suho added dryly.

“Nah.” Gotak leaned back against the couch. “More like... you knew something even before you knew.”

Suho stared at the ceiling for a second, still wrapped in the memory.

“It was weird,” he admitted. “I wasn’t thinking anything special. I was just tired. But that moment — that stupid, silent ten minutes — it felt like... everything was okay.”

“Of course it did,” Juntae murmured. “You were with him.”

 

“You ever tell him that?” Baku asked, curious.

Suho shook his head. “No. I don’t think he even noticed me watching him. He was too busy being… Sieun.”

Gotak laughed. “You mean: solving problems, ignoring social norms, and underlining like the book insulted him?”

“Exactly.”

“Honestly?” Juntae chimed in, “I think he did know. Maybe not the why behind it — but he always knew you looked at him differently.”

Suho blinked. “You think?”

“Bro,” Baku said, wide-eyed. “He literally saved your hospital playlist and added new songs to it every week.”

“He ordered your meds early,” Gotak added, “even before the doctors confirmed dosage changes.”

“He yelled at your nurse once,” Juntae muttered. “Politely, of course. But still terrifying.”

 

Suho was quiet again — not in the way he’d been for days, but in the way people get when they’re trying not to cry in front of people who would absolutely notice.

“I just miss him,” he whispered, more to himself than to them.

The air softened around them.

“We know,” Juntae said gently.

“He knows too,” Baku added.

“And don’t worry,” Gotak smirked, tossing a pillow at him, “when he comes back, we’ll absolutely tell him you confessed in a love-struck monologue about... underlining.”

Suho caught the pillow. “Please don’t.”

“Too late,” Juntae said.

 

It was almost evening now.

The orange light of sunset had begun to creep across the windows, brushing warm tones onto the floor and softening every shadow in the room. The laughter had faded into quiet again — not heavy this time, just settled.

Suho stood up slowly, still clutching the pillow Gotak had thrown at him.

“Gonna go lie down for a bit,” he said, voice low.

No one asked where.

They already knew.

 

The hallway felt longer somehow.

Every creak of the wooden floor, every familiar photo on the wall — it all whispered pieces of memories that hadn’t faded yet. Suho’s hand hovered at the doorknob to their room for a second longer than usual.

Then he opened it.

And stepped inside.

 

The air smelled faintly like Sieun.

A mixture of clean laundry, sandalwood, and something soft that Suho could never name. Not strong, not overwhelming. Just... present. Like Sieun had only just left a minute ago.

The bed was made neatly on one side.

Suho’s side, predictably, was not.

He tossed the pillow aside and sank into the mattress, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for days.

He didn’t cry.

But his throat ached like he might.

 

His eyes wandered the room.

Sieun’s grey hoodie draped on the back of the chair. That red windbreaker Suho used to wear, folded neatly on the corner of the shelf — the same one from that memory. He hadn’t realized Sieun had kept it all this time.

The desk was still organized — notebooks stacked, pens perfectly aligned. And on the corkboard above it, a post-it note written in Sieun’s handwriting still read:

 

"Buy extra paracetamol. You're terrible at remembering. — S."

 

Suho let out a breathy laugh.

“Still bossy.”

He lay down fully, curling into the familiar blanket — Sieun’s blanket — and pulled it up to his chin. He clutched it like a lifeline. Like warmth. Like home.

 

His fingers itched to text something. Anything.

But instead, he whispered it aloud:

“Come back soon.”

He didn’t expect a reply.

But a small buzz lit up the phone screen near the pillow.

He turned his head slowly to check.

It wasn’t Sieun.

Just a forwarded meme from Gotak.

A dumb one.

He smiled anyway.

 

It was almost six in the evening.

The sky had turned a pale, moody orange, threaded with soft lavender clouds that drifted like they had nowhere else to be. The golden light bled through the windows, casting warm stripes across the living room walls.

Suho stood by the door, slipping on his shoes in slow motion — like his body was moving but his thoughts were stuck somewhere far behind.

Juntae, who’d been half-reading and half-scrolling on his phone, looked up.

“You going out?”

Suho nodded once. “Just for a walk.”

Juntae’s eyes softened. He stood up instinctively. “I’ll come.”

But Suho shook his head.

“No. It’s okay. I… kinda wanna be alone for a bit.”

There was no edge to his voice — just a calm kind of quiet, the kind that didn’t ask for permission but still left space for understanding.

Juntae didn’t push.

He just gave a tiny nod. “Alright. Be safe.”

 

The door clicked shut behind Suho a moment later.

And the world outside met him with stillness.

The coolness of early evening kissed his skin, light and sudden, like the weather hadn’t caught up to the season yet. His hands instinctively burrowed into his hoodie pocket — not because it was cold, but because it gave them something to do.

The streets were quiet. Faint sounds of laughter echoed from a playground a block away. A few cars passed by, and some students on cycles swerved past him with snacks tucked in their arms.

But for the most part — it was just him.

And the ache in his chest.

 

He walked the same route they used to take.

The side path by the old bookstore. The shortcut between the trees near the basketball court. Past the little park where Sieun once silently sat beside him for an hour, saying nothing — just letting Suho breathe when he couldn’t explain why everything felt too loud.

Every corner seemed to carry a version of Sieun.

Even the air felt different without him.

It didn’t hurt like a knife. It wasn’t unbearable.

But it was empty.

And emptiness had its own kind of pain.

 

Suho stared at the sidewalk as he walked.

“How can someone be gone,” he thought, “and still feel like they’re everywhere?”

He kicked a small stone gently, watched it tumble forward.

His throat ached again — not from tears, just from the weight of words he couldn’t say.

He missed him.

Not in the cliché, movie-line kind of way.

He missed Sieun the way tired hands miss warmth, the way a room feels colder without one specific person in it. He missed the sound of pages turning beside him. The weight of Sieun’s silent presence. The way Sieun blinked slowly when he was thinking, or how he stared blankly when the rest of them were chaotic.

He missed feeling understood without having to explain anything.

 

“I’m sorry,” Suho whispered to the wind.

He didn’t know what he was apologizing for this time. Just… everything.

He walked a little farther.

Not too far.

Just enough to breathe.

Just enough to hope the ache would turn into something gentler.

 

By the time Suho turned back, the sun had dropped behind the buildings, casting longer shadows across the road.

His steps were slower now, not because he was tired — but because part of him didn’t want to go back to the silence. Not again.

But still… his feet found their way home.

The apartment building glowed faintly golden in the distance. Lights from different rooms flickered like constellations scattered across the walls.

He climbed the stairs.

Unlocked the door.

And stepped inside.

 

The living room was quiet — but not heavy this time.

Just... calm.

Juntae had fallen asleep on the couch, a soft playlist humming from his phone speaker. Baku and Gotak were nowhere in sight — probably out causing whatever chaos they’d warned the RA about.

Suho didn’t say anything.

He just walked into the room. Of Sieun.

Closed the door gently.

 

It still smelled like him.

That faint, comforting scent — detergent, soft cologne, maybe old paper and something slightly herbal.

Suho sat on the edge of the bed.

Then noticed it.

A notebook. Peeking out from under Sieun’s pillow.

 

He hadn’t seen it earlier.

It was Sieun’s handwriting journal — the one he sometimes scribbled random phrases or quotes in when no one was watching.

Suho blinked.

He reached for it slowly, almost afraid to touch it — like it might disappear if he moved too fast.

He opened the first page.

Just old practice lines. Nothing deep.

He flipped another.

More messy scrawls. A sketch of their group. Some random finance equation. A half-written line about coffee.

And then…

 

On a page near the back — written in careful, printed letters:

“Even when I say nothing, I hope he hears me.”

— Y.S.

 

Suho stared at the sentence.

Then closed the notebook gently.

He pressed his fingers against the cover like it was something precious.

Something sacred.

 

Even when I say nothing…

He had.

He had heard him.

That day in the classroom. That night in the hospital. Every silent moment where Sieun didn’t have the words — but his eyes said everything.

Suho wasn’t sure if the quote was about him.

But in this moment, it felt like it was.

 

He lay down on the bed sideways — not on Sieun’s side, just close enough to feel like the silence wasn’t so cold.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t smile, either.

But he breathed.

 

.
.
.

 

The sky had turned a deeper indigo by the time Suho stood again.

The light spilling through the windows had dimmed into soft navy streaks, brushing faintly against the walls like a slow-moving watercolor. Streetlamps flickered to life in the distance, casting orange glows on the quiet pavement outside.

The playlist in the living room had shifted to sleepy lo-fi beats, the kind that barely felt like music—just soft noise to keep the quiet company.

Suho stretched. His stomach gave a low, reluctant growl.

He hadn’t realized how long it had been since lunch.

 

He padded into the hall, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up, hair a little rumpled, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stay in the past or move forward.

Juntae was curled up on the rug like a cat, a blanket over one shoulder and his phone glowing dimly in his hand.

“Dinner?” Suho asked softly.

Juntae glanced up, startled. “Yeah. Baku and Gotak went ahead. To reserve our usual seats. Table’s probably already chaos.”

Suho gave a slow nod.

“You okay?”

Another pause.

But this time, Suho nodded with a tiny breath.

“I think so.”

 

The walk to the little noodle place didn’t take long.

Tucked behind their apartment complex, the place was so familiar they never needed signs to find it. A half-open eatery with creaking wooden chairs set out under hanging lights, and a soft breeze carrying the scent of noodles. The fridge inside still hummed like background music, blending with the distant sound of cicadas. And somehow, it always felt like home.
As they stepped into the soft glow beneath the awning, the ajumma looked up from behind the counter and smiled.

“Your usual?” she asked, already reaching for the bowls.

 

Juntae grinned and nodded. “Yes, please. And less spice for him.”

Suho blinked. Again with the spice thing.

But before the ajumma turned away, she paused. Squinted slightly. “And… where’s the quiet one? He usually sits in that corner, doesn’t he?”

Her voice was light, casual. Just a regular question.

But Suho froze for half a breath.

That seat.

That exact seat.

The one Sieun always took, back straight, sleeves neatly rolled, eyes scanning the menu even though he never changed his order.

Suho looked toward the spot.

Empty.

“Oh, he’s out of town,” Juntae replied quickly, trying to keep it breezy. “College trip.”

The ajumma hummed, scribbled something down. “Tell him next time I’ll make that seaweed soup again. He didn’t say it was good, but he finished the whole bowl.” She laughed.

Suho’s lips twitched upward—something soft, almost private.

 

They sat down.

Gotak was already in the corner booth, slouched deep into the seat like it owed him money. He was trying to read something on his phone, but clearly failing, because Baku kept adjusting the plastic water jug so it hovered right in front of the screen.

“Stop it.”

“Say please.”

“Drop dead.”

“Boys,” Juntae groaned, sliding into the seat.

 

Suho sat across from them, a little quieter than usual—but not heavy, just... thoughtful.

The smells were familiar. So were the voices, the hum of conversation, the way the wooden table felt slightly sticky no matter how often they wiped it.

The ajumma brought their food with the same practiced rhythm as always.

“Eat well,” she said, placing the bowls down. “Don’t fight. And tell the quiet one I asked.”

Suho stared at his bowl for a second before picking up his spoon.

 

He ate.

It wasn’t anything fancy. Just bibimbap. A little too hot, a little too much gochujang. But it was warm.

Grounding.

Each bite pulled him back to the present—anchored him in this moment, with these people, in this place that hadn’t changed.

Across from him, Baku kept glancing his way every now and then. Not saying anything. Just... watching.

Gotak was already halfway through his meal, silently stealing side dishes like he’d perfected the art.

And Juntae, ever the mother hen, had already lined up tissues for everyone like a well-trained soldier.

No one said much.

But they didn’t need to.

 

After a few moments, Gotak nudged his bowl with his spoon. “You think Sieun would’ve said anything if his food came cold?”

“He’d probably just start eating,” Baku said. “And finish before all of us, like a polite assassin.”

Suho laughed softly, almost before he realized it.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But he’d probably fix his chopsticks first. Make sure they were aligned.”

“And give a silent judgmental glance if we talked with our mouths full,” Juntae added.

Everyone chuckled.

That invisible seat?

It didn’t feel empty anymore.

Just... saved.

 

The night air greeted them as they stepped out of the little eatery — a breeze brushing past like a sigh.

The sky had deepened into navy velvet, clouds soft and slow above the streetlamps. Their light puddled on the pavement in golden circles, stretching long shadows behind their feet.

Baku let out a satisfied sigh. “I feel ten years younger.”

“You’re twenty,” Gotak said flatly.

“Exactly.”

Suho chuckled quietly under his breath.

 

They began walking back without needing to say anything — their bodies naturally falling into pace with one another, as if the silence between them had been rehearsed.

Juntae walked on Suho’s left, hoodie hood pulled over his head like a sleepy turtle. Gotak was ahead, balancing on the sidewalk’s edge for no reason. Baku lagged behind, stretching like he just ran a marathon after eating two bowls.

Suho stayed in the middle — quiet, but not heavy.

Just… settled.

 

They passed the familiar bookstore corner.

Someone had taped a new poster over the old one, and Baku immediately stopped to read it out loud in a dramatic voice. “Upcoming Student Festival: ‘Celebrate Spring With Someone You Like!’ — ooh, Suho, you gonna confess this year?”

Suho rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “To who? The vending machine?”

“Bro, just admit you’re still waiting for Sieun to show up with fireworks and a bouquet.”

“Sieun would show up with a booklet and an exit plan,” Gotak muttered.

Suho laughed — really laughed this time.

And the others looked at each other, relieved.

 

Their steps slowed naturally as they reached the shortcut behind the library — the one with the vine-covered wall and the broken lamp that always flickered.

It was quieter here.

Softer.

Juntae kicked a leaf lazily and broke the silence. “You okay?”

Suho didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, his voice was calm.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Not a lie. Not a cover.

Just true — in that quiet, fragile way healing feels when it first begins.

 

They stopped outside the apartment entrance.

The familiar railing. The motion-sensor light that blinked twice before turning on.

“Race you to the top,” Baku said suddenly, already bolting toward the stairs.

“You’re an idiot,” Gotak sighed — but ran after him anyway.

Juntae stayed behind, yawning exaggeratedly. “Let them bond through dumb chaos.”

Suho smiled.

He looked up at the dorm window.

Still dark.

Still waiting.

 

“You’re coming up?” Juntae asked, already climbing.

“In a bit,” Suho said. “Just… gonna sit here for a second.”

Juntae nodded and disappeared inside.

Suho leaned against the railing, arms folded.

The night was quiet again.

But not empty.

And in his chest, somewhere under the ache, something warm stirred.

A small, stubborn kind of hope.

 

.
.
.

 

The room was still.

A yellow bedside lamp cast soft halos against the wall, warm like honey. The kind of glow that made even the silence feel like it was waiting for something.

Suho sat on the edge of the bed, fresh from his shower, hair towel-dried and still slightly damp. He wore sleep clothes — an old t-shirt stretched, Sieun's t-shirt, soft at the collar, loose pants. He wasn’t tired. But he’d changed anyway, hoping the routine might help.

The phone lay beside him.

Still no reply.

The message he’d sent — a simple “Wayd?” — sat unread.

He’d told himself not to care.

But his eyes kept drifting back.

 

He reached for it again.

Checked the time.

Still nothing.

Not even a dot moving in the corner.

He’d sent a few things over the past day: some photos, a dumb meme, a short message about the cat outside the dorm window. No double ticks. No voice. No sign.

But what hurt wasn’t the silence.

It was not knowing why.

 

His eyes found the journal.

Again.

That familiar black notebook tucked beneath Sieun’s pillow. He had seen it earlier. Then again after dinner. And now.

He’d told himself not to open it. Over and over.

That was his. Not a conversation Sieun had invited him into.

But now the quiet in the room was too loud.

And the ache — the one that curled just beneath his ribs — refused to go away.

He hesitated.

Then reached out.

Fingers trembling a little, like he was holding a heartbeat.

And opened it.

 

The first page, he’d seen before — written neatly in Sieun’s careful handwriting.

 

“He jokingly asked if I wanted to live with him.
I said yes.
I think I meant… always.”

 

Suho paused.

Let the words settle in his chest.

Then turned the page.

 

Not every entry was about him.

Some were mundane. Quietly hilarious. Endearingly petty.

Feb 3 – 9:05 AM
Juntae’s alarm didn’t ring again. He’s going to miss his class. I should wake him, but he said he hated me last night for turning off the Wi-Fi.”

 

Feb 5 – 11:43 PM
Baku put hot sauce in milk again. I don’t want to be friends with him anymore.”

 

“Feb 8 – 7:30 PM
Gotak thinks we’d survive a zombie apocalypse. He can’t even survive deadlines.”

 

Suho chuckled under his breath.

His hand settled more comfortably on the pages.

 

Then came the gentler ones.

The ones that weren’t declarations — but felt even more intimate.

 

“Feb 10 – 12:20 AM
He looked tired again. I didn’t say anything. Just passed the water bottle. I don’t think he noticed. That’s okay.”

 

“Feb 13 – 3:15 PM
I was going to say something. But he laughed at something Juntae said, and I forgot how to speak.”

 

“Feb 16 – 6:42 PM
I don’t always know how to be close. But he makes it easier to try.”

 

Suho swallowed.

Each entry was like Sieun had been sitting with a storm inside him — and only let out a few drops at a time.

 

“Feb 20 – 9:58 PM
He said my room always smells like rain. I haven’t opened the window in two weeks.”

 

“Feb 23 – 2:40 AM
He sent a playlist at 1:27 AM. Said nothing else. I listened to every track.”

 

“Feb 28 – 10:05 AM
I wish I was better at saying things. I wish I didn’t have to write them here.”

 

Suho’s fingers hovered on that last line.

For a moment, he felt like he could hear Sieun’s voice — low, uncertain, but steady.

Just like him.

 

The last few entries weren’t in order. Some undated. Some barely full sentences.

“His shoulder fits right under my cheek. I don’t know why that matters, but it does.”

 

“I think the others know I care. I hope he does too.”

 

“Sometimes I say mean things when I’m scared. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

 

“He asked if I was okay. I said yes. I wasn’t. But he didn’t ask again. I think I wanted him to.”

 

“We don’t talk about it. But I think he understands anyway.”

 

There were no confessions.

No declarations.

Just truths.

Little, quiet truths — scrawled down because they were too raw to say out loud.

And somehow, that made them feel even more real.

Suho closed the journal gently.

Set it back in its spot beneath the pillow.

Then leaned back against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them.

His throat was tight.

But his heart felt full in a strange, aching way.

Because now… he knew.

He didn’t have every answer.

But he had something.

And for tonight, that was enough.

 

…

 

The yellow light from the desk lamp pooled softly onto the bedsheets, catching the corners of the journal still open in Suho’s lap.
He wasn’t crying.
Not exactly.
But his throat was raw.
There was something so… quietly shattering about the way Sieun wrote. The way he never dramatized it. Just told the truth — flat, uncertain, almost ashamed of his own feelings. As if even on paper, he wasn’t sure he was allowed to feel this much.
And maybe that’s what broke Suho the most.
Because none of it had been said aloud.
Not once.
Not when it mattered.
Not even when it hurt.

Suho let out a long, uneven breath and turned a few pages back.
He wasn’t even looking for confessions now.
He just needed to understand.
Needed to go back to before.
Before the silence.
Before the distance.
Before that dumb sentence left his mouth like a bad joke he didn’t even remember making — but Sieun clearly did.

He found the entry marked March 6 — the date burned into his memory now.

June 26 – 10:07 PM
I don’t think I want to go anymore.
Not that the trip doesn’t matter — I was excited.
But lately… it’s hard to get excited about things that don’t involve him.
His birthday is coming up.
I don’t want to miss it.
I don’t know if it’ll matter to him.
I don’t think he’s expecting me to stay.
But maybe… I just want to be here.
Even if I’m just another face in the room.
I’ve already checked the cancellation policy.

Suho felt something twist in his chest.

He had no idea.
Absolutely none.
Juntae did tell him. Still it feels different.
He thought Sieun was going. Had even encouraged it before in the semester beginning.
He hadn’t known that Sieun had made a different choice.
For him.

He turned the page slowly.
June 27 – 11:32 PM
I almost told him today.
But the words stuck.
Sometimes I think silence is the only language I’m fluent in.

Suho’s hand tightened slightly around the journal, but he kept reading.
He needed to see it through.

June 28 – 8:36 PM
He laughed today.
Said — ‘Maybe I’ll just spend my birthday with Jiyun.’
I don’t think he meant it.
But it felt like I’d been shoved underwater.
She laughed like it was a real thing.
And he didn’t correct her.
I had cancelled the ticket that morning.

That one — that single paragraph — hit like a punch.
Suho stared at the words for a long time. Every line another reminder of how little he’d known. How carelessly he’d spoken. How deeply Sieun had heard him, even when he wasn’t listening to himself.

He turned the page again.

June 29 – 11:02 PM
I think I misunderstood.
I thought maybe I mattered more.
I thought maybe…
maybe the way he looks at me sometimes meant something.
But maybe I read too far into it.
I think I…
I misjudged.
I misjudged him.

 

That sentence — “I misjudged him.” — stuck like glass in Suho’s throat.
He hadn’t known.
He really, truly hadn’t known.
And now… it was too late to take it back.
But not too late to understand.

June 9 – 2:15 AM
I won’t tell him.
He doesn’t need to know I stayed.
If he wants to spend the day with someone else, he should.
I was never supposed to get attached like this.
I don’t know when it happened.
But he became the thing I wait for. Every day.
And today, for the first time, I realized I’m not the thing he waits for.

 

The next few pages were smudged.
Water stains.
Or maybe just sweat from Sieun’s palm as he wrote late at night, lying on the same bed Suho was in now.
Suho closed the journal slowly.
His hands were shaking.
And before he could stop it — before he could even think — a single tear traced the line of his nose and slipped down the side of his cheek.
He didn’t wipe it.
Didn’t move.
He just sat there, eyes on the wall, journal in his lap, and that awful quiet of realization echoing in every corner of the room.

 

He hadn’t known.
And now that he did…
He felt like his heart had been handed back to him — bruised, folded up in pages, and heavier than it had ever been.
But even now, even with all this weight — he didn’t want to run from it.
He just wanted to tell Sieun — somehow — that he saw it now.
That he was sorry.

 

The silence stretched around him like warm static.

The journal lay shut now, resting beside his thigh — but the weight of it hadn’t left his body.

Suho sat there, eyes fixed on the space ahead — on nothing in particular — and something started clawing its way up his chest.

Not grief.

Not longing.

Guilt.

Because suddenly, he couldn’t stop thinking:

 

What if it had been the other way around?

 

If he had been the one staying behind for Sieun’s birthday — giving up a trip he’d secretly been excited for…

 

If he had watched Sieun laugh with someone else, and say something so carelessly — like his presence didn’t even matter…

 

What would Suho have done?

 

His jaw clenched.

A bitter, almost breathless sound left his throat.

He didn't need time to imagine it.

He knew.

 

“I would've flipped the whole damn house over,” he whispered to himself, voice hollow.

 

He could already picture it.

If Sieun had said something like "Maybe I’ll just spend my birthday with another guy"...

Suho wouldn’t have stayed quiet.

Wouldn’t have smiled politely and buried it inside a diary.

No — he would've burned the sky.

He would've gone straight to Sieun's room, the same he is currently reading the journal in. Demanded an explanation, thrown words around like fists, like how could you? and do I not mean anything?

He would've made a scene in front of everyone if it came to that.

Maybe even fought with the guy.

Maybe even fought Sieun.

Because when it came to Sieun — Suho had always been a little bit reckless. A little too full. A little too… much.

 

And yet, Sieun…

He just stayed.

Stayed quiet.

Cancelled his trip.

Watched Suho walk away.

And wrote it all down instead.

 

Suho swallowed hard.

Something about that comparison made his eyes sting again.

“He didn’t even let it show…”
“He just… took it.”
“And I never noticed.”

 

His fingers curled into the blanket.

His whole body tensed like he was trying to hold something in — a scream, maybe. Or an apology too late to give.

Because if it had been him, he wouldn’t have been kind.

He wouldn’t have been patient.

He wouldn’t have done what Sieun did — choosing silence over blame, withdrawal over anger, protection over pain.

He would’ve shattered things.

But Sieun…

Sieun had only withdrawn quietly — left behind only paper and ink and a heart half-spilled in private.

 

Suho leaned forward.

Elbows on knees.

Face buried in his hands.

He didn’t cry.

But he ached — in a way that made the room feel too small, like the walls had closed in and were whispering everything he hadn’t seen.

 

“If it had been me…”

“He’d never hear the end of it.”

“I’d have screamed the roof down. I'd have gone mad."

"And he…”

“…he just kept it inside.”

 

There was shame in that.

A kind of heavy, suffocating shame Suho didn’t know how to process — except by sitting still and letting it soak in.

But mixed with it, oddly — was awe.

Because Sieun had never been weak.

Never been cold.

He had simply learned to fold his pain into neat, silent lines — the kind Suho was only now beginning to read.

And for the first time in years, Suho didn’t know if he deserved that kind of softness.

 

He sat there for a long time.

Unmoving.

Breathing slow.

Waiting for a voice that might not come.

And finally whispered — not to anyone, not to his phone, not even to Sieun’s journal, but just to the air:

 

“I wouldn’t have handled it like you.”
“And maybe that’s why I hurt you.”

 

The room hadn’t changed.

Same faint scent of fabric softener and worn pages. Same hush. Same weight.

But something inside Suho had shifted.

The guilt had crested — become something frantic now. Not loud, not dramatic. But urgent.

“I need to know,” he whispered.

 

His voice cracked, barely there.

He wasn’t even sure who he was speaking to — himself, the silence, or Sieun’s ghost lingering in the corners of this room like a breath not yet exhaled.

 

He stood up abruptly, the journal still clutched in his hand, eyes scanning the room with a kind of quiet madness.

 

“There has to be more.”

 

Because now, the things he didn’t know were tearing at him more than the ones he did.

When did Sieun start looking for a new house?

Why?

How long had he been carrying the idea — alone — just because Suho looked a little tired?

Just because a few of Sieun’s admirers had shown up at the dorm and Suho looked a little bothered?

 

“He said it was so I could sleep peacefully...”

 

Suho's voice hitched. He remembered those words.

But they hadn't meant anything back then. Not really. Just another quiet gesture — one of a hundred.

Now they felt like a scream disguised as kindness.

 

He dropped to his knees, pulling open the drawer by Sieun’s side of the bed.

 

Papers. Files. Neatly stacked. A few pens, spare phone chargers, a lint roller.

Nothing.

He pulled open the second one.

More folders.

And at the very bottom — a stack of black and brown notebooks. Plain. Thin. Marked with nothing more than dates on their spines in Sieun’s tiny, print-clean handwriting.

 

Suho’s fingers trembled.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered — not sure to whom.

 

And then he pulled them out. One by one. Carried them back to the bed. Set them gently down like they were sacred texts.

He picked the one that said February.

Opened to the middle.

 

“Feb 2 – 11:45 PM”

“He looked exhausted today. Didn’t complain. But his shoulders were tense. Kept rubbing his neck like he hadn’t slept. I offered tea. He didn’t drink it. I threw it out later and pretended I didn’t care.”

 

Next entry.

“Feb 5 – 9:09 PM”

“The girl from Literature was back. Giggling this time. I watched him get uncomfortable but still smile. He smiled because he’s too polite. I know that. But still — I didn’t like it.
He doesn’t know it yet, but I searched property listings today.”

 

Suho’s heart dropped.

He flipped faster.

 

“Feb 7 – 2:31 AM”

“Tried to imagine what kind of house he’d feel safe in. Nothing big. Nothing flashy. But warm. Quiet. A space that’s ours.
Not that I’d ever say that word out loud.
But maybe I could just… make it happen.”

 

“Feb 8 – 6:56 PM”

“He fell asleep on the desk again. His cheek pressed against his notes. I turned off the lamp for him. I wanted to touch his hair. I didn’t.”

 

“Feb 10 – 10:00 PM”

“He called me his ‘home’ once. I laughed. But I think about it every day now.
So maybe it makes sense that I want to give him one.”

 

Suho stopped flipping.

His fingers shook.

He didn’t know if it was from emotion or the crushing weight of realizing how long Sieun had been planning it — quietly, delicately, with all the gentleness Suho never deserved.

 

“You bought a whole damn house…”
“Just because I looked tired?”

 

The tears didn’t come yet. But his breath wasn’t steady anymore.

He grabbed another journal. This one from March.

Opened it.

Midway through.

 

“March 2 – 10:45 PM”

“Found one. Small garden. Lots of light. The windows face west. He likes sunsets. I don’t think he knows I noticed.”

 

“March 5 – 12:12 AM”

“Asked the agent to wait. I’m scared. Not of buying. But of what it means. I told myself this is just for comfort.
But it’s not.
It’s hope.
That maybe one day he’ll walk into this place and call it ‘ours’ without realizing he said it.”

 

“March 9 – 8:08 PM”

“Juntae guessed something. He didn’t say it out loud. Just looked at me for too long and then said, ‘He’ll love it. Whatever it is you’re planning.’
I almost cried.”

 

Suho laughed. A wet, broken, barely-there laugh.

Then finally — he flipped to the page he didn’t realize he was looking for.

 

More entries. Just because of that one silly comment.

 

“June 30 – 10:10 PM”

“He joked about spending his birthday with Jiyun.
It wasn’t funny.
Not to me.
Not because of her — she’s just noise.
But because it made me feel like maybe… I didn’t matter.
And I think that scared me more than I expected.
I wanted to cancel everything.
I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

 

July 3 – 2:00 AM”

“Maybe I overreacted. Maybe I misjudged.
I think I…
I misjudged him.
I think he cares. He just doesn’t know how to show it yet.”

 

That was it.

That was the one that broke him.

The words blurred.

Suho didn’t notice the tear until it had slid off his chin once again and landed on the page — right on the word misjudged.

It smeared the ink slightly.

And Suho whispered, voice cracking like paper:

“You didn’t misjudge me.
You just saw the parts I couldn’t.”

 

He closed the journal.

Pressed it against his chest.

And sat there, under that soft yellow light, holding every version of Sieun that had ever loved him quietly — and realizing just how blind he had been to all of it.

 

The journal was still clutched to his chest.

Somewhere in the night, Suho had stopped crying — not because the ache had left, but because sleep had finally crept in and wrapped around him like a blanket. A thin one. The kind that still lets in the cold.

He hadn’t moved.

Even now, curled slightly on his side, Suho's fingers still held the edge of the last page — the one smeared with his tear. The line that read “I misjudged him.” The entry that had finally cracked something open inside him.

And when he stirred — when his lashes fluttered open into the soft, early golden light spilling from the window — the first thing he felt was the journal’s worn leather against his chest.

The second thing he noticed was the buzzing.

His phone.

 

His heart stuttered.

He sat up slowly, eyes barely adjusted.

He fumbled for the phone where it had slipped near the pillow.

3 missed voice calls.

1 new voice message.

7 unread texts.

From: Sieun

 

Suho blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then his hand flew over his mouth as his throat tried to figure out whether it wanted to laugh, cry, or do both at once.

“He texted. He actually—”

 

He didn’t even finish the sentence out loud.

His thumb hovered for a second.

Then tapped open the chat.

 

The first message had come late at night.

 

Sieun [1:13 AM]:
I saw the photo Juntae sent. You looked… like you needed someone.

 

The second one followed after a few minutes.

 

Sieun [1:19 AM]:
I was going to call. I did. But I thought maybe you'd be asleep by now. Or maybe you didn't want to hear my voice.

 

Another one.

 

Sieun [1:41 AM]:
Still... just in case. I'm here. Okay?

 

Sieun [1:46 AM]:
Even if it takes time. Even if you're still angry. Or tired. Or done. I’ll still be here.

 

Suho’s breath hitched.

He hadn’t even read the voice message yet, but already… already the cold weight in his chest was shifting.

 

Not gone. But moving. Softening.

His fingers trembled slightly as he tapped on the audio bubble.

The room filled with a familiar voice.

Soft. Low. Almost hesitant.

 

“I’m not good at… saying things. You know that.”
“But I wanted to call because…”
(a pause)

“If you’re listening… I hope you’re warm. And safe. And not feeling too alone.”
“…I miss you. That’s all.”

 

The voice clicked off.

Suho sat in stunned silence.

He let out a breath like he hadn’t realized he was holding it.

The corners of his mouth lifted — barely — into something that wasn’t quite a smile but definitely wasn’t pain.

 

He didn’t respond right away.

He didn’t know what to say yet.

But he picked up the phone.

Typed just one thing.

Suho [6:42 AM]:
I was holding your journal when I fell asleep.

And then a second message:

Suho [6:43 AM]:
It felt like you were still here.

 

He didn’t hit send.

Not because he was scared — but because he was just… soaking in the feeling of almost getting him back.

That feeling you get when dawn spills in after too many nights of storm.

And if Sieun wants Suho to never find these journals. Suho can act that way.

 

.
.
.

 

The classroom was too cold.
The air conditioning always overdid it, humming low and steady while the lecturer droned about marketing segmentation on the projector screen. Somewhere to Suho’s left, someone was tapping a pen. The click-click-click buried itself under his skin.
He should’ve been paying attention.
He was even trying — pen in hand, notes half-started on the pad in front of him.
But his eyes kept drifting.
And his heart kept pacing like it was waiting for something.
No — someone.

The chair beside him stayed empty.
Sieun usually took that seat in their open elective lecture.
Not because they planned it that way, but because… that’s just how it always happened. Suho would slouch a little too far, and Sieun would show up exactly on time, slide in without a word, nudge Suho’s arm with his notebook.
And then sit perfectly upright.
Jacket pressed, glasses perched low, pen uncapped before the professor even spoke.
It was always like that.
Except today, and yesterday, and the day before.

Suho blinked hard.
His eyes burned — not with tears, just exhaustion.
And then—
He saw him.
A figure slipping in through the back door, holding a notebook to his chest, head slightly lowered. Sharp jawline. Smooth skin. Dark hair falling across his forehead.
For one breathless second, Suho’s entire chest squeezed.
Sieun.

He sat up straighter, hand gripping the edge of the desk.
His throat worked around a name he almost said out loud.
But when the boy walked past the light from the projector, Suho saw it clearly.
Not him.
Not even close.
Hair too long. Posture too loose. Glasses missing. Smile too wide.
Just another student.
Not his person.

Suho looked away, quickly.
His heart thudded, slow and stupid in his chest.
“Get a grip,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.
But everything — the air, the silence between each word spoken up front — it all just made him think of Sieun more.
Not the dramatic kind of missing.
The quiet kind.
Like reaching for a cup of water in the middle of the night and finding it gone. Like remembering a scent without knowing where you smelled it last.

He tried to focus.
Tried to scribble a note, underline a heading.
But instead…
His mind went somewhere else.
To the way Sieun used to sigh after correcting Suho’s messy graphs.
To the way he’d chew the inside of his cheek when the professor said something dumb.
To the way his presence didn’t distract Suho — it calmed him.
Made the noise fade.

Suho closed his notebook.
He wasn’t going to retain anything today.
Not like this.
He leaned back in his chair, stared blankly at the screen, and let his thoughts drift — again — to the one person who made silence feel full instead of empty.
The one person who wasn’t here.

 

The lights in the classroom suddenly felt too bright.

Too white.

Too sharp against the dull ache pressing behind Suho’s eyes.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then he closed his notebook softly, barely making a sound, and stood up mid-lecture.

A few heads turned.

The professor paused for a fraction of a second, but didn’t comment. Maybe they were used to students leaving. Maybe they knew better than to ask.

Suho didn’t care.

He just… walked out.

 

The door clicked shut behind him.

The hallway outside was silent, almost eerily so — the kind of silence that buzzed around your ears like an invisible hum.

Suho stood still for a moment.

Then leaned against the wall just outside the lecture room, hand pressed against the cold plaster.

He let his head fall back. Exhaled through his nose.

His chest felt too full.

Of words he hadn’t said. Of moments he couldn’t go back to. Of questions he didn’t know how to ask without ruining everything.

 

“Would I have done that to him?”

 

His thoughts once again spiraled.

If the roles had been reversed… if Sieun had said those careless words to someone else about his birthday—about something he had been quietly planning in the background…

Would Suho have stayed quiet?

No.

He wouldn’t have.

He’d have probably thrown his phone.

Yelled. Argued. Said something dramatic and petty and too emotional to take back.

He’d have stormed into Sieun’s room, eyes sharp, fists clenched, voice cracking, demanding—

 

“How could you say that? Don’t you know how much I—”

 

But Sieun hadn’t done that.

He hadn’t said anything.

He had just… gone quiet.

Started looking for houses. All by himself. Because Suho had looked tired.

 

Suho let out a dry, shaky breath.

He pushed away from the wall and started walking — not toward their usual bench, not toward the café or anywhere crowded. Just… walking. Through the corridors.

Past the second-floor library.

Past the vending machines where they used to stop for evening snacks.

Past the quiet corner near the back staircase where Sieun once stood, waiting for him with two cups of canned coffee — one black, one sweetened, always handed without asking.

 

He ended up outside.

The late morning sun was gentle, not harsh. There were a few students lounging under the trees, half-reading, half-dozing.

But Suho didn’t join them.

He walked past the benches.

Found the stone steps near the back courtyard — the ones that faced the old mural, where vines were slowly taking over the bricks.

He sat there.

Alone.

The same place Sieun used to wait when Suho ran late.

 

He unlocked his phone again.

Opened the gallery.

Paused.

Then scrolled all the way down — past the memes, the group photos, the class notes, screenshots, and snaps of cafeteria chaos.

Until he reached that folder.

“YS.”

That’s all it was titled.

No emoji.

No description.

Just those two letters.

The only folder he’d ever locked with a passcode.

 

It opened slowly.

Suho didn’t look at the first photo right away.

He just let them load — one by one.

Each square a memory.

Each moment tiny, ordinary… and sacred.

 

The first was blurry.

Sieun half-asleep on the dorm couch, his head tilted just enough to show the soft line of his jaw, hoodie sleeves covering over his hands.

Next — Sieun in the campus library, focused on a law journal, unaware that Suho had zoomed in all the way just to capture his glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

Then — one taken in the cafeteria. Sieun holding a fork midair, visibly annoyed because Baku had said something dumb, and Suho had sneakily taken the shot.

And then more.

Dozens more.

Some stolen.

Some posed.

Some taken during study nights when no one else was awake.

And a few… selfies.

Rare ones. Of them together. Suho always smiling. Sieun always straight-faced — but with that one corner of his mouth turned up like a secret.

 

Suho kept scrolling.

Slowly.

Softly.

Each photo was like a breath.

A tether.

Proof that he hadn’t imagined how much Sieun meant to him. That this ache wasn’t some one-sided fantasy.

It was real.

It is real.

And even though he couldn’t say it out loud — even though Sieun wasn’t here — Suho could still feel it.

That pull.

That connection.

 

He paused on one photo.

It wasn’t special.

Sieun, sitting on the floor with his knees tucked in, surrounded by papers. His mouth slightly open, lost mid-sentence as he explained something about contracts.

Suho had captioned it at the time:

 

“The world’s cutest disaster”

 

He smiled now, just barely.

Whispered under his breath:

 

“I miss you, dumbass.”

 

The silence answered him.

But it wasn’t cold.

Not right now.

Because the pictures were here.

Because he was still here.

 

The light had changed slightly — that mellow, pre-evening hue pouring through the tall corridor windows. It softened everything, like a warm filter laid over the moment.

Suho hadn’t moved much.

He was still sitting on the steps just past the hallway bend, knees bent, elbows resting, phone held loosely in his hands.

The screen glowed softly.

And on it… a photo of Sieun.

One of the older ones — not posed, not sharp. Just real.

Sieun, forehead creased in concentration, a pencil between his lips, lost in thought during one of their night study sessions.

It wasn’t even the best photo.

But it was the one Suho stared at like it held all the answers.

His expression was unreadable.

Almost neutral.

But his eyes…

His eyes looked like he was a thousand miles away and home at the same time.

 

That’s when Juntae spotted him.

He’d come around the corner, quietly, a bottle of iced tea in one hand.

He stopped.

And blinked.

For a second, he thought Suho hadn’t noticed him.

And then… maybe it was instinct, or mischief, or just affection — but Juntae took out his own phone.

Click.

No flash.

No sound.

Just one photo — Suho sitting alone in the golden light, gazing at a photo of the person he didn’t know how to stop loving.

Juntae didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

He just walked over, calm and unhurried, and sat beside him.

Suho didn’t look up.

But he spoke softly.

 

“I didn’t even notice you coming.”

 

Juntae handed him the iced tea.

 

“That’s 'cause you were looking at him like he was the only person left on earth.”

 

Suho let out a quiet exhale — a breath that carried too much.

“Sometimes it feels like that.”

 

They sat there in silence for a moment — two friends, two phones, and the weight of something that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Then Juntae nudged him lightly.

“Send it.”

 

Suho blinked. “What?”

 

“The photo. The one you’re staring at. Send it to him. No words. Just that. He’ll know.”

 

Suho hesitated.

Fingers hovering.

“You think he’ll reply?”

 

“I think,” Juntae said gently, “he might be waiting for the same thing. For you to say it without saying it.”

 

Suho didn’t argue.

Didn’t overthink.

He just tapped the share icon.

Sent the photo.

No caption.

Just the image — one frozen moment of Sieun that meant the world to him.

 

A second later…

Sent

And Suho… didn’t feel scared.

For once, it didn’t feel like he was throwing feelings into the void.

It felt like maybe — just maybe — the silence wasn’t so empty on the other side.

Notes:

So I hope you liked the chapter
Was it worth the wait though? I honestly don’t know — but I do feel like I did okay-ish this time. Like I said before, I had imagined this scene and the kind of things they'd say, and I'm glad I finally got to write it down the way I saw it in my head.

Also, about the previous chapter’s comments — I just want to say: thank you. Reading your thoughts truly means the world to me. Especially to that one reader who always writes those long, beautiful, paragraph-style comments — I see you, and I appreciate you more than I can express your words, and the love from all of you (even the silent readers), keep me so motivated to continue writing. When I first started this story, I never imagined it would turn into this. At first, it was just about Suho being hopelessly jealous and in love with Sieun. But as I kept writing… it became something deeper. Something layered. And now, it feels like those early chapters were just the emotional build-up for everything that followed.

Anyway… something’s been on my mind lately. A random new idea.
What if — just hear me out — Suho hated Sieun after waking up from the coma?
Like, what if he had memory loss and ended up blaming Sieun for everything? I know it might sound strange, but the idea hit me out of nowhere, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. At first, I thought maybe I’d write it as a short 1-2 chapter thing… but now it’s been two days and the idea has grown way bigger. I feel like it could easily become a 5–10 chapter mini-series. The only thing holding me back is that the ending isn’t exactly happy — it’s more of a bittersweet, open ending. But I think some of you — especially my angst lovers — might really enjoy it. So I’m still figuring it out… let’s see

Also!! I loved the reaction to that moment where Suho was undressing while looking at Sieun
Let me tell you — that’s just the beginning. Suho has officially entered his “Mission: Seduce Yeon Sieun” era, and it’s only going to get worse (or better) from here. I’m even planning some separate POV chapters from Sieun’s side — not yet, but later on. Please be patient for that.

I’ve written like 8 chapters in drafts already, and we still haven’t reached the real climax of the story. That’s because this is meant to be a slow burn. I really want to take my time exploring their feelings, emotions, and all the beautiful chaos between them. So if sometimes it feels like I go overboard… please know it’s intentional. I promise their reunion will be so tooth-rottingly sweet — it’ll be worth it.

That’s all for now.
I’ll try my best to post the next update in 3–4 days.
Till then, take care of yourselves and get some rest too.
Good night. Love You All.

Chapter 38: Some Things I Still See

Notes:

Hey everyone

How are you all? I’m sorry I’m late again — as always. This chapter was supposed to be posted on Sunday, but… well, somehow I missed it again.

Last night though, I suddenly felt this strange pull toward AO3 — like someone was calling me back. So I opened it, and saw one of the sweetest readers asking about my health and sharing their love for this story. That was it. I said, “Okay, let’s edit this chapter right now.”

So here it is.
It’s a bit shorter than my usual ones, but I promise I’ll post the next chapter very soon — like in 4–5 days!

Also… this chapter’s a mix of fluff and angst (sorry in advance).

I’ll meet you again in the end notes.

Happy reading!

It was past ten.

The dishes from dinner were washed, the sink dry, and the apartment had settled into the kind of quiet that didn’t ask to be broken. Outside the window, the city blinked with slow lights, but inside, the only glow came from the small lamp near the bed.

He sat curled forward, elbows on his knees, Sieun’s journal open in his lap — like it had become something sacred. Something he couldn’t part with.

The pages were full of Sieun’s sharp, matter-of-fact handwriting — clean lines, careful spacing, not a word wasted. Suho’s eyes moved over them with a quiet desperation, reading the thoughts Sieun hadn’t said out loud. Trying to find pieces of the boy he loved in every letter.

His fingers gripped the edge of a page so tightly it had begun to bend.

 

He hadn’t moved in a while.

Hadn’t spoken since they came back.

Juntae had passed by the door on his way to get something — charger, water, whatever — and just… stopped.

He watched from the hallway, lips pressed together, gaze dropping to the way Suho was hunched forward, shoulders drawn tight, face unreadable.

He looked small. Not physically — but inwardly.

Like something had collapsed inside him and he hadn’t figured out how to hold himself up yet.

And for a moment, Juntae just felt bad. Really bad.

But then the memory of Sieun’s quiet confusion — that dazed look in his eyes earlier when he’d said, “Maybe I misjudged him” — came rushing back. And with it, a flicker of frustration bloomed in Juntae’s chest.

Because Suho didn’t get to look like this.

Not when he was the one who’d said the kind of things that made Sieun — Sieun — doubt himself.

So Juntae stepped into the room without knocking.

He walked over and sat down beside Suho on the bed. No fanfare. No words, at first.

Then his eyes flicked to the journal in Suho’s lap.

His voice, when it came, was low.

 

“That’s… really personal, you know.”

 

Suho didn’t look up right away.

But his grip around the journal eased. Just slightly.

He nodded.

“I know.”

 

His tone wasn’t defensive. No challenge in it. Just quiet — like a confession.

But he didn’t put the journal away.

Didn’t apologize either.

 

The silence that followed was thick — too heavy to ignore, too quiet to be peaceful.

Suho shifted slightly, glancing at Juntae from the corner of his eye.

His voice came out softer than he intended.

“You’re angry at me, aren’t you?”

 

Juntae didn’t answer right away.

He stayed seated, eyes fixed on nothing in particular — the far wall, maybe. Or some memory that refused to be buried.

And in that pause, Suho spoke again.

“Because I messed everything up.”

 

“Because he got hurt.”

 

“Because you saw it all happen.”

 

Still, no response.

But inside, Juntae’s thoughts were anything but silent.

 

Angry?

He wasn’t sure if “angry” was the right word.

He was frustrated — yes.

Frustrated that Suho, of all people, couldn’t see how badly Sieun had been affected.

Frustrated that his care had become clumsy — selfish even.

That Suho, who used to read Sieun better than anyone, had started projecting instead of understanding.

But beneath all that…

There was sadness, too.

Because he knew Suho still loved him.
And maybe that was the problem.

 

Juntae finally looked up, expression unreadable.

Then, very quietly — almost like an afterthought:

“Well…”

 

“If there ever comes a time when I have to choose between you and him…”

 

He didn’t raise his voice.
Didn’t make it dramatic.
He just said it like it was gravity.

“I’ll choose Sieun.”

 

Suho didn’t flinch.

He didn’t even blink.

He just looked at the floor again, like he’d been expecting it all along.

And after a moment, he asked — not defensively, not bitterly:

“Why?”

 

“I mean… I already know the answer. But I want to hear it.”

 

“From you.”

 

Juntae leaned back. Like the ceiling would help him organize the mess inside his head.
“You probably know the clean version. The one that makes a good story.”
“But the truth’s messier.”
His voice dropped a little.
“I stole his phone.”
“Back when he was just... Sieun. The cold one. The one no one dared to talk to.”

Suho slowly turned to face him now, finally listening—really listening.
“I was being bullied,” Juntae said, his voice low. “Hyoman made me steal phones. Sieun’s… was the only one I couldn’t. I tried, but I just couldn’t do it.”
He paused, eyes dropping. “Hyoman found out. He threatened me. Hit me.”
A sharp ache twisted in Suho’s chest. It wasn’t just guilt. It was pain—and a protectiveness so fierce it made his hands curl into fists.

“I did steal his phone, though,” Juntae added quietly. “I stole it because I was a coward.”
The silence that followed was heavy—like the world had paused for just a moment.
Suho opened his mouth, but no words came out. What could he even say to that?
That Juntae wasn’t a coward?
That it wasn’t his fault?
None of it felt strong enough.
So instead, Suho just sat there, jaw tight, eyes burning—not with judgment, but with something that almost looked like grief. Not for the phone. Not even for what had happened.
But for how much it had cost Juntae to finally say it.

“I gave it to Hyoman. Let him sell it.”
His voice cracked at the edges, but he didn’t stop.
“They had this whole business, you know,” Juntae said, voice low. “Stealing phones, wiping them clean, changing the screens, putting them in fake boxes. Selling them like they were brand new.”
He paused, then rubbed both arms like the memory physically clung to him.
“God… look…” he held out his forearm, “I’m still getting goosebumps. Just like the first time I saw it.”
Suho’s eyes followed the motion, saw the shiver crawling beneath Juntae’s skin, and didn’t say anything.
Because how could he?
It wasn’t just guilt radiating from Juntae anymore.
It was shame. It was horror.
And worse—it was still haunting him.

He shivered again.
Not from the cold. From memory.

Suho was watching him now. Really watching.

Juntae’s shoulders had curled in on themselves, like he was trying to make himself smaller. Like if he could shrink down enough, maybe the guilt would hurt less.
“They were doing it for months,” he muttered. “I pretended not to know how far it went. But I did. I knew.”

Suho didn’t interrupt.
Juntae looked up at the ceiling again, as if it might offer forgiveness—or at least distance.
Suho’s breath caught.
The silence that followed was louder than any scream. It pressed against the walls. Sat heavy between them.

“But then I went to him. Said I’d help buy a new one. Lied straight to his face like a coward.”
Juntae huffed a weak laugh.
“He didn’t fall for it.”
“He just... stared at me.”
“Not with anger. Just this look. Like I wasn’t even worth confronting.”
“That’s what got me. I was beneath even disappointment.”

Suho watched him quietly. There was no pride left in Juntae’s voice. Only the hollow remains of shame he’d buried deep.

“I told him he wouldn’t understand.”

“He waited a full minute before saying, ‘You’re a coward.’”

“Said that’s what cowards do … tell themselves people won’t understand.”

Juntae swallowed.

 

“Then I asked him... what should I do?”

“And he told me something.”

“‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.’” He smiled, just a little. “Newton’s Third Law. That’s what he gave me instead of forgiveness.”

“I didn’t get it back then. But the whole day, it haunted me. Echoed around my brain like a curse.”

“Next morning, I woke up early. Went to school before anyone else. I returned all the phones … the ones I stole for Hyoman.”

“Just... quietly slid them into everyone’s desk.”
“And then Hyoman found out.”

“He went ballistic. Came to beat me.”

“I shoved a hard bun in my mouth so my teeth wouldn’t break.”

Suho blinked at that.

“But he kept hitting. Again and again. I didn’t even fight back.”

His voice was flat — like he was narrating someone else’s memory.

But Juntae’s? Juntae’s voice dropped. Softened. Like he was lowering it just to match the ache in his chest.

 

He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again.

“No one helped.”
His hands curled into fists on his lap.
“Not a single person. Everyone just… stood there.”

“Some laughed. Some cheered.”

“They were watching the school’s weakest kid get beat to the ground by one of the school’s top bullies like it was entertainment.”
The silence that followed wasn’t quiet.

It was loud. Deafening.
Even the air felt heavier in the room.
Suho didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Because in that moment, it was like he could see it too — the hallway, the crowd, Juntae curled in on himself while fists kept landing.
And no one moved.
Not to help.
Not to stop it.
Just eyes.
Just laughter.
And it twisted something sharp and ugly in Suho’s chest.
He clenched his jaw. Looked down.
Because the worst part was…
He hadn’t known.
He hadn’t seen.
But if he had been there, would he have done something back then?
Would he have been any different?

“And then—”
Juntae’s voice softened, like he was lowering it to match the memory.

“Sieun showed up.”
He paused—just a beat—then added,

“He kicked the chair Hyo Man was about to swing at me.”

His eyes lit up faintly at the memory.

“He looked so cool doing it. I still remember.”
“And then he said—‘You’re too loud.’ Just like that. Cold. Blunt.”

“Then he looked at Hyo Man and said, ‘Don’t cross the line.’”

Suho went still.
Those words.
His throat tightened.
He had said those words before.
To Sieun.
That day when he was drugged. When he was out of control.
When he kept hitting Jeongbin and wouldn’t stop.
When Suho had grabbed him, pulled him off, and said — “Don’t cross the line.”
And now Sieun had said it.
With no desperation.
Just quiet finality.

 

“I thought Hyoman would back off,” Juntae continued.

 

“But he didn’t.”

 

“He threw punches.”

 

“And Sieun just… took them.”

 

“Didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise a hand.”

 

“He just stood there and let it happen … like it didn’t even hurt.”

 

Suho’s breath caught.

Juntae didn’t notice.

“Back then, I thought he was weak for not fighting back.”

 

“But now… now I think he was afraid.”

 

He paused.

 

“Maybe he didn’t fight because of what happened with you.”

 

“Because the last time he let himself go… you ended up in a coma.”

 

“And I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself for that.”

 

“Or maybe because he realized sometimes the hardest thing you can do… is not fight.”

 

He wiped at his eyes, pretending it was nothing.

Suho’s jaw was tight. His fingers curled loosely against his knees, nails digging in just enough to feel something.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“I used to think Sieun didn’t care,” Suho said quietly. “Like nothing could touch him. No insult. No betrayal.”
Juntae looked over, waiting.
“But I was wrong.”
He turned to face him fully, voice steadier now—rough, but real.
“Things touch him. Everything touches him. He just… doesn’t show it the way we do.”
Juntae’s throat moved as he swallowed.
Suho’s gaze dropped, softened. “And you were just a kid, Juntae. Scared. Cornered. Trying to survive.”
“No.” Juntae shook his head. “I was a coward.”
“Maybe,” Suho said. “But you’re not one now.”
Another pause.
Juntae looked like he was holding his breath.
“Why are you telling me this now?” Suho finally asked.
Juntae blinked, then smiled sadly. “Because you’re not the only one who hurt him. And I thought… if you knew that, maybe you’d stop treating yourself like the villain.”
Suho stared at him.
Because in some small, painful way—it felt like grace.

 

“But that’s when I knew … you know...”, Juntae continued

 

“That he wasn’t just smart.”

 

“He wasn’t just cold, or weird, or distant.”

 

“He was strong.”

 

“Not the kind of strong that throws punches.”

 

“The kind that changes you.”

 

“And he changed me.”

 

Suho looked away.

There was no jealousy in his expression — just something quieter.

Something almost like… guilt.

Juntae added, softer now:

“So yeah. I went with him to submit the trip form.”

 

“Because where else would I go, if not with the person who made me brave?”

 

“I worship him, Suho.”

 

“Not blindly. Not like a saint.”

 

“I worship him because when I was alone at my worst… he still treated me like I could be better.”

 

Suho’s stomach twisted.

Because he knew it was true.
He had seen it in Sieun’s eyes every time he looked at the scars —
the hesitation in his voice when violence was mentioned —
the way he flinched when Suho winced in pain.

Sieun had stopped using his fists not because he couldn’t…

But because he couldn’t bear the weight of the aftermath.

 

Juntae’s voice dropped lower, almost like he was speaking to himself now.

“Whatever I am today… it’s because of him.”

 

He looked ahead, eyes unfocused, like he was watching an old version of himself stumble down a hallway somewhere.

“I was a coward. A joke. Always looking for the easiest way out.”

 

“But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t yell. He just showed me another way to exist.”

 

Juntae turned back toward Suho, expression raw — not angry, not defensive.

Just honest.

“He made me brave.”

 

“He made me want to be brave.”

 

There was a pause.

Juntae’s next words weren’t loud, but they felt heavy … like something that had been sitting in his chest for years.

“He’s my first real friend.”

 

“Not the kind that you joke around with or copy homework from.”

 

“The kind that doesn’t leave.”

 

“The kind that walks into the storm with you and doesn’t flinch.”

 

He finally looked Suho in the eye.

“So yeah,” he said, quiet but certain. “I would choose him.”

 

“I’d choose my friend — over anyone.”

 

Suho didn’t respond.

Not immediately.

He just stared down at his hands — one of them still resting on the edge of Sieun’s journal, the other curled in his lap like he was trying not to clench it.

The weight of Juntae’s words pressed into him like gravity.

And it didn’t surprise him.

Not really.

Because deep down, he’d already known.

But hearing it said out loud — that was different.

That made it real.

 

His chest tightened with something that wasn’t quite pain but wasn’t far from it either.

There were so many things he wanted to say.
Too many.

He opened his mouth—
Then closed it again.

And then—

Buzz. Buzz.

 

The soft hum of a vibration broke the silence.

Suho’s phone lit up on the nightstand beside the bed.

Incoming Video call: Sieunie

 

Suho didn’t move.

He didn’t even glance at it.

He looked dazed — still stuck in the echo of Juntae’s voice, in the guilt that wouldn’t stop ringing in his head.

Juntae watched him for a moment, frowning.

Then reached over and picked up the phone himself.

“It’s him,” he said gently. “You okay if I—?”

 

Suho gave the faintest nod.

 

Juntae answered.

The call connected with a soft chime.
Sieun’s room came into view — dim and peaceful. The desk lamp behind him cast a warm golden glow, bleeding gently into the darkness. His hair was slightly tousled, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose like he’d been reading or sketching something quietly before the screen lit up.

He looked surprised to see someone on the call — not alarmed, just… momentarily caught off guard.

Then he registered the face.

His gaze sharpened — eyes focusing past the screen’s brightness.

“Suho…?”

 

His voice was quiet. Not a question, really. More like a check. A soft landing pad.

But Suho didn’t speak. He didn’t even blink.
He just looked.

His face was washed in pale light, eyes red-rimmed, mouth slightly open like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Sieun’s brows drew together. Not dramatically — just a small crease, a subtle tell.

“Hey…”
“What’s going on…? Are you okay?”

 

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t tremble. It simply folded around the silence.

Suho kept staring.

Sieun tilted his head, scanning. Noticing everything. The sheen in Suho’s eyes. The tightness in his jaw.

Then, with a beat of concern slipping through:

“Are you hurt somewhere?” he asked, quietly.
“Is your knee acting up again? I told you to apply that balm—”

 

The words trailed off.

Because Suho’s expression didn’t shift. But his eyes — his eyes were louder than anything.

He finally spoke, voice low and raw:

“I miss you.”

 

It dropped into the space between them like a stone into still water.

Sieun blinked. Slowly.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t gasp. He just stared. The way Sieun always did.
But his shoulders tensed ever so slightly. Like he was holding something back.

Suho didn’t stop.

“I miss you,” he said again. His voice cracked on the second word.
“I miss you.”

 

A pause.

Sieun opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Juntae looked down, then away — his throat bobbing slightly.
Not because he didn’t feel it too, but because he knew that moment wasn’t his to hold.
And he got it.
Maybe for the first time, he truly got it — what Suho meant, who those words were for.
So he stood slowly.
“Yeon Sieun… I miss you.”

Sieun tried again.

“Wha—”

“I miss you.”

“I should give you two a moment,” Juntae said gently, brushing invisible lint off his sleeves. His voice was soft — like he didn’t want to disturb something sacred.
But before he could turn fully, Sieun’s voice cut through the quiet.
“How are you, Juntae?”
Juntae blinked.
“Huh?”
Sieun looked at him now. Fully. Eyes calm, steady.
“How are you? Baku. Gotak. Everyone okay?”
Juntae blinked again — because for all his preparation, he hadn’t expected that.
The tiniest smile tugged at his lips, unsure and a little crooked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we’re good. Baku still talks too much. Gotak’s still confused by half of it.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Sieun’s mouth.
Juntae’s chest softened.
And with one last glance at Suho — who hadn’t looked away, not once — Juntae stepped back.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said, more to Suho than anyone.
Then quietly, respectfully, he left the room.
Closing the door with the kind of silence that only someone who understood love could manage.

 

“I miss you.”

 

It was relentless now. Desperate.

“I miss you.”

 

“I can’t take it anymore.”

 

Sieun sat there — still. Silent.
But not cold. Not distant. Just listening. Letting it pour out of Suho like floodwater through a broken dam.

 

Then—

“Suho…” he said softly.

 

Only his name. Nothing else.

But it was weighted. Like Sieun was saying, I hear you.
I'm here.

Suho looked at him, eyes shimmering.

“Do you… even miss me?” he asked, voice barely audible.
“Or did I just imagine all of it?”

 

That’s when Sieun finally moved — subtly. Just leaned forward slightly, enough that the shadows shifted across his face. His eyes didn’t leave Suho’s.

And for the first time, he didn’t respond with logic or analysis.
He didn’t list reasons.
He didn’t try to make it neat.

He just stayed.

Watching.

Holding space.

Letting Suho fall apart without shame.

And that… that was enough to make Suho start crying without a sound.

Suho didn’t wipe his face.
He didn’t hide.
The tears slipped down one by one, carving slow trails down his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care anymore.
The screen between them glowed softly in the dark.
Sieun didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask questions.
He just stayed. Quiet and unblinking. A steady lighthouse in the emotional wreckage Suho had drifted into.
And that silence — that simple stillness — somehow cracked something deeper.
Suho’s voice was hoarse when it came again:
“You didn’t even do anything wrong.”
He looked down, blinking fast, trying to breathe through it.
“You were just… there. Just being you. And I … ”
He bit down on the words before they could twist into something too big. Too real.
“It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.”
He sniffed, dragging a shaky hand across his mouth, avoiding Sieun’s eyes for a second.
“I thought I was fine. I pretended I was fine. It's just 3 weeks, not a big deal. Even when you left that day … I told myself you’d come back just like that.”
A breath.
“But you didn’t.”
He finally looked back up at the screen. His voice dropped, soft like splintered glass.
“You really didn’t.”
The way he said it — it wasn’t angry. It wasn’t blaming.
It was just… full of ache. Like a kid realizing a dream was just a dream.
Sieun still didn’t speak.
But his hand… half-visible on screen … had curled lightly around the edge of his desk. Not tight. Just held there. Anchored.
Suho went on, quieter now, like his voice had started caving in on itself.
“Everyone keeps telling me you’re fine. That it’s just a trip. That you’re okay. That you’re... happy there.”
A pause. A swallow.
“And maybe you are. Maybe that’s good.”
His throat bobbed with the effort it took to say the next part.
“But I haven’t figured out how to stop looking for you.”
That was it. That was the heart of it.
Sieun blinked. Once. Then again. Very slowly.
He still didn’t speak.
But in that moment, his silence said everything Suho needed:
He was listening. He understood.
And Suho… Suho just breathed. Let it settle. Let the ache move through him.
Not a confession.
Not a request.
Just a wound being witnessed — and not looked away from.
Sieun’s voice was steady when it finally came.
“Suho…”
His tone was low. Careful.
“You’re stronger than this.”
A pause.
“You’ll be fine.”
The moment the words landed, Suho flinched. Not physically, but something inside him cracked.
He stared at the screen, his expression contorting from soft pain to something sharper. His eyes widened like he couldn’t believe what he just heard.
And then he exploded.
“Why are you like that?!”
His voice was loud, raw. Too loud for how late it was. But he didn’t care.
“Why do you keep saying that?! That I’ll be fine? That I’m strong?!”
His voice cracked midway, but he pushed through it, chest heaving with emotion.
“I don’t want to be strong, Sieun! I don’t feel fine! Do you even get that?!”

Sieun blinked. Startled, for once.
He tried to speak. Calmly, as always.

“I didn’t mean—”
But Suho cut him off.

“No! You always don’t mean. You never say what you’re actually feeling, and you expect me to—!”
He shook his head, biting down on the rest of the sentence.
His hands trembled. The screen wobbled a little in his grip.

And then he did it.
He ended the call.
The sudden silence in the room was deafening. The screen went black. The soft yellow glow of Sieun’s room was gone — like it had never been there.
Almost immediately, the phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Sieun was calling back.
Suho stared at the screen lighting up in the dark. His jaw clenched.

Buzz.
Again.
And again.
Until finally—he shut off the phone completely.
The light vanished.
The room fell into shadow.
He tossed the phone aside, not caring where it landed. Then he turned off the last lamp.

The room was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn’t soothe — it suffocated.
Suho lay on his back, the phone powered off and tossed somewhere near the edge of the mattress. His chest still rose and fell with uneven breaths, his throat raw from shouting, from crying — from everything.
He stared at the ceiling.
Blank.
Emotionless.
But inside, he was drowning.
His heart was pounding with frustration, but what made it worse — what hollowed him out completely — was the ache sitting right beneath it.
“He was supposed to understand me…”
The thought echoed.
Again and again.
He turned his face into the pillow, trying to breathe slower — deeper.
That’s when it hit him.

The pillow didn’t smell like him anymore.
Not like Sieun.
Not like home.
He froze.

Lifted the blanket, pressed his nose to the sleeve of his shirt — nothing.
Even the air felt different now.
Different without him.
That quiet realization broke something else inside.
Without thinking, Suho got up — movements sluggish like his body had lost all direction — and walked across the room to the wardrobe.
He opened it slowly, like it might creak too loud and ruin the moment.
His eyes scanned the shelves. Everything was folded too neatly.
Sieun's style.
Precise. Minimal.
Suho reached in and touched one of the shirts — a grey cotton one, slightly loose at the collar. Worn, soft. The kind of thing Sieun wore around the apartment without thinking.

He lifted it slowly.

Brought it close.
There — faint.

But still there.
Sieun.
Without hesitation, Suho pulled off his own shirt and slipped into Sieun’s.
It didn’t feel magical.
Didn’t fix anything.
But the moment the fabric touched his skin, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He walked back to bed, curled into himself beneath the covers, and held his arms close.
No more tears came.
He wasn’t numb, but he was done crying.
All that was left now was the silence…
…and the scent of the one person who could still make the silence feel bearable.
Even if that person didn’t know how much Suho needed him.

 

The room was silent again.

The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful — just heavy.

Thick with everything left unsaid.

Suho lay there, eyes wide open in the dark, staring at the faint outlines of the ceiling. The soft cotton of Sieun’s shirt clung to his chest. It didn’t calm him.

Not this time.

He thought wearing it would help. That maybe if he surrounded himself with Sieun’s scent, he could fall asleep. Escape.

But the truth kept pressing on his chest like a weight.

“He didn’t deserve that. He never did.”

 

No matter how many times Suho turned, clenched his fists, pulled the blanket tighter, it wouldn’t go away.

Why didn’t I just tell him the truth?

 

Why do I keep hurting him?

 

---

 

The next morning, Juntae, in an apron that read “Hot Stuff Coming Through”, was halfway between frying eggs and regretting every life choice that led him to live with three emotionally stunted boys.

At the kitchen island, Baku was in a territorial standoff with Gotak over a suspiciously soggy cereal bowl.

“Bro. That was MY last choco loop,” Baku declared.

 

“Oh? Then why was it in my mouth?” Gotak snapped back, munching obnoxiously.

 

“Because you eat like a vacuum cleaner with no self-respect!”

 

“At least I don’t eat toast with mayonnaise and hot sauce like a serial killer!”

 

“THAT COMBINATION IS GOURMET, YOU UNCULTURED DONKEY—!”

 

Juntae loudly banged the pan onto the stove. “Eat your trauma breakfasts quietly.”

Baku and Gotak shut up. For three seconds.

The breakfast table had returned to its usual chaos — half burnt toast, exaggerated complaints, and romantic comedy-level bickering.
“I heard something last night,” Gotak suddenly said mid-mouthful, eyebrows raised.
“Voices,” he added dramatically, like he was unveiling a ghost story.
“Shouting?”
Juntae’s head jerked up.
“You sure?” Baku frowned. “Sieun made sure this place was soundproof — you don’t remember the old dorm? We used to hear moans through the damn pipes.”
Gotak nodded gravely.
“It was horrifying. I can’t hear the word ‘oppa’ anymore without flinching.”
They burst into laughter, but Juntae didn’t join in.
His mind was replaying last night.
Not the laughs.
Not the chaos.
Just Suho, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Eyes rimmed red. Hands clutched too tightly around Sieun’s journal.
The way he asked:
“You’re angry at me, aren’t you?”
The way he didn’t argue when Juntae said he’d choose Sieun.
“I know,” Suho had said.
That tone — not hurt. Just… used to it.
Juntae had left after that, giving him space.
He hadn’t checked in again.
He didn’t know what Suho did next.
But now... he wasn’t sure if leaving had been the right thing.
What if Suho didn’t sleep?
What if he cried?
What if—
His stomach twisted.
Gotak was still joking, now teasing Baku about their “married couple” vibes, but Juntae had gone silent.
“You okay?” Baku asked, nudging him.
Juntae gave a small nod, eyes distant.
“I just remembered… Sieun video call last night,” he said slowly. “Right after I talked to Suho.”

The table fell quiet.

“You think…” Gotak trailed off, eyes wide.
“Wait. No. He wouldn’t yell at Sieun, would he?”
“Suho?” Baku blinked. “Dude treats Sieun like he’s made of spun sugar and moonlight. Like… even glass is tougher.”
Juntae didn’t answer.
He was thinking of Suho’s face again. That unreadable grief.
He was thinking about the words he said.
The journal in Suho’s lap.
The weight in his voice.
What if I messed up?

The kitchen felt... wrong.
Not heavy. Not sad. Just a little off.
Like something important had been unplugged and no one remembered how to restart it.
Baku poked at his eggs like they offended him.
“Do you think his blanket still smells like Sieun?” he mumbled suddenly.
Gotak made a face.
“Dude. That’s not even—”
“I’m just saying! I miss him okay. And if I miss him this much, I can’t imagine what Suho's—”
“What? Sniffing his pillow and sobbing?”
Baku gasped.
“How dare you. That’s private!”
Juntae raised an eyebrow.
“Are you projecting right now?”
Baku flipped his toast with great indignation.
“He makes boring breakfast taste like royalty. You think I wanted to be attached to him?”
Gotak nodded solemnly.
“I miss the way he chops cucumbers. It’s so precise. Like he’s judging them with every slice.”
Juntae added dryly,
“I miss him turning off the fan with the remote even though it’s literally next to me.”
“I miss his judgey stares,” Baku sniffled dramatically. “I need to be judged. Otherwise I go feral.”
“You already go feral,” Juntae muttered.
“Not without structure!”
They laughed a little — not loud, but real.
It felt nice. For a second.
Until their eyes drifted toward the hallway again. The door still shut.
Suho hadn’t come out.
Not even a sound.
The jokes quieted like a dimming flame.
Gotak stirred his drink lazily.
“Hey... Do you think he’s gonna be okay?”
His voice was soft now. Like it wasn’t sure it should be asking that out loud.
No one answered right away.
Juntae stared into his cup.
The words hung there, waiting.
Finally, he spoke. Low. Careful.
“Sieun said... Suho’s strong.”
“Said he’d be okay.”
He didn’t look up.
Just breathed in.
“But I’m not so sure anymore.”

 

.
.
.

 

The room was still.
Dim morning light slipped through the curtains, soft against the walls, but Suho hadn’t moved from the bed. He had woken up hours ago — maybe around 6 — but just… stayed there. Blanketed. Breath slow. Eyes open.
His phone was somewhere on the bed, half-buried in the blanket where he’d thrown it hours ago — screen dark, silent, like it was sulking with him.
He hadn’t touched it. Not since turning it off last night after lashing out.
Not since—
“You never say what you’re actually feeling, and you expect me to—”
The memory of his own voice made his chest feel raw. Like he’d coughed up something bitter and broken.
His hand hovered over the phone.
He hadn’t messaged again.
Not after that.
Not after hearing Sieun’s voice get quiet, trying to speak — only for Suho to cut the call.
He didn’t even know if Sieun was asleep now.
Germany was… what, 4 hours behind? Maybe more?
But the phone stayed there, like a heavy question.
Call him?
Message again?
Would Sieun even want to read it?
A part of him whispered, You owe him more than just silence.
But another part whispered louder: You already hurt him. Maybe it’s better to give him space.
He turned onto his side.
And that’s when it hit.
Like a crash, quiet and brutal in its timing.
How many times did he message me when I couldn’t reply?
His breath caught in his throat.
How many times did he sit by my bed, talking to a body that couldn’t answer?
He remembered waking up. The white room. The blur of people.
The one face that always returned.
Sieun.
Voice calm. Presence steady.
Even when Suho couldn’t speak yet, Sieun had filled the silence. Told him about the weather. School. What he ate. Who was annoying. Which streetlight was flickering again outside his apartment.
Suho blinked back tears.
He never gave up.
Not once.
Even though every doctor said recovery was unlikely.
Even when Suho’s body was limp, lifeless, barely breathing.
Even when it had been months. Then a year. Then two.
Sieun still came.
He still sent messages.
Even when there was no one on the other side to read them.
And now Suho had one bad night and just… shut off the phone?
He sat up slowly.
The air in the room felt thicker now.
“I don’t deserve him,” he whispered.
He reached for the phone.
Still hesitating.
Still scared.
What do I even say? How do I apologize for being a hurricane to someone who spent years keeping me anchored?
But he unlocked the phone anyway.
Because maybe the answer wasn’t in a perfect apology.
Maybe it was in trying.
He stared at the screen. The empty chat.
“What did you feel like all those days, Sieun…”
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
And then he began to type.

He didn’t get out of bed.
The blanket was warm, but it didn’t feel like comfort anymore — just weight.
He could hear faint noises from the kitchen. Juntae’s quiet clinks. Gotak’s laugh.
The smell of toast drifted in, but it didn’t make him hungry. Nothing did lately.
He pulled the blanket over his head. Curled in tighter.
The room was dark, except for the pale light from his phone screen still glowing beside him.
That message he’d typed for Sieun still sat there. Delivered. Not seen.
“I’m sorry. Please talk to me. Please…”
He hadn’t said anything since last night. Hadn’t messaged. Hadn’t dared to.
Because now he knew — knew what it felt like to wait in silence.
The same way Sieun had waited. For two whole years.
Sending message after message. Sitting by Suho’s hospital bed. Talking to someone who couldn’t even respond.
And here Suho was. Breaking down after just a night.
Pathetic.
He turned the phone face down again and stared at the ceiling.
Then the wall.
Then nothing.
His mind wandered — back to when Sieun moved them all in here.
He said it so calmly, like he was stating the weather:
"You’ll all have your own rooms. But the kitchen is mine. And no loud music after 10."
That was it. No big speech. No emotional reasoning.
But Suho had known — this house wasn’t just walls.
It was love.
Love in Sieun’s quiet way.
The kind that showed up in small, solid things — like shared bathrooms and filtered water and a stack of towels already labeled with their names.
Like the way Sieun silently stocked the fridge with everyone’s favorites.
Like how he gave Suho the quietest room in the farthest corner of the apartment — away from the front door, the common area, even Gotak’s dramatic midnight rants — and made him share it with the quietest boy in the group: Juntae. As if Suho would ever want to be anywhere Sieun wasn’t.
Suho hugged the pillow closer. The one Sieun always used during naps on his bed.
It didn’t smell like him anymore.
Not really.
That was the worst part.
He whispered into the pillow:
“I miss you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
His voice cracked. He didn’t cry. Not loudly.
Just quietly. The kind of crying that just… happened.
Wet eyelashes. Soft breaths. Pain you couldn’t speak.
He felt it again — that terrible thought:
What if Sieun never forgave him?
What if he finally broke the one person who had never stopped choosing him?
He sat up slowly, wiping his face. Reached for the phone.
And then —
a new message.
From Sieun.
Suho’s heart jumped. He tapped it open with shaky hands.
7:12 AM
Sieunie: "Did you eat?"
Just that.
Nothing more.
And somehow… that made it worse.
Made it better.
Made it him.
Suho let out a soft breath. One hand covering his eyes as tears welled up again.
"How can I ever be mad at you…" he whispered.

Suho sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders curved inward like he was trying to disappear. His eyes were still swollen, skin pale under the weak sunlight slipping in through the curtain. The air smelled like yesterday’s silence and leftover emotion.
But his thumb hovered over that last message.
Did you eat?
Just three words. Sent hours ago. Maybe longer.
But it hit him like something sacred.
Suho blinked. A slow, tired breath escaped his lips. His eyes welled again, but this time... it wasn’t all sadness. Something beneath it stirred — like a frayed string pulling taut.
“I’ll do better,” he whispered.
Not out of sudden strength. Not because he was healed. But because Sieun deserved better than silence. And Suho? Maybe he was finally starting to believe he deserved better than self-punishment too.
So he stood up.
His legs trembled a little, like they’d forgotten how to hold him. His joints ached like he’d run a marathon in his sleep. But still — one step. Then another.
He grabbed his towel and moved slowly to the bathroom, the tiles cold under his bare feet.
The water was hot. Too hot. But he let it hit him anyway.
It stung at first, like his skin didn’t quite belong to him. But then came a small exhale. He stayed there for what felt like forever, hands braced on the cold tiles, letting the water rinse away the weight of the night.
Back in his room, wrapped in a towel, he walked straight to the closet — not his side.
Sieun’s side.
He reached out gently, almost reverently, and touched a grey shirt hanging at the far end. One Sieun wore often when he studied. It still smelled faintly of detergent and ink — soft and clinical, like Sieun himself.
Suho pressed the fabric to his face. Closed his eyes. Let himself breathe.
Then he slipped it on.
In the mirror, he didn’t look fixed.
But he looked... there.
He ran his fingers through his damp hair, flattened the back.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Let’s go.”

 

.
.
.

 

The living room was already awake.
Kind of.
Gotak was dramatically holding the remote above Baku’s head while standing on the couch. Baku, fully wrapped in a blanket like a war general, was using a spatula to try and knock it down.
“No horror movies before noon!” Gotak declared.
“You watched True Crime at 8AM yesterday!” Baku shouted.
“That’s different! That’s educational!”
Juntae sat on the armrest like a tired babysitter, cradling his coffee like it was the last source of energy on Earth. He didn’t even look at them. Just sipped and sighed.
Hyuntak was curled up in the corner chair with a hoodie over his head and AirPods in, bobbing slightly to whatever playlist he wasn’t sharing.
Then Suho walked in.
Everything froze — just for a second.
He stood there, freshly showered, Sieun’s oversized grey shirt draped over his frame like a quiet shield. His hair was still damp at the ends. His face looked calm, but a little... off. The kind of calm that came after a storm that wasn’t done yet.
“Morning,” Suho said, voice soft. Almost too soft.
Gotak blinked. “Is that... are you glowing? Wait, are you possessed? Juntae, check him for a fever!”
“No glow,” Juntae muttered. “Just sadness. Packaged in skincare and a T-shirt.”
Suho gave a small, tired laugh.
Baku lowered the spatula. “Bro, not to be rude, but you look like you cried yourself into enlightenment.”
“I’m okay,” Suho said, walking toward the kitchen. “I just... I’m trying.”
The kettle was still warm from someone else’s tea. He poured water into his cup, added a sachet — chamomile, Sieun’s favorite — and stirred slowly. His hands shook a little, but he didn’t spill.
From the couch, Gotakk said, “You wearing Sieun’s shirt again?”
“Yeah,” Suho replied without looking up.
Silence fell again — not awkward, but heavy.
Like they were all holding something between them.
Then Baku, bless his loud mouth, blurted, “So this is what heartbreak looks like in real time, huh?”
Gotak smacked his arm. “You donkey, it’s called functioning depression. Respect the art.”
Suho laughed. Really laughed. Just once. It didn’t last long, but it was there.
Juntae, though, didn’t join in. He was watching Suho closely.
There was something wrong.
Suho’s shirt was clean, but his skin looked drained. His smile was gentle, but the bags under his eyes were deeper than yesterday. The light didn’t quite reach them.
He looked like someone who had decided to survive — but hadn’t figured out how.

Suho stood, his half-drunk tea mug in hand, walking toward the kitchen. His steps were soft, deliberate — like he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled over the room.
The quiet tension lingered, everyone caught between pretending things were okay and watching Suho too closely.
As Suho placed his mug near the sink, his eyes drifted — and landed on Sieun’s pale blue rabbit mug.
The one they’d picked out together at a silly café pop-up. Sieun had called it “ridiculously childish,” but still bought it because Suho had smiled at it.
He paused.
It hadn’t been there yesterday. He’d tucked it away on purpose, shoved behind rows of boring white cups, out of sight and out of reach. Seeing it now felt like someone opened a wound with no warning.
He reached toward it slowly.
Maybe to move it.
Maybe to feel closer to the boy he’d pushed away just a day ago.
But just then — as his fingers brushed the mug — Gotak, flipping through his phone and chewing the last bite of cereal, said offhandedly:
“You think Sieun’s even checking his phone on that Germany trip? Dude’s probably sleeping through your drama in another timezone.”
He said it lightly.
A throwaway comment.
A joke to break the silence.
But it hit Suho like a punch to the chest.
His breath stilled.
His stomach dropped.
His grip faltered.
Sleeping through your drama…
Something about those words cracked open something raw. Because wasn’t that what Suho feared most?
That Sieun wasn’t thinking about him at all.
That maybe he was too tired. Too hurt.
That maybe Suho had yelled too loudly this time — and now, Sieun had finally gone quiet.
And in that exact moment, the ceramic slipped from his fingers.
Clatter. Crack.
The cup — Sieun’s cup — hit the tiles.
The silence that followed was louder than the noise itself.
The mug had barely hit the floor when the sound of it chipping echoed through the living room.
“Crap,” Suho muttered.
“Shit—Suho!” Baku shouted, already halfway to his feet.
Suho had crouched fast, trying to pick it up before anyone noticed — but the edge of the ceramic was sharper than it looked. It nicked his index finger, just enough to draw blood.
“Wait, don’t—” Juntae rushed forward.
But it was too late.
A small drop of red bloomed at Suho’s fingertip, trembling for a second, then rolling slowly down.

Gotak’s eyes widened. “You’re bleeding—!”
Baku jumped forward, bumping the table in his rush. “GET TISSUE. GET. BANDAGE. GET—I don’t know—GET COTTON—GET ICE—GET THE FIRST-AID BOX!”
“Suho, sit—sit down right now,” Gotak said firmly, already clearing the couch.

“I’m fine,” Suho said, laughing awkwardly, holding his finger up like it was just a paper cut. “Guys. Come on. It’s not even deep—”
“You are bleeding,” Juntae snapped, taking charge as always. “Sit. Down.”
He gently pushed Suho back onto the couch. The gang moved around him in a flurry — Gotak handing over cotton, Baku digging for antiseptic like his life depended on it. Suho tried to laugh again. “You guys panic like I got stabbed—”
“You did,” Baku said dramatically. “Ceramic stabbed your soul. Also—THAT WAS SIEUN’S MUG.”
Everyone paused.
Suho’s smile faded for just a second. Just a second.
Juntae took Suho’s hand without waiting and began cleaning the cut with calm, practiced motions. The sting of antiseptic made Suho hiss.
“Stay still,” Juntae muttered.
And just like that — the world around Suho began to change.
The panic of the gang faded into a quiet murmur. The sunlight filtering in through the curtains dimmed. The colors around him softened.
Because suddenly — this wasn’t Juntae anymore.
It was Sieun.
Kneeling in front of him, in that familiar living room of Sieun’s old apartment,.
That same careful grip on his wrist.
That same slightly furrowed brow.
The scent of hospital disinfectant swapped with cherry lip balm and laundry detergent.
The bandage being wrapped with too much tension — but too much care.
And then Sieun — in that memory — had looked up at him.

“Suho-ya…”

“I’ll stop being annoying…”

 

“But you need to take care of yourself.”

Suho blinked.
And now — back in the present — Juntae was looking up at him in the same way.
Except Suho wasn’t fully here anymore.
His lips parted.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t breathe.
He just stared at Juntae — like trying to figure out how Sieun had gotten there so fast.
Because for one suspended moment, it was Sieun.
His eyes, his touch, his silence.
You need to take care of yourself...
“Suho?” Juntae’s voice brought him back.
Suho flinched, like a thread had just snapped.
“I—yeah. Sorry. I spaced out.”
Juntae looked at him carefully. “You’re okay?”
Suho smiled. A brittle, almost broken smile.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Just tired.”

The gang pretended to relax.
Gotak tossed a pillow at Baku.
Baku said something about filing a complaint against ‘killer mugs’.
But none of them missed it.
That moment when Suho’s eyes had gone glassy. When his breath had caught. When he had looked at Juntae like he was looking at someone else.
And none of them knew what to say.
Because they didn’t know what exactly broke just then.
But they all felt it.
The moment Juntae pressed the cotton to Suho’s finger, everything began to dissolve.
The antiseptic’s sting was nothing.
The murmurs around him, the rustling of the first-aid box, even Baku mumbling nonsense to ease the tension — all of it fell away.
Because Suho was still looking at Juntae’s face.
And he no longer saw Juntae.
He saw Sieun.
The same eyes — sharp but soft around the edges.
The same silence — filled with words that would never be said out loud.
The same touch — gentle, careful, like Suho might break if held too hard.
"You need to take care of yourself."
It wasn’t memory anymore.
It was a hallucination soaked in guilt.
Because this — this moment — was exactly like back then.
Back when he had hurt Sieun.
Back when he said things he didn’t mean, left silence behind. And still — still — Sieun had been the one to come back. To check on him. To clean him up. To bandage his stupid hand like his stupid words hadn’t shattered both of them.
And now?
Now Suho had done it again.
Pushed Sieun away.
Made him feel small.
Hurt him, maybe.
And he wasn’t even there to fix it.
This time, Sieun wasn’t there to forgive him in real-time.
I did it again... I ruined it. I said the wrong thing. I hurt him. Just like last time.
His breath caught in his throat.
His vision blurred.
And then the tears began to fall.
Soft at first.
Then heavier.
Juntae had just finished wrapping the bandage when he noticed it — a single teardrop sliding down Suho’s cheek and landing on his wrist.
“Suho?” Juntae said softly, concerned. “Hey... does it hurt? Is it stinging?”
The room stilled again.
Everyone looked up.
And there was Suho.
Sitting perfectly still.
Eyes locked onto Juntae — no, onto Sieun, the face his heart refused to let go of.
His lip trembled, but he didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Tears just kept rolling down his cheeks like something inside him had finally snapped — like a dam had cracked, and now it was too late to hold anything back.
“Wait—” Gotak whispered, almost afraid to speak too loud.

“Suho,” Juntae repeated, voice gentler now, “Look at me. It’s me. It’s okay.”
But Suho just stared.
His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to say something.
But nothing came.
No words.
Just silence.
And tears.

Everyone flinched, panicked in their own ways.
Baku gripped the back of the couch like it was keeping him grounded. “W-What’s going on? He’s just crying—why’s he crying like that—?”
Juntae reached out and cupped Suho’s cheek, tilting his face up slightly, trying to anchor him. “It’s okay. Suho. I’m here. You’re here.”
But Suho shook his head slowly, lips barely moving.

“I... I see him...” he whispered, hoarse. “I see Sieun... and I did it again…”

And that was when the gang understood—

Suho wasn’t crying because of the cut.
He was crying because of something so much deeper.
Because in that moment…
He saw the boy he loved.
He remembered the boy he hurt.
And he believed he’d lost him again.

Notes:

Author’s Ramble (aka: me oversharing again)

First of all...I want to say this.
I always keep extra work in my drafts. Right now, I’ve already written 5–6 chapters in advance. I just edit them before posting. So please don’t ever feel like you’re forcing me when you ask for an update!
Sometimes life just gets hectic and I miss my schedule, that’s all.

Secondly...starting next chapter, we’ll be heading into a flashback arc. Basically, what happened right after Suho’s discharge. And I’m sorry but… the angst will be intensifying.
Even I’m missing Sieun at this point but we need to wait a little more. There’s so much I’ve planned, but honestly, I don’t know how many chapters it’ll need.

Now… a thought I’ve been having:
Should I end this story?

It’s getting longer and bigger than I expected. But personally, I don’t want to end it ... at least not right now.
Because I still have so much I want to write:

Their dating life

Their first kiss

Their first time

The Seonjae meetup

And the main bomb — Baku-Gotak’s relationship (yes it’s real)

There’s enough content in my brain to literally turn this into a 2+ volume novel.

But if you guys feel like it’s getting never-ending, I could end it after Sieun returns. Not sure. Just thinking.

Also… another idea has been circling in my head.
Yes, that one — the one where Suho loses his memories.
I honestly think it could be a really good story because I haven’t seen anything like it in other Suho/Sieun fics. It’s soft, chaotic, and very angsty. So maybe you’ll like it — or maybe you won’t — but I might start working on it anyway.

So there might be 2 story updates soon. Or I’ll finish this one and then start the new one.
Again, I don’t want to end this yet — but I just wanted to put it out there.

Also, someone left a comment on the last chapter in Spanish — I had to Google Translate it — and apparently, they said this was the first time they hated Sieun in a Suho/Sieun fic.
I just… want to ask why? please share more, I’m curious

And finally, some personal nonsense (feel free to ignore ):

College has started again and I hate it.
I didn’t go on the first day — because who even does that? (I didn’t go on the first day in school either, lol.) Then I went for like 3 days. Then skipped Friday and Saturday because I had tonsil infection (yep, fun).
I’m okay now… mostly. I might’ve skipped some doses of antibiotics and then might’ve eaten ice cream at a engagement party.
Anyway, I’m “better” but not 100% lmao.
And tomorrow I have to go to college, because I already skipped Monday and Tuesday too becuase I was too lazy to go. (4 days omg i must be crazy)
So yeah — college sucks, life sucks, I’m trying.

Anyway. That's all. Let me know what you think about all this. I'm waiting.
See you again really soon — take care, okay?

Byeeeee.

Chapter 39: The Softest Yes I Followed

Notes:

Hey everyone! Hope you’re all doing well!

So, the last chapter was kinda short… and I felt bad about that. So this time, I thought, why not give you guys a bigger one? Turns out… it became 182 pages long. I did consider trimming it down (because maybe that’s too much?), but honestly… I got too tired and bored to revise it again. So I just said screw it — let’s go all in.

Eventually, I did shift a few pages to the next chapters, so now this update is a humble 162 pages of Google Doc fluff. You're welcome.

One tiny reminder before you dive in:
The last chapter ended on a sad, heavy note — full-on angst mode.
BUT this chapter? It’s fluff. It’s warmth. It’s softness.
Because… drumroll please.

THIS. IS. A. FLASHBACK. Yup — we’re going into their past.

I don’t want to spoil too much, but just remember how much Suho is hopelessly in love with Sieun in the present?
I really hope this chapter helps you see why. Why he’s so madly, completely, helplessly in love with Sieun.

Also fun fact — I edited this while sitting in the coziest romantic rainy weather (in a train yeahhhh not the most romantic place I know), surrounded by green scenery, listening to the reverb version of "Kho Gaye" from Mismatched. (Yes, a Hindi song. Yes, it was perfect.)

Alrighty — go enjoy.
Let’s meet again in the end notes
Happy reading! Hope you love it (and it's okay to fall asleep halfway but please don't get bored. Please. Jebal....)

It’s been nearly a month since Suho moved in with Sieun.

And at first, it felt like heaven.

Quiet mornings. Shared silence. Soft routines that somehow clicked into place without either of them saying much.

 

Sieun never said “welcome home” out loud.

But everything about the way he folded Suho’s blanket before he woke up, the way his toothbrush magically appeared next to Suho’s, the way he refilled the rice jar without being asked — it said it for him.

For Suho, this was bliss.

Waking up to Sieun humming under his breath in the kitchen — that barely-there, off-pitch tune he hummed when focused — made Suho’s chest ache in the gentlest way.

He started looking forward to the clinking of pans, the steam from morning soup, the way Sieun always placed Suho’s bowl on the right side of the table without needing to ask.

He’d lie awake some nights, eyes open in the dark, listening to Sieun’s steady breathing from the floor and wonder:

“Was I ever really living before this?”

Because this?

This was living.

It felt like breathing for the first time.

 

But…

 

With every quiet comfort came a growing unease.

A sinking, sick feeling Suho couldn’t quite voice.

Because as much as Sieun gave — he never asked for anything back.
Not even help.
And that was the problem.

 

The first sign was small.

Sieun started falling asleep at the table, his hand still holding a pen, head tilted against his notes. Suho found him like that one night and tried to shake him gently awake. Sieun blinked up, dazed, and said, “I’m just resting my eyes.”

The next day, he cut his finger while dicing tofu.

The cut wasn’t deep — but he still insisted on cooking dinner with a bandage barely holding on.

“You could’ve let me cook,” Suho said softly that evening.

“You were tired,” Sieun replied, already stirring the soup.

And that was always the reason.

“You were tired.”
“You’re recovering.”
“You shouldn’t be standing too long.”

Excuses. Kind ones. Well-meaning ones. But still excuses that built a wall.

A wall where Sieun stood alone on one side — tired, overworked — and Suho sat helpless on the other, watching him crumble in slow motion.

 

“Stop sleeping on the floor,” Suho said one night, tugging the edge of Sieun’s blanket. “It’s stupid. The bed is big. Just come up.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your back’s going to snap in half.”

“You’re the one who needs support,” Sieun said, rolling over and tugging the blanket back. “Sleep properly.”

Suho stared at him.

At the mop of black hair half-covered by the blanket.

At the too-skinny shoulders and the rising-falling chest.

“He looks so small when he’s like this.”

“How can someone carry so much weight and still act like he’s fine?”

 

Suho tried, really.
Tried to help.
Tried to do his part.

He offered to wash dishes.

Sieun said, “You’ll make the cut worse.”

He tried to fold laundry.

Sieun took it out of his hands, muttering, “I already separated them.”

“Even when Suho tried vacuuming the floor once, Sieun quietly took the vacuum mid-pass and said, ‘You’ll tire yourself out.’”

And the thing is?

Suho knew it was coming from a good place.

But it hurt anyway.

It hurt because it meant he was being treated like something fragile.

Like something Sieun had to fix. Or protect. Or clean around.

And Suho hated that.

He didn’t want to be a guest. Or a patient.

He wanted to be someone Sieun could lean on — not the weight dragging him down.

 

Sometimes, Suho watched him from the doorway.

Late at night, when Sieun thought he was asleep.

Sieun, sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair messy, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, rereading the same line of notes five times.

He watched the way Sieun stirred his coffee with trembling fingers.
Watched how he rubbed his eyes until they went red.
Watched how his head dropped forward slowly — neck giving out — until he snapped awake again.

And Suho, standing there in the dark hallway, felt his heart curl inward like a dying leaf.

“This isn’t fair.”

“He shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

“Why do I always end up hurting the people who love me?”

 

He doesn’t say anything to Sieun.
He doesn’t cry.
But some nights, when the room is quiet and the city has finally gone to sleep, Suho lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and whispers to no one:

“I’m becoming a burden.”

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“I think he’s getting tired of me.”

But in the morning, he smiles again.

He pretends he didn’t hear Sieun groaning quietly while stretching his back.
He pretends he didn’t see Sieun’s fingers trembling while lighting the stove.
He pretends this apartment isn’t slowly becoming a stage for someone’s quiet breakdown.

Because if he acknowledges it, he’ll have to admit that maybe —
just maybe —
Sieun is burning himself out for Suho’s sake.

And Suho?

He doesn’t know how to carry that truth.

So instead, he carries guilt.

Wrapped in warm soup and shared toothbrush cups.

And says thank you.

And says goodnight.

And keeps pretending this is fine.

 

.
.
.

 

It was early afternoon when the gang arrived — voices too loud, energy too chaotic for how small the apartment still felt.

The place was warm, lived-in now.

Books stacked by the window.

Two pairs of crutches leaning near the shoe rack — one older, one newer.
Sieun’s quiet touch on everything: folded blankets, reheated rice, post-its on the fridge with polite reminders.

Suho walked out of his room slowly, one crutch tucked under his right arm.

His limp was better, but still obvious.

The room quieted when they saw him.

“Yo!” Gotak grinned, lifting a bag of takeout like a trophy. “We brought the good stuff. And I did not forget the side dishes this time.”

 

Baku wiggled his eyebrows. “Are you ready for the culinary madness of five grown-ish men?”

“Correction,” Juntae muttered, “two grown-ish men, two gremlins, and me.”

Suho let out a small laugh, settling near the table.

They had come to study — not just hang out — because Suho had made it clear this time.
He wanted to study.
Wanted to catch up.
Wanted to feel like he hadn’t been left behind.

It was Sieun who made it happen.

After weeks of recovery and rehab, Suho had mumbled once — just once — over breakfast:
“Do you think I could ever… go back to school?”

Sieun didn’t say anything that day.

But by evening, he had already spoken to Eunjang.

Arranged home study permissions.
Made calls.
Requested test accommodations.
Borrowed notes.
Printed syllabi for two whole years’ worth of coursework.

“You can take the exams at school,” Sieun had said softly. “But we’ll study from here. I’ll help.”

And he did.

Suho had never felt so seen.

So supported.

So painfully unworthy.

 

The table was cluttered with books and worksheets, but someone had to set lunch.

The gang had brought takeout — spicy chicken, kimchi pancakes, side dishes — but Suho still made his way to the kitchen.

Sieun noticed immediately. “What are you doing?”

“What are YOU doing?” Suho asked.

“Just something light,” Sieun murmured. “All that fried stuff will mess with your stomach.”

Suho wanted to do something.
Be useful.
Take up space in a way that wasn’t heavy.

Juntae quietly followed.

“Need help?” he asked, already stepping beside him at the chopping board.

Suho glanced at him.

Juntae didn’t wait for permission — he just picked up the cutting knife and started on the vegetables with practiced ease.

No protest from Sieun.

No reminder about safety.

No worry.

Suho watched the way Sieun let Juntae do it.
The way Sieun leaned back against the counter for a moment and let someone else care for once.
And it hit Suho hard.

“It’s easy for him to help. Just like that.”

“I want to be that for Sieun. I should be that. But I…”

He swallowed the ache.

Forced a smile when Juntae passed Sieun the seasoned meat. Stir-fried it with hands that trembled more from something emotional than physical.

They ate together at the low table.

Gotak called dibs on Suho’s pencil because he liked the grip.
Baku cracked jokes about ancient history sounding like his grandfather’s dating life. AND actually answered questions seriously — to everyone's horror.
Juntae quietly made sure Suho had a cushion behind his back.

And Sieun?
He corrected everyone’s answers gently.
Marked things in red.
Gave Suho more practice sheets.

It felt normal.

Too normal.

Which made the crack come faster.

 

The living room buzzed with soft chatter and clinking utensils.

Lunch had just wrapped up.
Sieun sat cross-legged near the coffee table, meticulously stacking empty containers and bowls while Baku and Hyuntak wiped down the surface.

Suho needed to feel useful — even if all he could manage was something small.

The plate had barely left his hand when Gotak scooped it up without a word, walking toward the sink.

 

“I’ll wash everything,” Gotak said, sleeves already rolled up.

Sieun turned from his seat on the floor. “You don’t have to—”

 

“Too late,” Gotak called. “I already touched water. I’m morally bound.”

Baku cackled from the couch. “Yeah, Gotak’s Dishwashing Honor Code. Untouchable.”

Sieun just shook his head, muttering something under his breath with a faint smile, while Juntae helped reorganize the books they'd brought for Suho.

Suho, from his corner, watched it all in silence.

The others helping.
Working like it was second nature.
Sieun letting them.
Letting them.
Not him.

Because Suho still needed a crutch to walk from one end of the apartment to the other. He still needed help to carry heavy things. He still winced when he stood too long. He still—still—was being cared for.

“They’re helping him,” he thought.
“I should be the one helping. I live here. I’m his—his what? His weight?”

 

That thought made him flinch.

Even as laughter bubbled around the room, even as Baku playfully swatted Juntae with a rolled-up paper, even as Sieun pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Children, I live with children,” — Suho couldn’t smile.

Not really.
He glanced toward the kitchen.

Gotak was humming softly to himself as he rinsed the last plate.

That was supposed to be me.

He looked at Sieun, who had quietly shifted to organizing Suho’s study timetable — that careful, thoughtful brain always calculating how to make things easier for Suho.

I want to be the first one you lean on.

And yet, every time Suho tried, Sieun never let him. Never let him share the weight.
As if Suho couldn’t handle it.
And maybe… he couldn’t.
But damn it, he wanted to try.

And now?

Even Baku noticed first.

Because when the group sat down with their books and notebooks to study together — Suho trying to focus through the fog of guilt and self-hate — it was Baku who saw the way Sieun rolled his neck with a faint wince.

“Dude, you’re stiff as hell,” Baku said suddenly, scooting behind him.

“It’s fine,” Sieun mumbled. “Don’t—”

“You always say that. Now shut up and let me do my magic.”

And before anyone could stop him, Baku had his hands on Sieun’s shoulders, massaging with zero technique and maximum enthusiasm.

Sieun groaned. “You’re just slapping me.”

Baku grinned. “Therapeutic slaps.”

The group laughed.

Even Suho chuckled faintly.

But something inside him cracked.

Because he should’ve seen it. Should’ve said something. Should’ve been the one with his hands on Sieun’s shoulders — not out of jealousy, not really — but because he wanted to help. He needed to help.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

And he hated that more than anything.

“You do everything for me,” Suho thought, gaze soft and aching.
“And I can’t even keep your shoulders from hurting.”

He looked down at his hands.

Still thinner than they used to be.

Still trembling sometimes from overexertion.

He squeezed them into fists.

“I’ll get stronger. I swear. I just want to be worth all the things you’ve done for me.”

 

.
.
.

 

The sun had long since dipped below the skyline, casting the apartment in soft amber glow and scattered shadows from the half-drawn curtains.

Sieun was crouched by the low coffee table, sorting through Suho’s prescription schedule, head down, a pencil tucked behind his ear. His glasses had slipped to the edge of his nose — a tell-tale sign that he’d been too focused for too long.

 

Suho stood silently in the hallway, leaning slightly on his crutch.

He hadn’t meant to stare.

But he did.

He always did.

Because somehow, even like this — tired, hunched, with his shoulders drooping slightly — Sieun still looked like the only stable thing in Suho’s life. Still, even Suho could see the exhaustion now sinking deep into Sieun’s bones.

Dinner had already been made and eaten.

By Sieun.

The dishes were also done.

By Sieun.

The laundry folded.

Medicine refilled.

The small stack of books on the table were all subjects Suho needed to catch up on — Sieun had requested them from Eunjang just that morning.

Every corner of this home screamed Sieun’s care — and Suho’s presence.

And Suho hated it.

Not because he didn’t love it.

He loved it. Every gesture. Every warm plate. Every time Sieun added extra mushrooms just because Suho liked them.

But what he hated — truly hated — was that he was letting Sieun do it all.

He shuffled forward slightly and spoke before he could talk himself out of it.

“Sieun-ah... come lie down.”

Sieun looked up. “What?”

Suho nodded toward the bed. “Just for a bit. You’ve been sitting like that since dinner. Your neck’s going to break.”

Sieun blinked at him like he hadn’t even realized he was sore.

“I’m fine,” he said, turning back to the papers. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’m serious,” Suho said, a little firmer. “At least lie on the bed and do this. Not the floor.”

Sieun didn’t even glance up this time. “You need the bed.”

“There’s space.”

Sieun just replied, “You need comfort.”

That word again.

Comfort.

It hit Suho harder than he thought it would.

“Why don’t you need comfort?” Suho asked, quietly.

This time, Sieun looked up.

And smiled.

That small, unreadable Sieun-smile.

“I’m okay,” he said.

But he wasn’t.

His eyes had that hazy redness from sleep deprivation.
His wrist had a faint band of redness from carrying too many groceries.
His voice had that subtle rasp — the one he always had when he didn’t drink enough water all day.

Suho wanted to scream. To beg.
To say please let me do something. Please let me deserve this. Please let me be enough.
But all he did was nod.

He turned back with his crutch, limped back to his bed, and lay down.
Eyes wide open.
Staring at the ceiling.
Hating the tears gathering in his lashes.

“I’m supposed to be the one protecting him...”
“But I can’t even help him stay awake.”

He didn’t sleep that night.
Just listened to the quiet rustle of Sieun’s pages.
Until they stopped.

He turned his head ever so slightly.
And saw Sieun.

Asleep on the floor again.
Arms folded over Suho’s files.
Neck bent at a weird angle.

The soft breathing that always lulled Suho to sleep — now made his throat ache.

He whispered into the dark, like a prayer he knew wouldn’t be answered:

“How long until you get tired of me, Sieun?”
“How long until you realize I’m not worth all this?”

 

. . .

 

It was the next afternoon — quiet, golden, and unusually warm for early spring.

The room had gone still — not silent, just soft.

After lunch and all the teasing, they’d settled into study mode. Open books, shared notes, and lazy bodies strewn across the floor in comfortable piles.

The gang was here for Suho, to help him slowly catch up — years lost to a hospital bed — and Sieun, of course, had prepared the perfect plan. Timetables, subjects, mock test prep — every page touched by his quiet precision.

Suho tried to focus. He really did.

His textbook lay open across his lap, pen in hand, eyes scanning the same line for the third time.

But his mind wandered.

Every time he turned a page, his eyes would drift — always to him.

To Sieun.

Sitting just across from him, back slightly hunched, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair falling over his eyes as he scribbled something down in that neat handwriting of his.

“How does he still look so… beautiful?” Suho wondered.

Not in the dramatic sense — not in the movie-scene, slow-mo kind of way. But in the quiet, achingly real way.

Like the curve of Sieun’s jaw as he focused. The way his lips moved faintly when he read silently. The crease between his brows when something didn’t click right away. That slight bounce in his leg — he always did that when he was concentrating.

And Suho just sat there.

Watching.
Noticing.
Falling all over again in silence.

But beneath that flutter of affection was a slow, sinking ache.

“Is he tired because of me?”

“Would he have been less stressed if I weren’t here?”

Sieun had been doing everything — waking him, dressing his bandages, walking with him to rehab, cooking, helping him study. And now again, here he was, tutoring Suho and the others like it was nothing.

“How long can someone hold that much weight before they break?”

Suho turned his eyes back to his book, but the letters blurred.

Then, Baku broke the stillness with a dramatic groan, throwing himself backward.

“I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE. I’M TOO PRETTY TO DIE FROM STUDYING.”

Everyone snorted.

Gotak muttered, “You’ve read the same paragraph for an hour.”

Juntae didn’t look up. “Because he can’t read.”

Baku sat up and clutched his chest. “I can read! I just choose to be dumb in protest.”

Sieun shook his head, half-smiling, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Let’s stop here,” he said. “It’s evening already.”

The light outside had dimmed to a soft golden hue — the kind that made everything look warmer, gentler.

The gang started packing up.

Baku stretched like a cat. “We heading out?”

“Yeah,” Gotak yawned. “What about tomorrow's outing? You coming too?”

Sieun was folding the last worksheet, eyes focused. “No. I’m taking Suho to rehab tomorrow morning.”

That made Suho pause.

He looked up quickly, confused. “Wait… tomorrow?”

Sieun nodded casually. “Yeah. I confirmed it earlier this week.”

Suho blinked. He hadn’t known.

Before he could say anything, Baku nodded with his usual chirp. “Cool. Let’s meet in the evening then.”

But Suho turned to Sieun again, guilt rising in his throat.

“You don’t have to come every time,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I can go alone…”

Sieun was already wiping his glasses. “I want to come.”

That answer was immediate. No hesitation. No drama.

Just… quiet certainty.

Suho’s breath hitched a little. “But you’ll be tired…”

Sieun didn’t look at him. “Then I’ll be tired.”

Baku and Gotak were arguing over who left their charger behind.

Juntae was already packing his bag.

But Suho couldn’t look away from him.

“He just says it like that. Like it's nothing. Like it's not a big deal to care for me even when he’s already doing so much.”

“How do you care for someone that way? How do you give so much without falling apart?”

Sieun wasn’t saying any of it to impress. Wasn’t trying to be noble.
He was just… being himself.
Being Sieun.

And that — that was what broke Suho a little more.

He gave a tiny smile, one hand curling tighter around the pen he hadn’t used in twenty minutes.

“I’ll make it up to you one day,” he thought. “I swear. I’ll become someone who can carry you, too.”

 

Just as the others were leaving, Baku ruffled Suho’s hair.

“You better ace those tests, sleeping beauty.”

Suho smiled faintly. “I’ll try.”

Gotak waved. “Good luck tomorrow.”

They all shuffled out, laughter fading into the hallway.

The apartment door clicked shut.
Silence fell again — that soft kind of silence.

And Suho turned to Sieun, who was now stacking the worksheets again, tucking them away like clockwork.

And Suho whispered, barely audible:
“You didn’t tell me.”

Sieun looked up, confused. “About what?”

Suho met his eyes — full of gratitude and shame. “About tomorrow's appointment. About everything.”

Sieun blinked, expression still unreadable. “I just figured you'd be busy catching up with the studies. You don’t have to worry about the rest.”

Suho didn’t answer.

 

He couldn’t.

Because if he opened his mouth, all the things he was holding back — the guilt, the longing, the helpless love — might pour out too fast.

Instead, he just nodded.

“Okay. Then I’ll go with you.”

 

.
.
.

 

The room was softly glowing — just one warm lamp still on, casting golden light over the books on the desk, the bottles of balm, the mug half-full on the nightstand.

Suho sat on the edge of the bed, one towel draped loosely around his shoulders, the other wrapped low around his waist. His skin was still damp from the shower, cool air brushing over it in gentle waves, raising goosebumps along his arms. Droplets clung to the ends of his hair, which had begun to fluff out as it dried, soft and unruly in a way he couldn't quite tame.

He felt strangely exposed — not in a way that begged for attention, but in the way someone feels when they’ve let their guard down in front of the one person who matters.

And that person was right there.

Sieun.

Sieun was crouched in front of the small dresser, picking out clothes for him — fresh ones, warm ones.

 

A lump rose in Suho’s throat. He shifted slightly, pulling the towel tighter around himself, but it didn’t help.

Because it wasn’t just skin he felt like he was showing.

It was everything.

And that scared him more than he liked to admit.
Sieun stood, holding out a neatly folded pair of sweatpants and a fresh shirt. Suho took them slowly, eyes flicking down—then back up, just once.

They weren’t Sieun’s.

They didn’t smell like him.
Not like the other shirt had.
Not like his.

Suho wanted to say something.
He wanted to complain.
He wanted Sieun.

But the words wouldn’t come.
So he said nothing.

His fingers gripped the fabric tighter than they should have, and he couldn’t meet Sieun’s eyes. Couldn’t look at him at all, really. His own reflection in the darkened window caught his eye and even that made him flinch.

 

Because he wasn’t just half-dressed.

He wasn’t just damp.

He was bare.

Inside out.

 

The air between them shifted, quiet and heavy.

And suddenly Suho’s heartbeat was a roar in his chest.

Too loud.
Too fast.
Too obvious.

He didn’t know if Sieun could hear it — but the next moment, Sieun’s eyes briefly dipped toward his chest... and then turned away.

Without a word, Sieun walked to the door. He didn’t close it all the way, but he left.

Suho sat there, still frozen on the edge of the bed. The clothes lay in his lap, untouched.

He could’ve gotten up. Should’ve gotten dressed. But he didn’t move.

He sat there with his hair dripping, his breath uneven, and his heart still pounding like it hadn’t decided what it was feeling yet.

Embarrassment?
Longing?

Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it.
Maybe just Sieun.

He pressed a hand over his chest.
It didn’t help. The ache sat stubborn, unmoved by pressure, breath, or reason — like grief that hadn’t earned its name yet.

Suho hadn’t moved from the bed.
Not for a while.

The towel was now crumpled on the floor.
In its place: dry underwear and soft cotton pants — clean, unfamiliar.

 

Probably Sieun’s. Or bought by him.

Wearing them had been hard.
Too hard, honestly.
Getting the underwear on had felt like a battle. Bending forward hurts. Lifting his legs hurt.
He’d had to lie back, shift awkwardly, drag the fabric up with trembling hands.

The pants had taken longer.
He winced every time the cloth brushed his knee — the one that didn’t quite bend the right way anymore.

Each motion felt like testing the limits of his own body.
It hurt. It was slow. It made him want to scream, but he didn’t.
Just bit down on the inside of his cheek and kept going.

Because now — he wanted to do it himself.
No hands reaching in to help. No fingers tugging at the waistband.
No quiet voice asking, “Does it still hurt here?”

He’d put his foot down a few days ago.
Not loudly. Not angrily. Just… stubborn. Quiet in the way Suho got when he needed control of something — anything.
He’d whispered, “I’ve got it. Please.”
And Sieun, after a beat of hesitation, had nodded — unreadable, but present, as always.

Since then, Sieun hadn’t stepped in again.
And Suho hadn’t asked.

And it was manageable … just barely.
Manageable in the way pain becomes part of the routine when you have no choice but to keep going.

 

But sometimes — especially during moments like this, when his leg wouldn’t cooperate and his hands shook too much…

He remembered the way Sieun had paused, just for a second, before pulling away.

And part of him regretted it.
Not the decision. Not the independence.
Just the way it left that little space between them.

Because the truth was, Suho loved Sieun being around.
Loved the quiet way he lingered.
The way his touch stayed on Suho’s skin long after it was gone.

It wasn’t just shame that made Suho turn away.
It was everything else too.

Because whenever Sieun got too close… close enough to touch, to breathe, to hold…
Suho’s heart wouldn’t stop racing.
Not from fear. Not from pain.
Just… from him.

That one person who had been everything before the coma.
And somehow, impossibly, even more now.

And Suho didn’t know what to do with that.
Not when he could barely dress himself.
Not when just the brush of Sieun’s fingertips could unravel him entirely.

 

Eventually, the pants were on.
Not perfect. Not neat. But on.

 

Now, he sat quietly, shirtless, his arms wrapped around his knees as he stared at the folded shirt in his hands.

In his lap: a folded shirt.
Soft. Familiar.
Waiting.

It wasn’t Sieun’s.

It was fine. Neutral. Something from the pile.
But it wasn’t his.

The air in the room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the lamp above the desk. Golden light painted the side of Suho’s face, catching in the strands of his still-damp hair, casting delicate shadows down his back.

And then… he felt it.
A gaze.

Suho didn’t look up, but he knew.
Sieun had returned. He was standing by the doorway, silent, just watching him.

The moment stretched.
Suho’s heart thudded in his chest, his fingers tightening around the fabric in his lap.

He didn’t dare meet Sieun’s eyes.
Instead, he let out the softest little pout … barely there, just a tremble of his lower lip, a silent protest.

The kind of pout that didn’t beg for sympathy.
The kind that said, “You wouldn’t get it anyway.”

Sieun didn’t speak.
Didn’t walk closer.
Just… sighed.

Quietly.

The sound was nearly inaudible, but Suho heard it.
Felt it in his chest like a string being pulled tighter.

He stayed still as Sieun turned and walked out again, the door clicking behind him.

Suho’s pout deepened.

Of course he wouldn’t understand.
Of course he thought Suho was just being difficult again. That he was sulking over nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was wanting to be seen. Wanting to be held without having to ask.
Wanting to smell like him … to carry him in the small ways that mattered most.
He looked back down at the shirt in his hands, and for a moment, he thought about just putting it on.
Then—
The door opened again.

Suho looked up this time, startled out of his thoughts.
His fingers froze over the fabric in his lap.
His eyes, tired and still a little glassy, met Sieun’s.

Sieun didn’t speak.
He just stood there in the doorway, framed by the dim light behind him, one arm hanging at his side… the other outstretched.

In his hand, a t-shirt.

That t-shirt.
The faded, over-worn, soft cotton one that Suho had once — only once — called his favorite.
He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It just slipped between breaths one evening months ago, a mumbled comment while folding laundry.
But of course Sieun remembered.

Suho recognized it instantly.
It had clearly been washed — the fabric looked clean, the fold crisp — but as Sieun stepped closer and held it out, Suho could already smell it.

Fresh detergent.
And beneath it, still somehow unmistakable—
Sieun. That soft, warm scent Suho associated with safety. With being home.

His heart tightened.

He didn’t reach for it right away.
His hands hovered mid-air, uncertain. The moment felt too big, too careful — like touching it too fast might break whatever fragile thing sat between them.

But eventually, he took it.

His fingers brushed Sieun’s as he did, light and unintentional.
And the moment the fabric was in his hands, he froze again.

He shouldn’t. He knew that.
Not with Sieun standing right there, watching.
But he couldn’t help it.

He brought the shirt up slightly.
Inhaled. Deeply.
Let it settle over him like something sacred.

It smelled like everything he missed.
Clean air. Late-night comfort. Quiet. Sieun.

He closed his eyes for just a breath.
Just long enough to let it wrap around his ribs, hold him together for a second longer.

He was still like that when Sieun’s gaze faltered.

Sieun had been watching the whole time.
And now… his eyes widened.
Not dramatically, but enough.
Enough to betray that crack in his composure.

His lips parted slightly — as if a question had risen to the back of his throat but never made it out.
And then he swallowed. Hard.
Visibly.

He turned. Took a step back.
Tried to leave.

Because maybe it was too much.
Maybe it was too intimate.
Maybe he remembered Suho asking, Please, let me do it on my own now.
And he didn’t want to overstep.

Maybe he thought Suho didn’t want him near.

So he turned toward the door.

But then—

A sound.
Soft. A small, dissatisfied exhale.
Not loud, but enough to cut through the quiet.

Sieun paused.
Turned back, confused.

Suho was still sitting there, the t-shirt now resting in his lap again.
But his lips were pushed forward — not angrily, not dramatically — just a little.
A subtle pout.
His brows were pinched ever so slightly, like something hadn’t gone the way he expected.

And Sieun… blinked.

What now? he wondered.

He’d given him the shirt. He was doing what Suho asked — giving him space. Not hovering.

So what was the problem?

And yet, somehow… it felt like Sieun had done something wrong.
Or missed something important.

He still didn’t understand Suho sometimes.
Not completely.

But one thing was very clear.

That pout?
It was ridiculous.
And absolutely adorable.

Like a kid trying to be brave after dropping his ice cream.
Like someone who wanted attention but didn’t know how to ask for it.

Sieun stayed by the door, staring.
Then stepped just a little closer.
Just enough to see him better.

Suho, still unaware of just how intensely he was being studied, shifted slightly — arms wrapped tightly around the soft fabric now, resting against his knees, eyes downcast but lips pushed into that same small pout.

A pout he wasn’t even conscious of anymore.

And Sieun…

He didn’t leave.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even shift.

He just stood there, still, watching — gaze fixed like Suho had unknowingly turned into something worth holding your breath for.

Because the way Suho looked right now — folded in on himself, sulking quietly like a stubborn child who’d bitten off more than he could chew — was unfairly cute.
Proud, grumpy, soft.
Too soft.
And it made Sieun forget — completely — why he’d been trying to keep his distance in the first place.

And then, for some reason—
his eyes dropped.

To that pout.

Barely-there, faintly pressed lips.
Just the tiniest curve of stubbornness. The kind you don’t even realize you’re making.

And before he could stop himself,
Sieun felt it—
this ridiculous, quiet little ache in his fingers.
Like an impulse.
Like a whisper at the edge of muscle memory.

I want to touch it.

That thought.
That exact thought.
Clear. Sharp. Dangerous.

He blinked.
Looked away for half a second.
Then back again.

Because what the hell?

Where had that come from?

It wasn’t a rational thought. It wasn’t something he meant to think.
But it had crawled into his head anyway — settled in like it belonged there.

He didn’t even want to ruin this moment.
Didn’t want to confuse it with something it wasn’t.

But that pout…

God, it was so small. So unaware. So Suho.
And for some reason, his brain kept circling back to it.

Why do I want to touch it?
Just once. Just to see what it felt like. Just to know if it would vanish under his hand — if Suho would swat him away or if he’d freeze like he always did when he got too flustered.

Sieun exhaled quietly.

Is this normal?
Is this okay?

Thinking about a friend like this?

Suho was his friend. His closest, most complicated friend.
And yet—

And yet there he was, standing just inches away, thinking about his mouth.
Not that way. Not intentionally. Not gross or possessive or inappropriate.

But tenderly. Curiously.
Like something soft he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.

He didn’t understand it.
Didn’t know when it started.
Didn’t even know what to call it.

But it was there.
In his chest.
Quiet and persistent and growing.

And right now, Sieun was trying very, very hard not to reach out.
Not to mess this up.
Not to scare Suho away.

But god… that pout was still there.
Still untouched. Still quietly wrecking him.

Suho still wasn’t aware.

He wasn’t aware of the way his body looked curled on the edge of the bed, or how his shoulders had drooped like someone waiting to be reached for.
He didn’t notice how his lashes cast faint shadows under his eyes, or how that earlier huff had escaped him — small, frustrated, and impossibly boyish.

He wasn’t aware of any of that.
Because inside, he was a mess.

He didn’t know what he wanted.
Not exactly.

He’d asked Sieun to stop helping days ago. Said he could do it himself. Said he wanted to be strong — to be capable, independent, in control.

But also… not alone.
Never alone.

He wanted space.
But not distance.

He wanted Sieun to understand — to somehow know without being told — that what Suho needed most was someone who wouldn’t walk away just because he asked them to.

And maybe… maybe Sieun did understand.

Because after a long pause, Sieun spoke — low and careful.

"You need help?" he asked softly.
His eyes dropped, landing on Suho’s shoulder.
"Your shoulder looks like it hurts."

Suho froze.
His head snapped up, startled.

His mouth opened.
Then closed again.

Because—how?

How did Sieun even know?

He hadn’t winced. Hadn’t reached for it. Hadn’t even really felt the ache until now — and yet, somehow, Sieun had seen it anyway.
Of course he had.

That was the thing about Sieun.

He always noticed the things Suho didn’t even realize he was showing.

Suho’s chest squeezed, warmth rising under his ribs.
It was embarrassing. And comforting. And somehow… overwhelming.

He couldn’t speak — throat too tight.

So he nodded. Just a small one. Barely there. But Sieun caught it.

He stepped closer.

And as soon as he did, Suho’s body moved without thinking.
His legs widened automatically — creating space between them.

The movement was too quick, and he winced — the sharp sting of pain in his thigh making him shift slightly.

Sieun paused immediately.

His gaze flicked to Suho’s face, then stayed there.
Unmoving.

And then — with every ounce of stillness he had in him — he studied him.
Not just his posture. Not just his injuries.

His face.

His expression. His breath. The way his throat moved when he swallowed.
The faint furrow between his brows, the twitch of his fingers, the way his lashes fluttered downward.

And Suho — caught under that gaze — felt exposed.

He looked down quickly. Gulped.

But even as he tried to shrink away from it, he couldn’t stop the thoughts racing in his head.

They’re so close.
So, so close.

Sieun fit there — right in that space between his legs — so perfectly it felt unfair.
Like the universe had carved out that spot just for him.

He was right there.
Close. Warm. Quiet.
Like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there. Like Suho’s body knew before his mind ever caught up.

And Suho…
God, he needed to stop thinking like that.

Because—what the hell?
Who thinks about their friend like this?

Who lets their thoughts spiral like this, heart stammering in their chest, wondering how someone else can fit in a space so naturally?

If Sieun ever found out—
If he even suspected what Suho’s brain was doing right now—
He’d be disappointed. Disgusted, even.

And Suho wouldn’t even know what to say.
Wouldn’t know why these feelings were blooming inside his chest like this. Wouldn’t know what name to give them. Wouldn’t know how to unfeel any of it.

Because he wasn’t even sure what they were himself.

All he knew was that Sieun was right there.
Close.

And Suho’s pulse wouldn’t slow down.

 

Sieun didn’t move immediately.
Not after seeing that wince. Not after seeing Suho’s face do that tiny flinch of guilt — like he was already regretting having asked for help.

But he didn’t question the nod.
Didn’t second-guess it.

He just… moved.
Softly. Steadily. With care in every step.

And Suho watched — eyes flickering upward once, then away again.
Because if he looked for too long, he might fall apart.

When Sieun finally reached him fully, his presence filled the space between them so completely that Suho had to remind himself to breathe.
Not because Sieun was doing anything extraordinary —
But because he was close.
Right there.

 

Like it always had.

Sieun didn’t speak.
Didn’t offer some comment about Suho being helpless again.
Didn’t look smug or self-righteous or even awkward.

He just reached out — his fingers brushing lightly against the hem of the shirt Suho still held clenched in his lap — and slowly, delicately, took it from him.

His hands were warm.
Not too warm — just enough.

And when he moved, it was slow, almost reverent.
Like dressing Suho wasn’t a chore, but something that mattered.

He unfolded the shirt gently, smoothing it out between his hands before lifting it toward Suho — never rushing. Never careless.

Suho’s heart was a wreck now.
Lodged high in his throat. Fluttering too fast, too unevenly.

He sat still as Sieun slipped the shirt over his head — lifting it carefully so it wouldn’t pull or tug too hard on the wrong spot.

Then came the arms.

Sieun reached for the first one — Suho’s good side — and guided it through the sleeve.
Then paused when he reached the other.

His eyes flicked up.
Waiting. Asking silently.

Suho nodded once, not trusting his voice.

And Sieun moved again — slower this time — guiding his injured arm with care, adjusting the fabric so nothing pulled against the sore joint.

It should have been clinical.
Efficient. Simple.

But somehow… it wasn’t.

There was a stillness in the air. A weight.
Like the space between them had shrunk too far — and now there was nowhere for all these feelings to go.

When the shirt finally settled over Suho’s shoulders, soft cotton brushing over his skin, he didn’t relax.
Not entirely.

He couldn’t.
Not with Sieun’s face still so close.
Not with the way his breath hitched every time Sieun’s hand grazed his collarbone or steadied him by the wrist.

Then — a few strands of Suho’s damp hair slipped forward, falling over his eyes.
Before he could react, Sieun’s hand moved instinctively.
Fingers brushing them back with the same tenderness he used to fold bandages or smooth the wrinkles from Suho’s blanket.

That touch — gentle, unhurried — lingered.
Just a second too long.

And Suho looked up.

His eyes met Sieun’s — just for a moment. A heartbeat. Maybe two.

But it was too much.

His gaze dropped quickly, lashes fluttering down as if they could hide the way his heart had just kicked up violently in his chest.
Like it was trying to outrun the silence between them.

He swallowed.
Fingers tightening over the hem of the shirt — the one that still smelled like Sieun.

Warm. Familiar. Dangerous.

Sieun didn’t move away.

He was still close.
Too close.

Suho could feel the heat radiating from him.
The way his breath stirred the air between them.

And it wasn’t just the shirt that clung to his skin now.
It was the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

And yet — somehow, in this unbearable quiet…
Suho didn’t want it to end.

Not yet.

 

He remembered.

How, in the beginning, he hadn’t even been able to stand properly.

Couldn’t lift himself off the bed without trembling. Couldn’t hold balance long enough to take a proper step. His limbs — stiff, sore, uncooperative — didn’t feel like his own. Every simple movement became a struggle.

And through it all, it was Sieun.
Helping him. Quietly. Gently. Always.

He remembered how Sieun would help him bathe, turning around respectfully when Suho had to undress. Never once glancing. Never once commenting. Just standing close enough in case Suho stumbled, waiting with a towel, ready to help only if needed.

Then drying him off, gently, with long strokes of a towel and warm patience.

Then came the clothes — the most humiliating part.

Even his pants. Even his underwear.

And Suho — back then — had wanted to disappear from sheer shame.

He could still feel the heat that had risen to his ears, creeping down his neck, flushing his entire face.

The outrage. The helplessness. The frustration. The voice in his head screaming. That you can’t let someone do this. Not even him.

He remembered snapping at Sieun that day — not because he was angry at him, but because he didn’t know where else to throw the shame.

“What are you doing?! How could you—?! Who even does that?!”

And Sieun… had just looked at him.

Completely calm. No flinch. No fluster.

“Why are you embarrassed?”
His voice was simple, sincere.
“We’re both guys. Same body parts.”

Suho had almost combusted on the spot.

He’d delivered a full twenty-minute rant after that — pacing slowly in place, wincing with every move, waving his good arm like a weapon. Talking about boundaries and respect and how you can’t just do this with anyone!

He even said something like, “What if one day there's another boy and you just start helping him like that?! You can't!”

Sieun hadn’t argued.
Hadn’t gotten annoyed.
He’d only nodded with a small, thoughtful pause and said:

“I won’t look. I’ll close my eyes.”

But even then, Suho wasn’t convinced.
Not really. He’d still hesitated. Flinched. Refused to move unless he was half-covered.
He didn’t believe someone could be that unbothered. That purely kind.

Until one day, Sieun walked in holding a folded handkerchief.

Before Suho could ask, Sieun calmly tied it over his own eyes.

A blindfold.

Folded three times. Tight at the back of his head.
No gaps. No tricks. No way to see.

“I told you,” Sieun said. “I won’t look.”

Suho had gone quiet.
Completely, utterly quiet.

He remembered just standing there — halfway to crying, halfway to screaming — and staring at Sieun’s face behind that cloth.

And it wasn’t just the blindfold.
It was what it meant.

Because that cloth said:
"Your comfort matters more than my convenience."
"I’ll do this your way, even if it makes it harder for me."
"You're not a burden. You're still allowed dignity."

That cloth… It became part of the room after that.

Always within reach. Always folded neatly somewhere — the corner of the table, the back of the chair, drying near the window after a wash.
And later…
Suho noticed.

There wasn’t just one.

There were several.
Three. Four. Different ones.

One with uneven stitching. One in soft grey. One in navy blue with the tiniest name tag sewn into the corner, maybe so Sieun would always tie it on the same side.

He’d made them.

Suho had stared at them one day and started laughing.

Not because anything was funny, but because it was just so ridiculous and beautiful and too much.

A crazy, breathless little laugh that came out before he could stop it.

Sieun had turned, mid-task, to look at him. Confused. But he didn’t ask.

Maybe because, before that, Suho hadn’t laughed at all.

Back then, Suho had been silent most days.
Not because he had nothing to say … but because everything felt pointless.

There were days … especially in those early weeks … when the pain was constant, his dignity gone, and every glance in the mirror felt like a cruel joke.
Days when he’d sit on the hospital bed, staring at the wall for hours, thinking:

“What’s even the point?”
“How long am I supposed to live like this?”
“Is it even worth it?”
“…Wouldn’t it be easier to just disappear?”
“…Wouldn’t it be easier if I…”

 

“ ... if I never woke up?”

 

Yes. He’d thought it.

He’d thought about dying.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just quietly. Genuinely.

Like wondering whether it’d hurt less than waking up every day in a body that no longer felt like his own. A life that felt borrowed and broken. A future that felt like someone else's pity.

But Sieun…
Sieun never looked at him like he was fragile.

Never once treated him like a burden.

He simply tied the cloth… and helped.

And sometimes, when Sieun had the cloth tied and was carefully dressing him … pulling up his pants, helping him sit upright, slipping his arms into sleeves … Suho would stare.

Not by accident. Not just glancing.
He would watch.

Because Sieun’s face, behind that cloth … blindfolded but focused … was so close. Inches away. So gentle. So serious.

Suho had even raised his hand once to wave in front of Sieun’s face, just to test if he could see anything.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

Suho’s heart had clenched.

It was in that moment he started looking at Sieun… differently.

He noticed every detail after that.

 

He watched like he was trying to memorize him.

Like he needed to etch this version of Sieun … gentle, kind, his … into the walls of his mind.

Eventually, one day, Suho whispered it out loud:

“You don’t need to wear the cloth anymore.”

Sieun had nodded.

Didn’t argue. Just stopped wearing it.

But he never stopped closing his eyes.

Every single time.

He’d reach out to help Suho, eyes closed, hands steady, voice soft.
Like a promise.

And Suho … though still shy, still burning … had stopped saying no.

He never told him, of course.
About the fluttering in his chest.
The strange ache in his ribs.
The way his stomach twisted when Sieun’s fingers grazed his skin too softly, too kindly.

It was so much.

Too much.

He remembered how later, when Suho had gained enough strength to do some things on his own … Sieun would still help with the final touches.

He’d comb Suho’s hair gently, after toweling it dry.
Fingers carding through wet strands, untangling softly.

His nails grazing Suho’s scalp just a little … and Suho would close his eyes, trying not to melt from the intimacy of it.

It wasn’t just care. It was something more.

He remembered, one morning, staring at the way Sieun’s wrist moved as he combed slowly.

The sound of the plastic bristles. The rhythm of it.

He’d once leaned into the touch without realizing … and Sieun had only adjusted his angle, never pulling away.

No one else had touched him like that.
Not in pity.
Not in obligation.

Just quiet devotion.

And now … standing here, healed but still hurting, changed but still himself … Suho could still feel every moment.

Every brush of fabric. Every flutter of lashes. Every unspoken word.

And it broke his heart gently … how much he’d needed Sieun.
Still needed him.

Not just for the things he couldn’t do…
But for everything he felt too much to say.
He remembered…
How he used to look at Sieun during those moments … when Sieun’s eyes were closed, when his face was inches away, steady hands helping him button something, pull fabric up gently, careful not to hurt him.
Suho used to stare.
Every time.
At the way Sieun’s lashes rested against his cheeks. At the way his brows furrowed slightly when he concentrated, even while doing something so mundane. At the curve of his jaw, the slope of his neck, the way his lips would part just a little in focus.
Suho drank it in like a man starved.
Like he was afraid one day he wouldn’t get to anymore.
And the worst part … or maybe the best … was that Sieun never said anything.
Not once.
He never opened his eyes mid-task, never caught him, never smirked knowingly.
But Suho couldn’t help thinking … now, in this soft, golden room …
that Sieun knew.
He must’ve known.
That Suho watched him.
That Suho looked at him the way no one else did.
And yet, he never asked about it. Never teased him. Never called him out.
Just kept helping. Quiet. Unshaken. Unflinching.
Like he didn’t want to embarrass Suho.
Like he was letting Suho have that moment … every single time.
That thought…

It made something ache inside Suho.
Something warm. Something impossible.
Because how do you explain this kind of history?

How do you explain the kind of intimacy that grows in silence … in shared rooms, in bruised shoulders, in fingers that never fumble when dressing someone else?
He clenched his jaw lightly, chest tight, lips trembling with something he didn’t fully understand.
Suho didn’t dare speak.
Because if he did, he might say something he couldn’t take back.

As Sieun helped him now … Suho realized he missed this.
Missed him.
Missed being cared for in this quiet, stubborn, specific way.

Sieun smoothed the shirt down over Suho’s waist and stepped back slightly … only to reach up again with the towel. He began drying Suho’s hair, slow and focused.
The towel rubbed softly over his crown, his temples. Fingers brushed his ear, his neck, each movement so unhurried it made Suho’s breath catch.

Suho opened his eyes … and Sieun was there, right in front of him.
Close. Intent.
The room glowed golden around them.
Suho looked up, and Sieun looked back … and then Suho immediately looked away again, cheeks flushing, eyes darting to the side as he did a tiny, embarrassed pout.

But this time, Sieun didn’t sigh.
He didn’t walk away.
Instead… he gently pushed Suho’s bangs off his forehead once again. He stared at him for one more long, unreadable second.
Then resumed drying his hair with that same calm, quiet tenderness.
And Suho…
Suho didn’t stop him.

"You should cut your hair again," Sieun murmured softly.

Suho only hummed. Didn’t trust his voice. Didn’t trust that he wouldn’t say something dumb, like 'I want you to touch my hair every day for the rest of our lives.'

When he was fully dressed, Sieun handed him the evening meds with warm water … three small tablets, the ones that helped his nerves, his digestion, and the leg cramps.

Suho took them silently.

“Does it hurt too much?”
Sieun’s voice was soft behind him.

Suho blinked slowly, still caught in the hazy warmth of the moment. He glanced over his shoulder, giving a small shake of his head.

“It’s just… stiff, I guess.”

Sieun studied him for a beat longer, then walked over to the drawer without saying anything. A moment later, Suho heard the quiet sound of something being placed on the bed. He turned slightly. It was the balm. The one for his leg.
Before Suho could speak, Sieun climbed onto the bed … behind him … and sat down.
Then… gentle hands.

Fingers pressing slow, warm circles into the tense muscles of his shoulder. A small gasp escaped Suho’s lips before he could stop it … not from pain, but from relief.
It felt good.
Too good.

His eyelids began to droop. The tension in his body melted with every stroke of Sieun’s hand. Sleepy comfort began to seep into his bones.
“Is this okay?” Sieun asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Suho only hummed in response … a soft, quiet sound of pleasure … head tilting back slightly, resting against Sieun’s chest.
Sieun stilled for a second… then gently held him, his hand finding Suho’s jaw like he was cradling something fragile.
“Lie down,” he murmured. “Come on.”
Suho didn’t argue.
He let himself be guided … limp and pliant … as Sieun helped him lie down, careful not to pull at his shoulder or his injured leg.

 

The pillow was soft, the sheets cool against his skin. His vision blurred with drowsiness, but he saw Sieun moving, about to get up again.

And it hurts.

Not the pain in his body … but the ache in his chest.

Because Suho didn’t want him to leave.
Not now.

His hand reached out before he could think, fingers curling gently around Sieun’s wrist.
“Stay,” he whispered.

Sieun looked down at him, surprised … the smallest crease forming between his brows.

Then… he softened.
“Yeah,” Sieun said, his voice like silk. “Not going anywhere.”

And he didn’t.
He sat down by Suho’s legs, wordlessly opening the balm. His hands worked gently … massaging slow, soothing strokes down Suho’s calf, around his ankle. Suho could feel the warmth of him even through the blanket. Feel his presence like a lullaby.

As Sieun moved, Suho’s eyes remained on him … heavy with sleep, half-lidded, but full of longing.
God, he’s so pretty.
That thought came uninvited, but Suho didn’t fight it.

Sieun looked so effortlessly beautiful like this … in the low light, focused and calm, like he had all the time in the world just to take care of Suho. And Suho…

Suho could barely hold his eyes open, but he wished … just for a second … that he was braver.
Brave enough to ask him to lie beside him.
To pull him close, bury his face into Sieun’s chest, and fall asleep listening to his heartbeat. To wrap his arms around him and hold on until morning.
But all he could do was watch.
Watch as Sieun looked after him without a word. Watch as sleep slowly claimed his body.
He’s so tired. And he still does this.
Every single night. Like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing to carry.

His last thought before his eyes fully closed was quiet… achingly quiet.
I’m so lucky he’s here.
And then he drifted off … breath soft, hand still half-curled toward where Sieun sat.
Like even in sleep, he didn’t want to let go.

 

Suho woke in the very early morning. The kind of hour where the world was still draped in shadows, and the sky hadn’t yet decided if it would turn blue or stay dark. Maybe he’d simply slept enough.

He lay there in the dark.
Blanket warm. Balm still tingling on his skin.
His heart a mess.
He heard Sieun’s breathing … slow, steady, very much asleep.
Suho turned his head.
Faced him.
Stared.
Even in near darkness, he could see the soft line of his nose, the way his bangs had fallen over his eyes, the way his hand was tucked under the pillow.
He looked...
So beautiful.
So peaceful.
So far away.
Suho swallowed.
How do I repay this?
How do I give him the world when I can’t even walk properly?
He does everything. Everything. For me. And I—
His throat closed.
His eyes stung.
He reached his hand out slightly under the blanket … not enough to touch. Just enough to wish.

I want to give him an award.
A shrine. A home. A life full of joy.
I want to be enough.
I want to hold him and tell him I’m going to be okay. So he doesn’t have to carry me anymore.

 

…But I don’t even know how to stand without him.

The tears welled quietly.
Didn’t fall.
But stayed there … a soft weight in his eyes.
Suho looked at Sieun one last time.
I want to pull you into this bed and feel your warmth beside me.

I want to sleep with your breath on my neck.

I want you to look at me and not just see someone who needs help.

I want you to want me.

Even like this.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t say a word.
Just kept staring until his eyelids drooped.
And eventually...
He fell asleep like that.
With something deep in his chest,
Guilt in his bones,
And Sieun’s breathing the only thing keeping him grounded.

 

.
.
.

 

The rehab center always smelled the same … a mix of hand sanitizer, old vinyl mats, and worn-out determination.
Suho sat near the window, his crutches propped against the wall beside him. He’d done the stretches. The balance work. The walking laps. And yet... the same thing.
He had failed again.
Not dramatically. Not in a way the therapist would mark in red ink. But in the quiet, subtle way that reminded him he wasn’t healed. Not yet. Not even close.
His thighs still trembled with every prolonged step. His knees still buckled if he didn’t concentrate hard enough. He couldn’t trust his legs. Couldn’t trust himself. Not when the pain kicked in without warning. Not when the muscles just gave up.
And each time that happened — each tiny collapse — Sieun was there.
Holding him steady.
Pulling him upright.
Never complaining.
Always watching.
Too much.
Suho’s fingers curled around the edge of the seat. His breathing shallow.
Why is he still doing all this?
Why hasn’t he left yet?
He’s tired. I can see it.
He remembered this morning … Sieun barely finishing his cereal, too tired to chew properly. He remembered how Sieun had dozed off on the train and jerked awake at the station. He remembered how his neck cracked when he rolled his shoulders, stiff from sitting upright beside Suho’s rehab mat for hours.
And all of it was for him.
A clatter broke the silence. Just someone dropping a walker down the hall. But Suho flinched, jolted back into the present.
He looked down at his knees.
Wrapped in the soft, gray rehab sleeves Sieun had ordered online.
Suho hadn’t even asked for them.
He didn’t deserve them.
His eyes burned.
Just then, footsteps approached … steady, quiet.
Sieun.
Suho sat near the window, legs sore, shoulders tight, his crutches propped nearby like forgotten burdens. He’d done everything they asked of him — the stretches, the balancing drills, the careful walking laps — but it still felt like he’d failed.

Not in a loud way. Not in the kind of failure that makes people gasp or gather around. But in the quiet, gnawing way that eats at your confidence. The way that makes you think you’re just pretending to recover. Just performing wellness while breaking inside.

His thighs still trembled. His steps still hesitated. And every time he faltered — even slightly — Sieun was there.

Always there.

Always close enough to catch him but never too close to smother.

Suho bit the inside of his cheek.

He must be so tired…

He remembered this morning — how his voice cracked from the cold when he greeted the therapist.

He shouldn’t have to do all this…

Just then, footsteps. Familiar. Measured.

Suho didn’t even need to look.

Sieun crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes with that calm gaze that made Suho feel both seen and shielded. Then sat beside him.

“You did good today,” Sieun said, his voice low and even.

“I didn’t,” Suho muttered. “I almost fell. Twice.”

Sieun shook his head gently. “But you didn’t.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It counts to me,” Sieun said. “Every second you stayed upright counts. Every step you took on your own. Every time you didn’t quit even though it hurt.”

Suho’s throat tightened.

“I still can’t trust my legs,” he whispered. “They keep giving out. I keep messing up.”

“You’re not messing up,” Sieun said firmly, but not harsh. “You’re rebuilding. That’s different. You’re asking your body to remember how to be strong again.”

Suho stared at the floor, eyes stinging. “Sometimes I wonder if it ever will.”

Sieun didn’t flinch. “It will. I know it will.”

“How can you be so sure?” Suho asked quietly.

“Because I’ve seen you,” Sieun replied. “I’ve seen how you push through things that would break most people. I’ve seen you grit your teeth, breathe through pain, and keep moving even when you’re scared. That’s not weakness, Suho. That’s courage.”

Suho blinked hard, his vision going blurry.

Sieun shifted closer, letting their shoulders touch.

“You didn’t fall today,” he repeated softly. “You didn’t give up. You’re here. And tomorrow, you’ll try again. That’s more than enough.”

“…I wouldn’t even try this hard if it wasn’t for you,” Suho whispered, voice barely audible. “You being here… it makes me want to be better. For you.”

Sieun blinked. He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, just as softly, “Then I’ll keep being here.”

Suho looked down at his knees. The soft gray sleeves. Sieun had picked them out. Chosen the color. Researched the best support.

He didn’t even remember asking.

He didn’t remember deserving.

And still… here Sieun was.

Tired eyes. Cracked shoulders. Steady hands.

“You’re allowed to be tired too, you know,” Suho said after a while. “You don’t have to hold me up all the time.”

Sieun tilted his head. “I’m not just holding you up,” he said gently. “I’m walking beside you.”

And that was somehow worse.

Because it meant Suho didn’t owe him something in return.

It meant Sieun was here by choice.

Suho leaned in just slightly, resting against his shoulder. His voice cracked when he whispered:

“…Thank you.”

Sieun’s hand reached up again — not to pat or fix or fuss.

Just to rest there, softly, on Suho’s back.

Not guiding. Just… present.

“I’ll say this as many times as you need to hear it,” Sieun murmured. “You’re doing well. You’re not alone. And you’re getting stronger — even if you don’t see it yet.”

Suho didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Because if he did — he might say everything.

And he wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Maybe, with Sieun beside him like this, he’d be brave enough to say it all someday.

Sieun opened his mouth, like he was about to say something more — something important — but then paused. His expression softened into something unreadable, and he stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, brushing invisible dust from his pants. “I need to talk to your guide.”

Suho blinked. “Why?”

Sieun was already walking away, raising a hand casually behind him without looking back. “Just wait here.”

Suho watched him go — the way he walked with quiet purpose, shoulders squared, steps confident. For a moment, a cold twist curled in Suho’s chest.

Why is he talking to them?
Is he asking how long this will take?
When I’ll stop being his burden?

The old, anxious thoughts returned like clockwork — the ones that whispered he was too much, too slow, too broken to keep up with someone like Sieun.

But then…

He remembered the way Sieun had crouched beside him just minutes ago. The way his voice had stayed calm even when Suho had faltered. The way he’d said,

“I’m walking beside you.”
“You’re doing well.”
“You’re getting stronger — even if you don’t see it yet.”

 

He hadn’t said those things to be nice.
He hadn’t said them because he had to.
He meant them.

Suho looked down at his hands, resting over his knees — knees still trembling slightly under the sleeves Sieun had gotten for him.

And instead of shame, something else started to bloom there.

Maybe… I can do this.

He looked toward the rehab mat where he’d practiced walking earlier — shaky, uneven steps, but still steps. He remembered how his foot had almost slipped, but how he’d caught himself in time. How, even through the burn in his thighs, he’d made it to the other side.

Without falling.

Without quitting.

That was me, he thought. I did that. With him beside me, yeah — but I still did that.

His heart beat a little steadier.

He didn’t need to be perfect right now. Didn’t need to have all the answers.
But maybe — just maybe — he could be better. Not all at once. Not tomorrow. But slowly.
For himself.
And for the boy who never stopped showing up.

Just then, Sieun’s silhouette reappeared near the doorway, speaking to the rehab guide in a low, serious voice. He glanced over once, briefly, and when their eyes met — he gave Suho the smallest nod.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a declaration.

But it landed like one.

Because somehow, in that simple look, Suho could read everything:

You’re doing okay.
I’m not going anywhere.
We’ve got this.

And for the first time that day — maybe the whole week — Suho let himself believe it.

He leaned back in the chair, letting the tension in his shoulders drain just a little.

He wasn’t a burden.

He was healing.

And he was not alone.
Suho was still leaning back in the chair, his fingers absently tracing the soft seam of his rehab sleeves, when Sieun returned.

Sieun didn’t speak right away. Just walked over, pulled the chair beside Suho’s a little closer, and sat down with that same calm, unreadable ease.

But Suho noticed the way his movements were slower today — not stiff, just… quiet. Like he was thinking too much.

“You… talked to them?” Suho asked, cautious.

Sieun gave a small hum. “I did.”

Suho hesitated. “…Was it about my progress?”

Sieun tilted his head slightly, as if debating how to answer. “Kind of.”

Suho’s chest pulled tight. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, thoughts already spiraling — Did something go wrong? Were they disappointed? Was Sieun—

“They said your recovery’s going well,” Sieun interrupted casually, as if reading the tension off Suho’s skin. “Actually ahead of pace.”

Suho blinked. “What?”

Sieun leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “They were impressed. Said your balance work has improved. Your muscle strength’s building up. That you’re pushing yourself without overdoing it.”

His gaze slid sideways to meet Suho’s. “They said you’re doing really well.”

Suho didn’t say anything at first.

His brain was still catching up.

They said… I’m doing well?

Not barely keeping up. Not just surviving. Not weak.

His fingers paused at his sleeve seam.

“…Really?”

Sieun nodded. “I told them I’d already noticed it.”

That part made Suho’s chest squeeze in a different way.

“…That’s why you went?” he asked softly.

Sieun didn't reply.

Though Suho's eyes blinked wide, then flicked away. But Sieun caught it … the small puff of air he let out, like he was holding back a smile. Like he didn’t know where to put the pride swelling in his chest.

And God, he looked…

Happy.

The quiet kind. The kind that glowed behind his eyes like a child who’d just been told “Good job” and didn’t quite know how to handle it.

Sieun studied him — the slight curve of his lips, the way he adjusted his sleeves like he didn’t want to seem too excited. His knee was swinging gently. His fingers were curled around the edge of the chair.

All that pride. All that effort.

Like a little kid who earned a gold star.

Something warm tugged in Sieun’s chest.

So — without thinking — he pulled the soft pink pamphlet from his pocket.

He offered it to Suho.

Suho blinked and took it carefully, unfolding it between his fingers.

It was a brochure for a nearby botanical garden. The paper smelled faintly floral, and the pictures were like something out of a fairytale — long shaded paths, arches covered in wisteria, benches nestled under cherry blossoms in full bloom.

“It’s quiet there,” Sieun said. “Cool. A little breezy this time of day.”

Suho stared at it. “You want to go now?”

“Only if you’re not too tired,” Sieun said gently. “I brought your cap. And the fresh shirt’s in the bag.”

Suho looked up, eyes wide.

“You… planned this?”

Sieun shrugged. “You’ve been working hard. I thought maybe you deserved something that wasn’t a rehab mat or a white-tiled hallway.”

Suho’s throat went dry.

He looked back down at the soft pink folds of the pamphlet, then at Sieun’s face — steady, patient, like none of this was a big deal.

But it was.

It was a big deal.

It was the biggest deal Suho had felt in weeks.

He planned this.

Not because it was someone’s birthday. Not because it was on the calendar. Not because he had to.

Because Suho had tried.

Because Sieun noticed.

“You… think I deserve that?” he whispered, voice trembling a little despite himself.

Sieun turned to face him fully then. And for once, didn’t deflect or look away.

“I think you deserve more than you let yourself believe,” he said. Quiet. Certain.

Something cracked open in Suho’s chest.

Like a small, hopeful light being let in through a door that had been locked for too long.

He looked away quickly, blinking fast, trying to swallow down the tightness rising in his throat. It was too much — too kind, too unexpected, too warm.

But also…

Exactly what he needed.

For once, the voice in his head wasn’t cruel. It didn’t whisper all the reasons why he should stay behind or hide or pretend he didn’t care.

For once, it said: You’re allowed to be proud. You’re allowed to be seen.

He looked up, cheeks warm, heart fluttering in a quiet, shaky kind of way.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Sieun gave the faintest, barely-there smile. “Only if you want to.”

“I do,” Suho whispered.

And he meant it.

Not just because it was pretty.

Not just because he wanted to walk beside Sieun.

But because — for the first time in a long time — he felt like maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t failed at everything.

Even if he still limped. Even if he’d sweated through rehab and his shoulder ached and he was exhausted.

Today, he’d done something that made Sieun smile.

And that made Suho feel…

Like a kid who finally got his drawing put on the fridge.

Proud. Shy. Lit up from the inside.

And he wanted to keep that feeling.

Even if it only lasted a little while.

Suho’s fingers curled tighter around the paper. Lowered his gaze, cheeks flushing, like he didn’t know what to do with kindness that quiet.

Sieun watched him — soaking in that softness.

The way Suho looked proud and uncertain all at once.

The way his leg swung again, just barely, like a little kid who couldn’t sit still.

And then, out of nowhere, Sieun heard himself say it.

“Or maybe,” he murmured, eyes still on Suho’s face, “we should just go back home. You need rest. You must be tired.”

The words hung in the air like a pebble tossed into still water.

Suho’s head snapped up.

“Yah,” he said, scandalized.

Sieun blinked.

“I’m not tired,” Suho huffed, doing the softest little pout.

There it was again.

That pout.

Again.

That same tiny sulk.

So much younger than his face. So much softer than his voice ever allowed.

And Sieun —

He didn’t even try to stop the twitch in his lips this time.

Why… why did he say that?

To tease him?

Had he, of all people, just teased Suho?

Suho was still pouting, eyes narrowed, mouth tugged down. Still holding the brochure like it was the most precious thing in the world.

And before Sieun could stop himself—

“…But you look tired,” he said. “We should go some other time.”

He waited.

Watched.

And sure enough, the pout intensified.

“No!” Suho sulked, clutching the pamphlet tighter. “I’m not tired. I want to go. Here. Today. Right now.”

He held the paper up with both hands — both hands — like a child trying to prove his point.

And then —

He winced.

Just a flicker. A barely-there twitch of his shoulder from holding it up too long. The arm he’d been overusing in rehab.

Sieun’s heart stumbled.

The teasing flickered. Guilt crept in.

But strangely — it wasn’t the heavy kind. It was mixed with something else.

Because he understood now.

He knew exactly why he’d said it.

Why he teased him.

Why he wanted to keep teasing him.

It was because of that pout.

That tiny, innocent, adorable pout on his best friend’s face.

That glimpse of Suho that felt untouched by all the pain — still silly, still soft, still Suho underneath it all.

And maybe… maybe he liked this version a little too much.

Maybe he shouldn’t.

But he did.

And he kept looking at Suho like he couldn’t look away.

Yeah. He probably shouldn’t go there.

In THAT deep thought.

But as Suho puffed his cheeks again and glared at the brochure like it held all the joy in the world…

Sieun knew he was already there.

They didn’t move right away.

Sieun leaned back against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other, arms folded like he was just resting — but his eyes kept drifting sideways.

To Suho.

Who was still holding that brochure like a victory flag.

His legs swung faintly — back and forth, back and forth — the way someone did when they were too happy to sit still but didn’t want to look too excited about it. As if moving helped contain it, soften the edges of a joy too large for his chest.

Sieun’s lips twitched.

It was ridiculous, really.

The boy beside him was taller than him, younger by a few months, but someone who had punched walls and people and fate itself just to stay alive. And yet, right now — in this moment — he looked like a kid who’d just been promised his first field trip.

Soft cheeks still tinged pink. Lips puffed into a sulk that had already melted into something more bashful. Fingers curled tight around a folded paper that, by all appearances, might as well have been a golden ticket.

He looked—

“You’re really not tired?” Sieun asked, voice quiet now, almost like he didn’t want to ruin the spell.

Suho huffed, mock-offended. “Tired of you teasing me, maybe.”

Sieun bit back a grin. Then tilted his head, letting his voice drop just a little lower — calm and level.

“Let’s rest here for a bit anyway.”

Suho squinted. “I said I’m not tired.”

“I am,” Sieun said easily.

“I am tired. So let’s rest here for a bit.”

That made Suho pause.

Because he wasn’t stupid — no matter how much his cheeks puffed when pouting.

He blinked. Narrowed his eyes slightly.

“You’re lying.”

Sieun raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

Suho bit his lip.

Then glanced down at his own legs.

Yeah… okay.

Maybe he was a little tired.

His thighs were starting to throb — faint, but there. His good arm felt heavier now, his back ached in that dull way it always did after standing too long. But somehow, it felt less like pain, and more like… an earned tiredness.

But still.

Still.

The fact that Sieun would say he was the tired one — just to give Suho a break without making him feel weak — it did something strange to Suho’s chest.

A tiny flutter.

A dizzy warmth.

It made him want to kick his heels harder and grin like a fool and also hide under a table at the same time.

So he didn’t argue anymore.

He just went quiet, kicking his heels faintly against the leg of the chair, the softest smile creeping back to his lips.

That’s when Sieun reached into the small bag beside him. There was a rustle, then—

A juice box.

Peach-flavored.

Suho blinked.

Then a protein bar — almond and oats, the exact kind Suho never bought for himself but always liked.

“You… brought snacks?” he said, blinking again, as if it didn’t register right away.

Sieun shrugged. “Figured you might need something. Rehab burns energy.”

And just like that — Suho’s chest bloomed again.

God.

Why was it worse when it was this kind of care?

The soft, everyday kind. Not flashy or dramatic. Just simple. Intentional.

Someone remembering the flavor he liked. Someone thinking ahead for him.

Someone seeing him.

He took the juice. Opened the straw. Started sipping slowly, quietly.

Warmth rose to his ears.

And then—

“Do you want to change before we go?” Sieun asked, voice gentle. “Shirt’s in the bag.”

Suho froze mid-sip.

Then slowly, eyes still on the juice box, he asked — soft and shy, barely above a whisper:

“Are you… coming in with me?”

Sieun blinked.

His body went still.

What?

He turned fully to face Suho, expression unreadable, waiting for an explanation — anything.

But Suho was already shrinking in on himself. His ears were turning pink. “I mean—just asking. So I know. In case I—never mind.”

Sieun stared.

He didn’t understand Suho. Not fully. Not when he was like this.

One minute he acted like he didn’t need anyone. Like he wanted space and silence and distance.

The next — he looked up with wide eyes and asked questions like this.

Did he want Sieun to come with him? Was he nervous? Was it about comfort, about safety? Was it a quiet way of saying he didn’t want to be alone?

Or… was he afraid Sieun would follow anyway?

Sieun didn’t know.

But he did know one thing.

He wanted to follow.

Not to invade his space — never that.

But to be there. To check if he needed help. To make sure his shoulder didn’t pull, his ribs didn’t flare up, that his arm wasn’t trembling again when he thought no one was watching.

But Suho was also Suho. And when he said no, it meant no.

Sieun had learned that the hard way.

So this time — instead of assuming anything — he just answered, slow and steady:

“…Only if you want me to.”

Suho didn’t reply.

He just sipped his juice again, cheeks still pink, gaze now trained firmly on the floor tiles in front of him.

But his leg kept swinging.

That smile stayed on his lips.

And Sieun—

Sieun just kept watching.

Because maybe he liked this version of Suho too much.

This version who asked shy little questions and pouted when teased. Who clutched paper brochures like precious gifts and got giddy over peach juice and protein bars.

This version who still had softness left in him, after everything he’d been through.

And yeah.

Maybe Sieun shouldn’t be thinking that.

Maybe he shouldn’t look at Suho like he was afraid to blink.

Maybe he should stop letting his chest swell like this whenever Suho smiled.

But he didn’t.

Because Suho looked happy.

And Sieun—

He really, really liked seeing him like that.

 

They didn’t move immediately.

The hallway outside the rehab lounge was quiet now, dust particles dancing lazily in the sunlight filtering through the window blinds. The soft hum of ceiling fans above mixed with distant voices from the reception, and for a moment, the world felt… slowed.

Suho sat still in his chair, legs gently swinging, not because he was trying to — but because he couldn’t help it. Like a child waiting for his turn at something exciting. His crutch leaned against the wall beside him, forgotten, as he stared at the folded brochure still clutched tightly in both hands.

His fingers had wrinkled the paper a little. He didn’t care.

Sieun stood beside him now, bag slung back on his shoulder, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing a few loose wrappers into his palm — the protein bar cover, the crinkled juice box. He walked over to the bin across the lounge and tossed them out, precise as always.

When he turned back, he didn’t say anything immediately.

He just… looked.

At Suho.

At the boy who’d once been all fire and fists and that maddening, unbearable pride. The boy who would’ve rather bled than ask for help. Who once flinched away from a hand on his shoulder.

Now?

Now he was sitting here with cheeks still pink from a little teasing, legs swinging like a kid fresh out of school, holding onto a brochure like it was a treasure map.

Sieun’s chest did something strange.

Tightened? Softened?

Both.

Maybe both.

He took a step forward. Then another. Came to stand directly in front of Suho and lowered himself just slightly — enough to meet his eyes.

“You ready?” he asked, gently.

Suho perked up instantly. His fingers gripped the paper tighter, a faint excited spark in his eyes.

And then — as he reached for his crutch, trying to pull himself up with a soft grunt — his balance faltered.

It happened in a flash.

His foot slipped just a little, the crutch wobbled, and his weight tilted forward — dangerously fast.

Sieun didn’t think. His body moved before his brain caught up.

One arm around Suho’s waist, the other steadying his good arm — and suddenly, they were pressed close.

Chest to chest.

Their breaths collided.

Suho froze.

His face was buried lightly against Sieun’s collar, the scent of laundry detergent and something warmer — something distinctly Sieun — washing over him. He didn’t breathe for a second. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t pull away.

He blinked — once, twice — staring somewhere past Sieun’s shoulder, eyes still wide.

The warmth of that hug — accidental or not — spread through him like sunlight through skin. Gentle. Unexpected. Addictive.

He could feel Sieun’s breath near his temple, his fingers curled instinctively around Suho’s side to keep him from tipping again.

And Suho—

Suho didn’t want to move.

Not yet.

But then his gaze shifted.

Just beyond Sieun’s shoulder, near the far hallway — someone was staring.

A girl.

Standing awkwardly near the vending machine. A notebook tucked to her chest. Her brows were faintly furrowed, lips pressed into a neutral line, but her eyes—

Her eyes were on Sieun.

Suho’s chest tightened.

He blinked again, this time sharper. He didn’t know her name, didn’t recognize her fully, but something about her face itched at his memory. Maybe someone from a previous session? A staff member? A volunteer?

Whoever she was, her gaze was fixed — not on him. On Sieun.

Something about the way she looked at him made Suho’s stomach curl.

Not jealousy. Not exactly.

More like… intrusion.

This moment — this tiny, accidental, perfect moment — felt too private to be watched. Too soft to be shared.

And she was seeing all of it.

Suho swallowed and straightened slightly, cheeks red now for an entirely different reason.

Sieun noticed.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and steady.

Suho nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Sieun helped adjust the crutch under his arm properly, gave him a second to settle, then guided them down the corridor toward the changing rooms.

But Suho’s mind didn’t quiet.

The girl.

She was still there.

He spotted her reflection in a glass panel they passed — still looking, brows furrowed as if puzzled or… bothered.

By what?

He didn’t know.

But it rubbed him wrong.

And for some reason, before he even realized it, Suho glared at her.

Like — full-on, subtle-but-deadly, schoolyard-level glare.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was there. A silent little warning that made his nose wrinkle and his lips press together.

Sieun caught the expression in the reflection too.

He sighed.

“What now?” he asked, tone caught between exasperation and concern.

Suho just grumbled under his breath.

Sieun sighed again, this time deeper.

He thought maybe Suho was embarrassed.

About tripping. About needing help.

And honestly… Sieun didn’t want to push it anymore.

If Suho was slipping back into that prideful shell again, maybe it was best to give him some space. Let him breathe.

So when they reached the changing room, Sieun did exactly that.

He stopped at the door, opened the bag again, and pulled out a clean, neatly folded T-shirt.

He extended it toward Suho with a neutral expression, standing just outside the threshold.

Suho, already halfway inside, paused.

His brows drew together.

He looked at the shirt, then at Sieun.

Then back at the shirt.

Why wasn’t he coming in?

The pout formed again. Slight. Soft. Familiar.

Sieun saw it. Oh, he saw it.

And he swore under his breath because this — this — was impossible.

How was he supposed to keep up with this emotional kaleidoscope of a person?

Just ten minutes ago Suho was wide-eyed and giddy over a garden flyer. Now he looked like a scorned puppy being left outside the grocery store.

Sieun ran a hand down his face.

Then said nothing.

He just walked in.

Because fine. Whatever.

He was done guessing.

Let Suho pout.

Let him glare at strangers.

Let him cling and scowl and swing his legs and stare at doors like they’d personally wronged him.

He’d still follow.

Even if he never got the answers.

Even if he didn’t know why his heart thudded so hard when Suho smiled like that.

The air inside the changing room was faintly cool, the tiles clean, the small bench tucked against the wall like it had been waiting just for them. A folded towel sat near the edge, likely placed by a staff member earlier, and the faint scent of disinfectant lingered.

Sieun set the bag down in the corner.

Suho had walked in quietly, wordless, that soft pout still pressed into his lips — not angry, but somewhere between sulking and waiting for something.

Sieun was starting to get good at reading the difference.

He handed Suho the clean shirt again, but Suho didn’t take it.

Just stared at the floor. Then at the door.

Sieun followed his gaze. The door was half-open, like someone could walk in at any moment. He didn’t say anything — just reached out, walked over, and quietly shut it.

The click was soft.

Suho looked up.

Sieun turned back to him.

Their eyes met.

No words.

Just that strange weight between them again — not heavy, but full. Dense. Thick with all the unspoken things that always hovered between their silences.

“Sit,” Sieun said quietly, tapping the stool.

Suho obeyed without a word.

He sat carefully, adjusting his weight to keep pressure off his bad leg, fingers curling into his lap like they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves.

Sieun crouched in front of him.

He reached out slowly, lifting the hem of Suho’s shirt.

Suho flinched — not from pain. From nerves.

But he didn’t stop him.

So Sieun kept going.

The shirt came off in slow, gentle motions, mindful of the injured arm, of the healing muscles, of everything tender beneath the surface. Once off, Sieun glanced at Suho’s skin — sweat-slicked, slightly flushed, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

“You okay?” Sieun asked.

Suho nodded, eyes flickering away.

His ears were pink.

“I can call the trainer,” Sieun offered gently. “You can shower here if you want.”

Suho’s head shot up so fast his hair flopped forward over his eyes.

“No,” he said, quick and firm.

Sieun blinked.

“…You sure?”

Suho nodded. Again.

More emphatically. His face said everything.

No way was anyone else — trainer, nurse, stranger — touching him. Not like this. Not ever again.

Not after everything.

Only Sieun…

 

Sieun understood.

He didn’t ask again.

Instead, he took out a napkin, found a small water bottle in the side pocket of the bag, and wet the cloth with quiet precision. Then crouched again — gentler this time, moving like he was approaching a small, wounded animal.

He held the damp napkin up.

Suho didn’t take it.

Just stared.

Still pouting.

Still… waiting?

Sieun sighed under his breath.

He reached forward and began wiping the sweat away himself.

Slow. Careful. Almost reverent.

The cloth passed over Suho’s collarbone, down his arm, around the curve of his ribs. Then his back.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

But his breathing had changed.

A little more shallow.

A little more aware.

Sieun glanced up once.

Suho’s face was turned to the side, away from him.

Expression unreadable.

“Suho,” Sieun said softly, “What’s wrong?”

No answer.

Just that sulky look again. Poutier now.

Sieun dabbed behind his ear, wiped the back of his neck. His voice was calm.

“I can’t read your mind, you know.”

Still nothing.

Only silence.

A silence so loud it echoed.

“Are you mad at me?”

More silence.

Then — finally — a tiny voice, muttered like it was pulled from the depths of a sulk:

“…No.”

Sieun tilted his head.

“Then what?”

Suho didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just puffed his cheeks faintly and kept looking at the door.

Sieun followed his gaze.

Then back at him.

The gears clicked.

He exhaled slowly.

“Do you… wanna go home?”

Suho’s head jerked toward him.

Eyes wide.

“No.”

Sieun blinked.

“…You sure?”

Suho’s voice was firmer now. “Yeah. I wanna go there. To that place.”
“With you.”

Something in Sieun relaxed.

He folded the napkin and with the dry part gently dried off Suho’s arms and chest, patting lightly — careful not to rub too hard.

Then picked up the fresh shirt.

He helped Suho wear it gently, guiding his good arm through first, then moving slower with the injured one — always watching for a wince, always adjusting the collar and seams so nothing tugged.

Suho let him.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t even pretend to fuss.

And when the shirt finally settled over his torso, Sieun stepped back slightly, brushing Suho’s sweat damp bangs away with the pads of his fingers.

Just like that.

Slow. Soft. Thoughtless.

Suho’s heart stumbled.

Loud enough that it echoed in his ears.

His eyes flicked up — wide and blinking, like someone who’d been caught off guard in a dream.

Sieun didn’t look away.

Just stared back.

Calm. Steady. Familiar.

Then he stepped back and picked up the bag.

Swung it over his shoulder with one hand.

With the other — he reached out and helped Suho stand again, this time with more care, more balance, more shared weight.

Outside the room, they paused again in the hallway.

Sieun pulled out something from the side pocket.

A cap.

He turned it in his hands once.

Then reached up and slid it over Suho’s head.

Gently.

Deliberately.

Like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Suho froze.

His hands gripped the crutch tighter. His breath hitched.

He remembered — vividly — the times he’d done this for Sieun.

The helmet. The strap. The quiet protectiveness of it.

Now — it was being returned.

His lips twitched. Slowly.

A shy, startled little smile bloomed without warning.

He looked down, face flushed, lips barely holding the grin in place.

Sieun noticed.

But didn’t comment.

Just gave his shoulder a small nudge.

“Shall we go?”

Suho nodded once. Quick.

Then, as they started walking, Sieun asked, “Bus or taxi?”

Suho didn’t think.

Didn’t plan.

Just felt that warm, fluttery something bubbling again.

And before he could stop himself, it slipped out.

“I’m fine with anything…”

He looked up.

“…As long as you’re with me.”

Sieun paused mid-step.

His brows lifted slightly — like he wasn’t expecting it. At all.

Then he looked away, eyes flicking down and then off to the side — and gave the softest smile Suho had ever seen on him.

A private little thing.

Quick. Real. Beautiful.

Suho saw it.

Oh, he saw it.

And if his heart hadn’t already been a mess — it completely gave up now.

They walked slow.

Very slow.

But for once, neither of them minded.

Because yeah — maybe the world didn’t need to rush.

Not when something like this was finally happening.

 

.
.
.

 

The taxi ride to the garden had started out peaceful.

Suho, warm and slightly flushed, was still buzzing from earlier. That silly cap Sieun had put on him sat just right, making him look like a kid on a school trip. He even smiled a little, soft and real, when the wind from the window blew his bangs back.

It should have stayed like that.

But Sieun was thinking.

Suho had snapped at him earlier. Not harshly, but still — the tone in the changing room, the frown, the “why aren't you coming in” pout that felt more confused than cute. And Sieun didn’t know what to make of it.

Did I push too far?

Did he not want me to help him wipe down like that?

Was it weird? Too familiar?

He didn’t know.

Sieun could solve math problems in his sleep. He could predict exam outcomes with 87% accuracy based on attendance alone. But Suho?

Suho was a maze he hadn’t figured out how to walk through.

So this time, he pulled back.

When Suho started to lean against him in the taxi, he gently shifted closer to the window. Not to be cold. Just to give him air.

When he offered music, he gave both earphones — not just one, like usual. Because maybe Suho didn’t want to share right now. Maybe he needed his own space.

“I’ll just rest,” he said.

Then leaned his head to the glass, folding his arms, eyes half-lidded — not asleep, but quiet.

He could feel Suho fidgeting.

Could hear the mini-huffs, the dramatic sighs.

Still, he didn’t move.

He told himself it was better this way. Let Suho lead. Let Suho reach if he wanted.

But inside?

Yeah, it was killing him a little.

Because he wanted to lean closer.

Wanted to adjust Suho’s cap again.

Wanted to ask if his leg was hurting.

But the last time he tried something — tried helping — Suho went quiet and pouty and didn’t meet his eyes.

So he waited.

And Suho?

Was definitely not handling that well.

Because Suho, on the other hand, was having a full pout crisis by minute ten.

Why Sieun offered him both earbuds and not just one?

Why wasn’t he making small comments like “you’re humming off-beat” or “this song is trash”?

Why was he pretending to sleep when they both knew he never actually napped in cars?

He turned to him again, frown deepening. “You’re being quiet.”

Sieun blinked, looking over with a calm expression. “So are you.”

Suho made a face. “Because you’re being weird.”

Sieun gave a mild shrug. “I’m resting.”

“Liar,” Suho muttered.

Sieun’s brow twitched but he didn’t answer. Just sighed again — soft and unreadable — and looked away.

And that?

That annoyed Suho more than if he’d snapped.

He sank further into the seat, arms crossed, pout now in full bloom.

Tch. What even was this day anymore?

Earlier, Sieun had been so soft. Like absurdly, heart-meltingly soft. Wiping Suho’s sweat without flinching. Asking gently about showering like it was no big deal. Combing his hair back with those careful fingers.

Like he’s done it a million times.
Like I was…

Suho bit the inside of his cheek.

And now this?

Silence? Cold shoulder?

He crossed his arms tighter.

Maybe Sieun was mad.

 

Sieun, still watching the scenery roll by with a quiet frown, caught Suho’s pout in the corner of his eye.

He looked… fluffed up.

Like a cat with wet fur. Slightly offended by air itself.

Sieun sighed internally.

He really didn’t get it.

Do I baby him too much?
Was I supposed to not help him back there?
But then again, if I hadn’t, he would’ve fallen straight off the bench.

He didn’t have a manual for this.

And every time Suho pouted like that — without context, without clues — Sieun just wanted to give up and say “fine, I’ll carry you around like a koala again until you stop sulking.”

But he couldn’t do that.

Not now. Not after the way Suho went quiet earlier when he did something similar.

Better let him lead today.
Just for now.

 

By the time they reached the garden, the sun was lower, casting everything in soft gold. Petals drifted like lazy snowflakes, and the place looked like a scene straight out of a spring romance anime.

But Suho?

Was still stewing.

He opened the taxi door before Sieun could get out. Clumsily but determined.

Didn’t wait for help. Even though the step was uneven. Even though his crutch slipped a little.

Sieun had half a mind to rush to his side, but he held back — watching with cautious eyes.

Suho made it to the gate first.

By the time Sieun caught up and opened it for him, Suho didn’t even glance at him.

But their eyes met anyway. And for a moment, Sieun softened again.

Because pouty or not, annoyed or not — Suho still had that pink tint on his cheeks. Still had that stubborn sparkle in his eyes. Still had that little way of looking everywhere but directly at Sieun when he was trying to hide something.

And yeah.

It was still cute.

They hadn't even passed the iron gate yet, and Suho already slowed down.
Something was different about the air here.
The narrow cobbled path ahead curved into an open, sun-dappled space. And beyond it—was a garden so surreal, Suho actually blinked.
His steps paused altogether.
“Woah…” he breathed, like someone seeing snow for the first time.
It was—
It was perfect.
The garden stretched out before them in waves of soft pastels. Cherry blossom trees lined the edges like gentle guards, their petals lazily drifting in the warm breeze. The entire place was lit in that golden-late-afternoon hue that made everything glow — like a still from a dream.
And right then, Suho forgot he was mad.
Forgot the car ride.
Forgot the sulking.
Forgot everything except—
“This is so pretty,” he said, voice breathy with awe. His lips widened, curling into a smile that hadn’t been there in hours.
Sieun, a step behind, tilted his head slightly, watching him.
“…Do you like it?” he asked, his voice soft, careful.
Suho didn’t even hesitate.
“No,” he said. Then turned to face him fully — the sunlight catching in his eyes.
“I love it.”
His tone had a lilt — sweet and light and full of sparkle — like a soft confession but without the weight. Just joy, pure and unfiltered.
Sieun's gaze didn’t waver. He simply nodded once, hiding the hint of a smile before it could form.
But inside, he was glad.
Relieved.
Because this was the plan.
Not to impress Suho.
But to lift him. Quietly. Calmly. Without more words.
After that sulky stretch in the car, Sieun had made a quiet decision:
No touchy-touchy.
No hovering.
No dragging Suho around like a child.
Suho clearly didn’t like it earlier when he tried to help too much. He had snapped, turned quiet. So fine. Sieun would give him space. Let him take the lead.
But now?
Seeing Suho’s smile bloom just from this—
Yeah. It was worth it.
As if to test fate, a cherry blossom petal landed right on top of Suho’s hair, nestling in the soft part of his fringe.
Sieun didn’t say anything at first. Just reached out and carefully picked it.
Fingers ghosting over Suho’s hairline, gentle as a whisper.
Suho blinked up at him. First at the petal, then at him. His breath caught just slightly.
Sieun showed it to him wordlessly.
And Suho wanted it.
He didn’t say so, but his eyes lingered just a bit too long on the pale pink curve of it in Sieun’s fingers. His lips parted like he was about to say something — but didn’t.
He didn’t need to.
Sieun quietly reached into the tote bag, pulled out Suho’s rehab progress diary — the one with the crinkled corners and silly bunny sticker Suho had added on Day 3 — flipped it open to a blank page, and gently pressed the petal inside.
Then looked up.
“Happy?”
Suho’s face lit up like the sun cracked inside him.
He nodded quickly, teeth peeking through his smile.
That kind of smile — wide, bashful, and completely unable to be hidden.
How— how did Sieun know?
He always claimed he couldn’t read Suho’s mind, but look at him.
Reading Suho's unspoken whims like subtitles.

“Let’s go sit,” Sieun said quietly, nodding toward a bench under a blooming tree. One with a clear view of the central fountain.
Suho nodded, heart still dancing in his chest.
The petals swirled around them like something choreographed. The warm light touched every surface — leaves, benches, and the glint of water in the distance. The air carried a delicate floral scent, mingling with something woody and fresh.
They reached the bench slowly.
Sieun didn’t offer his hand this time — remembering earlier, the pout, the pull-back. But he did slow his steps, angling himself near enough in case Suho wobbled.
And Suho noticed.
He noticed everything.
How Sieun was giving him just a little more room. How he wasn’t reaching out unless Suho asked. It wasn’t cold. Just... considerate.
And he liked it.
No — he loved it.
The bench was old, wooden, and shaded by soft pink leaves. Suho eased himself down onto it, letting out a soft sigh, not from exhaustion, but peace.
Sieun sat beside him a moment later — their shoulders not touching, but close enough that Suho could feel the space between them hum.
The fountain trickled nearby.
Birds chirped softly.
Somewhere, windchimes clinked faintly in the breeze.
Suho leaned back, closed his eyes, and just breathed. The cleanest breath he’d taken in months.
No wires.
No tubes.
No waiting rooms.
Just this.
Just air.
Just… life.
He kept his eyes closed, lips still tugged up.
Sieun glanced sideways at him — the sunlight catching on Suho’s cheek, the faintest pink still dusted across his nose.
He smiled to himself.
Okay. Bringing Suho here? Definitely worth it.
He glanced at his watch.
Ah.
Late for lunch.
He leaned in just a little, brushing his fingers gently against Suho’s arm.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.
Suho barely cracked his eyes open. “Hmm?”
“I’ll go get something to eat.”
“M’kay.”
Suho didn’t even lift his head. He was too relaxed, too floating. He gave a tiny wave of fingers that barely lifted from his lap.
Sieun stood, giving him one last look before turning toward the small garden café at the corner.

Suho kept his eyes closed for a few more seconds.
Then opened them slowly.
The petals were still falling.
His fingers gently tapped the rehab diary in his lap.
His lips curled into a soft smile — quiet, small, but utterly full.
And somewhere deep inside, he was already planning which page to paste that petal on permanently.
Because this?
This wasn’t just a garden visit.
It was a core memory.

Suho wasn’t sure how long Sieun had been gone.
Five minutes? Ten?
Time blurred when the wind was this gentle — rustling through the blossoms, brushing his cheeks with soft petals like nature itself was trying to flirt with him.

He was so caught up in watching the way sunlight filtered through pink leaves that he didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close.

He looked up — and blinked.

Sieun was walking toward him, tray in one hand, a paper bag tucked beneath his arm. Calm as ever. Effortless. Like he belonged in this scene — like he was part of the garden.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed slightly up, hair brushed cleanly over his forehead, and his face—

Suho’s breath caught.

There was something different about Sieun’s face today.
It wasn’t the lack of a scowl — that was rare but not impossible.
It was the way the corners of his lips lifted just slightly, like he was quietly amused about something sweet and wasn’t going to tell anyone. A secret smile. A private softness.

Suho’s eyes widened as he noticed the tray.

Sieun noticed his expression and tilted his head. “What?”

Suho leaned a little. “Is that—?”

Sieun stopped in front of him, lowered the tray onto the bench between them, and sat down.
Then — with zero ceremony — he shrugged. “Let’s make it a cheat day.”

Suho blinked. “Huh?”

Sieun glanced sideways at him and gave the faintest smirk. “You’re allowed to eat this. Just today.”

Suho gawked. “You’re serious?”

Sieun nodded, nonchalant. “You’ve been good lately. So… consider this your reward.”

Suho’s mouth twitched. He didn’t even bother hiding the smile this time. “A reward, huh?”

The tray held a proper meal — a tidy bento box with grilled chicken, rice, and vegetables… and beside it, a small side container of neatly cut fruit.

But Suho only had eyes for the last box.

Mini pancakes. Fluffy golden discs stuffed with chewy mochi, drizzled in strawberry syrup and sprinkled with powdered sugar.

“Holy crap,” Suho whispered, his grin blooming.

Sieun didn’t comment. Instead, he pulled a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket and — without a word — took Suho’s hand, gently opened his palm, and squirted a pump of gel into it.

Suho stared at his hand. “You’re unreal.”

“Clean your hands.”

“You’re literally unreal.”

Sieun ignored him and rubbed his own palms clean. “You’re the one always touching things.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“Just saying.”

Suho huffed a little laugh, then obediently rubbed in the sanitizer.

The entire exchange was so normal. So easy. Like they did this every day.

Sieun handed him a juice box, popped the straw in, and nudged the tray closer.

“Eat slowly.”

Suho nodded — and it hit him again, just how tender Sieun was being. Not in a dramatic way. Not in some movie-style gesture. But in the way that mattered more.

In the way that said:
I noticed you.
I thought of you.
I brought your favorite.
I’m here.

Suho picked up a piece of pancake, took a bite, and nearly melted.
“Okay this is insane,” he mumbled through a mouthful.

Sieun simply glanced at the tray and nodded, satisfied. No big reaction. Just… pleased.

Suho’s eyes drifted around again while chewing.

The garden had filled up more since earlier. The path wound through patches of cherry blossom trees, each spot dotted with people — but one thing stood out.

Couples. So many of them.

Everywhere he looked, people were leaning into each other, resting heads on shoulders, feeding each other snacks. One couple posed for selfies beneath a tree. Another sat tucked beneath a shared umbrella. A guy gently fixed a girl’s hair while she laughed. A pair held hands as they strolled near the edge.

Even farther off, there were friends hanging out, college kids playing cards, a family of four unpacking a picnic…

But the couples?

They were everywhere.

Suho chewed slower. A weird feeling stirred in his chest.

Was this a dating spot?

Like — officially?

His mind scrambled to recall the sign at the entrance. No, nothing about couples only. But still…

He looked down at the tray in front of him.
Then over at Sieun.

Sitting so close.
Hands neatly folded.
Posture relaxed.
Eyes soft as he picked out the juiciest slice of orange and pushed it toward Suho’s side of the tray.

He was being so careful. So gentle.

So… Sieun.

Suho stared.

His best friend — his always-serious, emotionally unreadable, blunt-as-hell best friend — was sitting under cherry blossoms, feeding him sweets, making sure he drank enough juice, and reminding him to sanitize.

His brown eyes looked different today too.

He always thought Sieun had ocean eyes — maybe because of their depth. But today, Suho saw something else. That quiet stillness. The calm. The softness.

Dove eyes.

And when those dove-brown eyes slowly turned to meet his own—

Suho froze.

Then choked.

A real, actual choke. Pancake got stuck, and Suho coughed sharply, jerking forward, one hand flying to his mouth.

Sieun moved instantly. “Suho?”

His hand landed softly between Suho’s shoulder blades, rubbing once, then again.

“Drink,” he said, already holding the water bottle toward him.

Suho drank, coughed, then drank again. “I’m— I’m good,” he croaked out.

Sieun didn’t say anything right away, but his eyes were on him — watching, checking.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Suho nodded too fast. “It just went down wrong.”

Sieun slowly pulled his hand back. “Don’t eat so fast.”

“Noted,” Suho muttered, cheeks blazing.

Let’s not think about that, he told himself.
About how he choked like an idiot.
About how soft Sieun’s hand was.
About how Sieun’s voice dipped a little lower when he was worried.

Definitely not about how they looked from the outside right now.

Just… don’t think about any of it.

They lapsed into silence again — not uncomfortable, just… quiet.

Suho took another small bite of the pancake, chewing slower this time. His body had relaxed, but his thoughts? Not so much.

Because now that he’d noticed… he couldn’t un-notice.

Everywhere he looked — couples.

They were tucked into every corner of this park like it was some secret lovers’ haven and no one had warned him. Seriously, was this listed under "Romantic Date Spots" on some Seoul blog or something?

He spotted another couple walking hand-in-hand down the cherry-blossom path. The guy leaned in, whispered something into the girl's ear, and she laughed, swatting at him playfully.
Farther off, there were a few groups of friends chatting and laughing, one or two families with small children tossing snacks to pigeons. But even they blended into the backdrop.

Then he saw two friends sitting beneath a tree, arms linked, sharing a sketchbook. A boy leaned his head against his friend’s shoulder as he fed him a bite of cake.

Wait a second. Those two guys are … friends … right!?

RIGHT???

 

Because the couples… were the main feature here.

And Suho? He was sitting on a wooden bench. Beneath blooming pink petals. With his best friend. Sharing food from a single tray. Laughing softly. Getting his back rubbed when he choked.

And suddenly—

He couldn’t breathe.

Because what did they look like to other people? Just two guys hanging out?

Or did they look like…

A couple?

He replayed the last few minutes in his head.
Sieun handing him sanitizer.
Sieun feeding him fruit.
Sieun rubbing his back, whispering, “Drink slowly.”

All so seamless. So instinctive. So—

Soft.

Suho looked at him again.

Really looked.

Sieun was sipping juice now, eyes half-lidded, posture leaned just a little into the backrest. His features were calm, peaceful even — his long lashes brushing against his cheeks, his dove-brown eyes fluttering closed for half a second as the sunlight warmed his face.

The wind tousled a few strands of his hair across his forehead.

He was so pretty it almost hurt.

Not in a flashy way — not like the guys who turned heads in clubs or modeling contests. No, Sieun was the kind of pretty that crept up on you slowly. That made your chest ache without warning. That you noticed more and more, the longer you looked.

His fingers brushed against Suho’s as he shifted the tray slightly to balance it better. He didn’t even seem to notice.

But Suho did.

Every little thing.

His heartbeat skipped.

And then—

Those soft brown eyes turned, landing on him again.

Suho panicked.

He dropped his gaze too fast, coughed again — even though this time there was nothing in his throat — and reached for the juice like it was a lifeline.

Sieun blinked, setting his own drink down.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“Fine,” Suho rasped. “Just—just hot.”

Sieun reached into the paper bag and wordlessly handed him a napkin, the gesture so casual it made Suho’s stomach twist.

This wasn’t special to Sieun, was it?

This was just… how he took care of people.

Of Suho — right now — because Suho needed it.

Because Suho was still on crutches.
Because he still limped.
Because his arm still hurt.
Because he still wasn’t strong enough to shower without help some days.

And Suho wondered — not for the first time — what would happen when he was fully healed.

When the cast was gone.
When he could run again.
When he could lift things and climb stairs and live normally.

Would Sieun still be this soft with him?

Still remember to pack his favorite fruit?

Still hand him sanitizer without asking?

Still look at him with those warm, unreadable eyes?

Or was this version of Sieun temporary — reserved for now, while Suho was broken and needed fixing?

The thought stung more than he expected.

But then—

Sieun nudged his elbow. Not hard. Just enough to catch his attention.

“Try this,” he said, holding out a fork with another bite of mochi pancake.

Suho blinked.

And in that moment — that single heartbeat — all the worries quieted.

Because Sieun was still here.

Still being careful.

Still being his.

And if Suho’s cheeks burned pink as he leaned in and took the bite — well, neither of them mentioned it.

The syrup was sweet. The mochi soft. The taste lingered on his tongue like the memory was already forming.

Suho let out a soft sigh and leaned back against the bench. He watched the wind scatter more petals across the ground, brushing his fingers against one that landed on his thigh.

Would he press this one into his journal later?

Maybe.

Because today… today felt like a memory he never wanted to lose.

And if Sieun noticed how often Suho’s gaze drifted toward him — how he kept fidgeting, or how the blush never quite left his cheeks — he didn’t say anything.

But he did tilt his head, brow knitting slightly, like he was studying Suho again — trying to read him without asking aloud.

And then, without warning, he leaned forward slightly… and once again … brushed a petal from Suho’s hair.

Just a soft flick of his fingers. Just a blink.

But Suho?

He nearly forgot how to breathe again.

And maybe — just maybe — he didn’t mind how couple-like they looked after all.

Because if pretending helped him hold onto this softness a little longer…

He would pretend forever.

 

After they finished eating, Sieun quietly packed up the lunch boxes, folding the paper wrappers neatly and sliding them into the empty bag. He didn’t say much — just moved with that same quiet grace he always did, calm and collected like the wind barely rustled his thoughts. Once everything was stacked away, he zipped the bag shut… then unzipped another pocket.

Suho tilted his head. “What now?”

Sieun pulled out a familiar orange medicine bottle.

Suho blinked. Then huffed. “You brought my meds too?!”

Sieun didn’t reply.

Suho stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

His brain was spiraling. Who even does that? Who carries medicine around like a worried grandparent on a freaking— Wait.

What even was this?

A picnic? A day out? A hangout?

…A d—

No. Absolutely not. Nope. He cut that thought off like a guillotine. Whatever this was, it was not that.

Definitely not.

Sieun still hadn’t replied. Just looked at him like… like he was waiting for the tantrum to finish.

Suho narrowed his eyes. “Are you ignoring me?”

Still nothing.

Suho’s jaw dropped. “Yah—seriously? Okay, fine. I’m not taking them. Let’s see what you do now.”

That got Sieun’s attention. He blinked once. Then extended his hand to Suho like he expected him to take the pills anyway.

Suho whipped his face away, puffing his cheeks in rebellion. “Tch. I said no.”

A long sigh. “Are you serious right now?”

Another dramatic silence.

Then Sieun huffed — the most emotion he’d shown all morning — and began slipping the bottle back into his bag. “Fine,” he muttered. “I was thinking about giving you another treat, but if you’re gonna act like this…”

That made Suho’s head snap up so fast he winced.

“Ah—ow—dammit,” he hissed, reaching for his neck.

Sieun immediately looked concerned. “Hey, take it easy.”

But Suho was already sitting straighter, eyes sparkling like a kid in line for candy. “Wait, wait—what treat? What treat?!”

Sieun didn’t answer. He just lifted a brow, hand hovering over the half-zipped pocket.

Suho’s face fell. “Don’t do this to me. Come on. I’ll take them, okay? Happy?”

Sieun tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Suho blurted. “But—promise me the treat. It’s another reward, right?”

Sieun blinked like he was pretending to consider it. “Hmm… I don’t know…”

“Pleaseee,” Suho whined, tugging gently at Sieun’s bag like a puppy begging for a snack. “Come on. I want it.”

That finally made Sieun smile — a soft one, barely there, but warm enough to melt Suho’s insides.

Without another word, Sieun pulled the medicine bottle back out, twisted the cap, and handed it to Suho like he was trusting him with treasure.

Suho took it obediently, like a good boy. Already excited.

His chest felt weirdly full.

And fluttery.

And maybe a little stupid — but in the best way.

Sieun stood up, brushing off his pants. “I’m going to return the tray. Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

Suho popped the pills in his mouth, took a sip of water, and nodded. “Don’t forget my reward.”

Sieun was already walking away but raised one hand lazily in response — a silent Yeah, yeah, I heard you.

Suho watched him go.

His back. His shoulders. The sunlight glinting off his hair.

God, Suho thought, his fingers tightening around the bottle. Back in high school, I never imagined this.

Never imagined they'd end up here — not fighting gangs or skipping classes or running from rooftop brawls — but here, on a sun-drenched park bench… quietly taking care of each other.

Enjoying things.
Spending time.
Having this…
D—

Suho groaned aloud and slapped his cheeks.

“Not a date,” he mumbled under his breath. “Just a cute outing. A really, really cute—”

He paused. His lips twitched.

“…Super cute outing.”

The giddiness bubbled inside him again. Bright. Unstoppable.
Suho looked up when he heard footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path.
There he was.
Sieun, returning with both hands full—two tall cones of ice cream balancing delicately in his grasp, little rivulets of chocolate already beginning to melt and trail down the sides. The golden sun hit his hair just right, highlighting the brown in his strands, turning his whole frame into something dreamlike.
And for a moment, Suho forgot to breathe.

 

Because that? That was definitely for him.

And he’d never felt more spoiled.

Sieun walked over casually, like it was nothing, like he didn’t just look like the human version of soft. He held out one of the cones, eyes flicking toward Suho’s hand.
Suho blinked, then accepted the treat.
“Chocolate?” he asked, smiling.
Sieun gave a small nod, eyes drifting toward the bench as he sat beside Suho.
“Seriously? Double sugary treat?” Suho took one, eyebrows lifting. “You’re the one who said sugar slows recovery.”
“You’ve earned it,” Sieun replied.
Suho smiled, lips twitching into something stupid and giddy.
He took his first lick. “Wait—why is this warm?”
He leaned back a little, inspecting it like the ice cream had personally offended him. The outer chocolate was soft—fudgy, not quite melted but definitely not crisp.
He tried again. A bite this time.
And then, his brows slowly lifted.
“…Okay, why is this actually amazing?”
Sieun didn’t respond, just glanced at him sideways with that unreadable expression of his. Like he knew exactly what Suho would say before he said it.
“It’s so good,” Suho mumbled, licking again. “So good.”
Another bite.
“So sweet…”
And then, his brain did a thing. A completely stupid, ridiculous thing.
The ice cream is sweet.

So SO Sweet.

So like Sieun.

 

Suho froze.
Wait—what?

He stared at the ice cream like it had whispered something scandalous to him.
Where had that come from?
He snuck a glance at the boy beside him—who was casually licking his own cone, eyes relaxed, legs crossed like he had all the time in the world. Completely calm. Completely pretty.
Suho looked away again, ears tingling.
God. That was embarrassing.
He shoved more ice cream into his mouth just to give himself something to do.
The two of them sat like that in silence for a few moments. The air was soft and sweet, rustling through the trees above them.
There were some students around. And a few families. But the couples? The couples stood out.
Suho’s gaze darted around again.
Yeah. This IS a dating spot!
Oh god. He looked at Sieun again.
The boy was still beside him, completely at ease, eating his ice cream like they weren’t in the middle of a real-life romcom location.

Like he hadn’t just brought Suho here. Like they hadn’t shared lunch.

Like he hadn’t wiped Suho’s sweat in the changing room at rehab centre like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Suho’s heart was thumping now.
And still, he thought—
He looks so soft today.
So gentle.
So… fluffy.

His features were delicate in the daylight. Those brown, dove-shaped eyes that somehow looked like the ocean in the right kind of light. His lips were pink from the cold ice cream. His lashes long, catching the sun.

And when Sieun turned to glance at Suho—those ocean eyes looking right at him—

Suho panicked once again and choked.
He tried to play it cool. He really did.
He licked his cone again, acting like he didn’t just nearly spiral over Sieun’s lips and the soft breeze that ruffled his hair.
But then—
A glob of the chocolate coating melted faster than he expected and landed right on the bottom of his shirt.
He flinched.

“Ugh—seriously?” he muttered, reaching for a tissue, but before he could, he heard something. A soft puff of breath.
Then a small sound, like someone trying too hard not to laugh.

Suho turned.

Sieun had looked away. His hand was half covering his mouth, but not his eyes—those were crinkled at the corners. His whole face was tilted ever so slightly to the side.

Like he was trying so hard not to break.

“What?” Suho narrowed his eyes.
Sieun blinked. “Nothing.”
“…You’re totally laughing,” Suho accused, licking his cone again. “What’s so funny?”
Sieun cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. “Nothing. Just—eat your ice cream.”

But his lips were twitching again. His face turned away slightly, shoulders shaking just a bit.
Suho narrowed his eyes more. “Yah. Look at me.”
Sieun didn’t.

“Yeon Sieun. I said—look at me.”
That did it.
Sieun turned, locked eyes with him—and lost it.
A full laugh spilled out of him. He broke completely. Shoulders shaking, eyes folding into soft crescents, and this ridiculous grin stretching across his face like he just saw the funniest thing in the universe.
Suho blinked.
Then blinked again.
Because holy shit.
That smile.
That laugh.

He was... so pretty.
Sieun was so pretty.
Like stupidly, unfairly pretty.
And somehow that made Suho's ears burn all over again. But he still glared, fake annoyed.

“What? What’s so funny?!”

Sieun tried to get a hold of himself, but failed miserably, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. “You…” he wheezed between laughter. “You have—chocolate. On your nose.”
0
Suho frowned. “What?!”
He opened the front camera on his phone, saw the smear, and groaned. “Oh god.”
But when he looked up—Sieun was still laughing.
Not even hiding it now. Just openly grinning at him like the sun itself came with dimples.
And Suho… couldn’t even be mad.
Because how could he be, when the boy beside him looked like this?
He looked back at his phone for a second—then his eyes flicked toward Sieun again, who had just turned away to catch his breath.
Click.
A photo snapped.
Sieun whipped around. “Did you just—?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Suho grinned, trying to hide his phone.
Sieun lunged forward, trying to grab it. “Delete it.”
“Nope.”
“Yah—”
But then Suho reached forward with a wicked grin, took a bit of his ice cream—and smeared it right on Sieun’s nose.
Sieun froze.
Suho gasped dramatically. “Oops.”
There was a pause.
A deadly one.
Then both of them burst into laughter.
Sieun groaned, but he couldn’t stop laughing. His face scrunched up as he shook his head, mumbling something that definitely sounded like “unbelievable.” And Suho was laughing too now—shoulders bouncing, hands covering his mouth, eyes shining.
He reached out quickly, resting a hand on Sieun’s shoulder.
And before Sieun could wipe the chocolate off, Suho tugged him closer like a wind speed and snapped a selfie.

“Hey Suho…”, Sieun started but couldn’t finish.

They were both laughing in it. Stupidly, breathlessly, beautifully.
And in that moment—with chocolate on both their faces, sun warming their backs, and laughter bubbling like it had always lived between them—Suho thought:
He’s so stupidly pretty.
And I’m never forgetting this day.

 

They finished their ice cream slowly, letting the sweetness melt into the quiet between them.

Suho was still catching his breath from how much they’d laughed. His cheeks ached from smiling, and the corners of his lips still twitched whenever he remembered the way Sieun had looked mid-laughter—eyes crinkled, nose scrunched, hair a little messy, and joy just pouring out of him like it had nowhere else to go. Like it had chosen Suho to land on.

He didn’t even want to blink. Just in case the moment vanished.

The breeze picked up. Soft and salty from somewhere far. The sky was dipping into warm amber now, the sun folding itself gently behind the park’s leafy silhouettes.

Sieun stood first, brushing the front of his pants casually. “I’m gonna use the restroom,” he said, voice light and easy. Then he looked down at Suho. “You coming?”

Suho blinked up at him. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I guess.”

Sieun reached into his bag and pulled out the black cap, holding it out silently.

But Suho shook his head, eyes half-lidded. “The sun’s almost gone… I wanna feel the wind.”

Sieun didn’t reply. Just tilted his head slightly, like he was processing that answer.

Then, with a soft hum, he tucked the cap back into the bag, zipped it, and adjusted it over his shoulder.

A second later, he reached up and casually ran his hand through his hair, pushing his fringe back from his forehead. It was such a normal, careless gesture. But somehow, it looked beautiful. The way his fingers moved. The ease in it.

Suho stared without meaning to.

He could’ve sworn it made the air feel warmer.

Sieun moved again. Quietly bent and picked up Suho’s crutches, like second nature, and held them out.

Suho reached for them, hesitated just slightly—but didn’t say anything. He was watching the way Sieun did all of this. Like it was normal. Like it wasn’t a chore. Like he didn’t even have to think about helping Suho because… helping Suho was just something he did.

It made Suho’s chest feel tight. Like something was stuck inside that couldn’t quite reach the surface.

They walked in silence. The gravel path curved gently toward a small grove with a public washroom. Lanterns began flickering on as they passed, bathing them in soft gold light. A few couples strolled past, shoulders brushing.

His eyes wandered briefly—then snapped back to Sieun walking just ahead of him, the strap of his bag resting diagonally across his chest, his hand occasionally reaching out, steadying Suho instinctively when the terrain wobbled.

 

When they reached the restroom area, Sieun turned to him with that same unreadable look. “You’ll be okay?”

Suho nodded. “Yeah. It’s just a washroom, not a battlefield.”

Sieun didn’t move.

“…I’ll wait here,” he said softly.

Suho frowned faintly. “You’re always hovering.”

But his voice lacked bite. And the flicker of amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

He made his way into the accessible stall. Sieun leaned against the outer wall and let out a small sigh. Then, unconsciously, he pushed his own bangs back again, eyes trailing up toward the darkening sky.

Inside, Suho washed up, adjusted his sleeve, and checked his phone briefly. Then stepped out.

“You’re here,” Sieun said, gently.

Suho rolled his eyes. “I didn’t drown in the sink, if that’s what you were hoping.”

Sieun didn’t respond. Just gave a small shake of his head, amused, and walked past him toward the restroom. “Wait here. I’ll be quick.”

Suho leaned on his crutch and moved toward the sinks outside. He took his time. The water was cold against his hands. He liked that.

And then—someone bumped into him from behind.

Not hard, but enough to make his crutch shift just slightly and his arm reach out to brace himself on the basin.

“Ah—!”

“Oh—shit, I’m so sorry!” a man’s voice said immediately, flustered and apologetic. “Didn’t see you there—are you okay?”

Before Suho could even speak, Sieun was back.

It was almost alarming how fast.

He must’ve heard the noise.

He hadn’t even buttoned his sleeve properly yet.

“Suho?” he said, rushing forward. “What happened?”

Suho straightened up, nodding quickly. “I’m okay. He just bumped into me.”

The man apologized again—genuinely—and left quickly. But as he walked away, he glanced back once.

And that glance—

That damn look.

Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… pitying.

Like Suho was someone to feel sorry for.

It hit him like a slap.

He clenched his jaw.

Sieun was still watching him. Quiet. Concerned.

Not pitying. But it felt the same. It reminded him. Made something curl inside his gut.

Suho looked down and muttered, “I’m fine.”

He walked past Sieun, making his way back toward the main path. The warmth from before? Gone. Replaced with something colder, quieter.

Sieun watched his back for a beat. Then silently turned toward the sinks, rinsed his hands, and followed.

The air between them now had a thickness. Not tension. Not anger. Just… something unsettled.

Suho didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him.

So Sieun did something unexpected.

“Wanna see something?” he asked, tone casual, like he hadn’t noticed anything different.

Suho blinked. “Huh?”

Sieun tilted his head toward a side path. “Come.”

And like always, Suho followed.

He followed reluctantly at first, still stewing a little from earlier, still not sure if Sieun was mad at him or just pretending not to be. But his feet moved anyway, because they always did when it was Sieun walking ahead.

They weren’t going back to the busy area. Not even toward the main path. Instead, Sieun led them down a narrow, shaded trail—one of those little park shortcuts only locals or regulars knew. Ferns brushed lightly at their legs. Overhead, leafy branches reached across and tangled together, letting sunlight through only in soft golden flecks, as if the trees were trying to whisper secrets.

The hush of the shortcut did something to Suho’s mind. Made his anger lose shape, unraveling quietly like a string in his chest.

Sieun walked a step ahead, hands in his hoodie pocket, shoulders relaxed. He didn’t say anything—just turned his head once, subtly, like he was checking that Suho hadn’t fallen behind.

Suho caught that. Of course he did.

He also caught the way the evening light skimmed across Sieun’s face, painting him in quiet golds and muted shadows. At one point, Sieun tilted his head back slightly, catching the breeze as it played with his hair. A strand fell over his forehead—and like clockwork, he pushed it back with that small, unconscious flick of his fingers.

Suho’s stomach fluttered. He didn’t know why.

The path ended at a clearing—small and quiet, like the world had folded in on itself for just the two of them. The lake opened out in front of them, glimmering orange and gold in the late sun. Ripples moved across the surface like music without sound. A few birds skimmed low over the water, dipping and rising like they were part of some quiet rhythm.

It was almost too pretty.

And for some reason, that made Suho’s throat feel tight.

Sieun stepped closer to the edge and stood there, silent, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He let the wind tug at his sleeves and hair, like he belonged to the scene. Like he’d always been part of this place, and Suho was just catching up.

Suho finally stopped beside him, shifting his crutch, letting the silence settle.

Sieun still didn’t look at him.

He just said, “You know… I’ve never really liked this part of the park.”

Suho blinked at him. “Then why’d you bring me here?”

Sieun’s lips curved, just slightly. “Because you never got to see it.”

There was a pause.

Suho’s breath caught. His heart flipped.

“…I figured maybe you’d like it,” Sieun added, still looking out at the water.

The words floated into the quiet. Simple. Soft. Honest.

And they landed like a weight in Suho’s chest.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at the view—at the lake, at the brush of wind on the water, at the way the trees rustled like they were applauding something invisible.

Then Sieun asked, without turning, “Was it that guy?”

Suho stiffened. “…What?”

“Back at the sink. That guy who bumped into you.”

“I told you I was fine.”

Sieun’s voice stayed calm. “I know …. But your face changed.”

Suho turned to look at him sharply.

“You were mad at first,” Sieun said quietly. “But then you looked… upset.”

That made Suho’s stomach twist.

He wasn’t used to people noticing things like that. Especially not things he hadn’t said out loud.

Sieun finally turned to him, brown dove eyes soft, steady. “What did he do?”

Suho hesitated. Then muttered, “He just… looked at me.”

“Looked?”

“Like I was pitiful. Like I shouldn’t be here. Like…” He faltered. Swallowed. “Like I was a burden.”

A breeze passed again. This time, Sieun’s bangs fell into his eyes—he pushed them back again, that same quiet flick of his fingers.

But his eyes never left Suho.

And then, calmly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world, he said, “You’re not.”

Suho’s eyes widened.

“I didn’t bring you here out of pity,” Sieun said, his voice softer now, like wind over water. “I brought you because I wanted to be with you. Here. Like this.”

And god. The way he said it.

Not dramatic. Not even blushing.

Just plain. Honest. True.

The last bit of heaviness in Suho’s chest gave way—like a knot that had finally been untied.

He looked at Sieun again. At his profile against the light. His fluttering bangs. His quiet expression. His soft, thoughtful eyes.

Something inside Suho clicked.

Something real.

“…It’s a nice view,” Suho said, almost shyly.

Sieun didn’t look away. “It is.”

But his gaze wasn’t on the lake.

It was on Suho.

 

They sat together on the edge of a smooth stone ledge near the lake, surrounded by swaying trees and golden light. The air was warm but easy — that perfect kind of weather where the world felt like it had finally exhaled.
The sun had started its descent, casting long shadows and coating the park in a rich orange hue. Everything — the trees, the rippling water, even the laughter in the distance — felt dipped in honey.
It was sunset.
That soft, glowing hour where time slowed down just enough for people to feel things they usually ignored.
And Suho felt everything.
The lake sparkled like fire-kissed glass, and the silhouettes of birds skimmed low over the water, wings catching just enough light to flash gold.
People gathered here and there — families tossing breadcrumbs, couples taking selfies against the light, kids racing across the grass with their arms wide like airplanes.
But in the middle of it all, beneath the low rustling branches, it felt like just the two of them.
Suho leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, chin tilted up toward the lake — but only half-looking. The other half of his focus, the one he wasn’t ready to admit out loud, was trained on Sieun.
Sieun sat beside him, calm and unreadable, his legs drawn up a little, one arm resting across his knee. The sunset light kissed his face in the softest ways — highlighting the curve of his cheekbone, the gentle dip of his jawline, the slight pink in his lower lip.
His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and the light caught the fine hairs on his forearms, made them glow. His bangs shifted with the wind, brushed occasionally across his forehead.
And Suho couldn’t stop looking.
Couldn’t stop glancing.
Couldn’t stop wondering how a person could look this good just sitting still in sunset light.
Then, Sieun stood.
“I’ll be back,” he said, voice casual, tilting his head toward a nearby park tap — one of those public ones with a small curved spout, meant for rinsing your hands or cooling off after a long walk.
Suho nodded but didn’t answer.
Just watched him go.
He thought, at first, that Sieun needed to stretch. Or maybe use the restroom.
But then he saw him.
Sieun bent forward, turned on the tap, and brought his hands to the stream. He splashed his face — slow, intentional — the water sparkling like melted glass as it slid down his skin.
Suho’s breath caught.
Because Sieun… in the sunset… water dripping down his face, hoodie sleeves rolled up, hair messy from the breeze—
He looked like he belonged to the moment.
Like someone had painted him into it.
God, Suho thought, helplessly. He followed me.
After the bump. After Suho had walked away, flustered and stupid and stung —
Sieun had followed.
No questions. No demand for explanations.
Just quiet steps behind him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And now here he was.
Face tilted to the side.
Water clinging to his lashes.
Fingers brushing his bangs back in that small, familiar motion that Suho had watched a thousand times.
But in this light… it felt new.
Like the first time.
Like something he wasn’t supposed to see, but had — and now couldn’t look away.
Sieun wiped his hands on a neatly folded handkerchief he pulled from his hoodie. Then he patted his cheeks. Then, again, pushed back his bangs with the cloth — that same small flick of the wrist.
And Suho just sat there.
Heart full. Stupidly, achingly full.
His chest felt lighter. Warmer.
His bad mood from earlier — gone. Just like that.
He didn’t know if it was the sunset or Sieun or both.
But everything inside him had quieted.
He quickly looked away the moment Sieun turned around.
Sieun walked not back to the stone seat, but toward a nearby snack cart. A thin trail of steam curled from the griddle, the smell of something sweet drifting in the air. The old woman behind it flipped golden gyeranppang — pillowy Korean egg bread, fresh and hot.
Sieun returned with two.
Held one out to Suho.
Their fingers brushed — light, accidental. But Suho felt it all the way in his spine.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Sieun nodded, sitting beside him again, shoulder brushing just slightly close.
They ate in silence — soft, fluffy bites and warm yolk melting on their tongues.
And Suho…
He was smiling now. A real one.
Why is it always like this with him?
Why does everything feel better the moment he’s around?
In the beginning — back in school — Suho had been confused by Sieun. By his silence. By his stillness.
He used to think quiet people were cold. Distant.
But over time, he’d come to understand.
Sieun’s quiet wasn’t emptiness.
It was a stillness Suho had never had.
A calm his chaos had never known.
Growing up, Suho’s life had been anything but still.
Part-time jobs. Late nights.
Fights in alleys. Exams he didn’t study for.
A halmoni who meant everything.
And the heavy silence that came from missing parents you never really got to know.
But Sieun’s presence had changed that.
When he was around, Suho didn’t have to brace himself.
He didn’t have to fight or explain or prove anything.
He could just sit.
Breathe.
Be.
“…If you weren’t with me right now,” Suho asked softly, voice breaking into the warmth, “where would you be?”
Sieun blinked once. Thought.
“Somewhere studying.”
Suho snorted. “Seriously?”
Sieun nodded. “Yeah.”
Suho grinned, eyes squinting in the light. “Damn. I’m sorry, then. I’m stealing your sacred study time.”

“You’re not,” Sieun said. “The book’s in the bag.”

Suho looked at him. “Then why’s it not in your hands?”

Sieun glanced forward again. “Because I chose not to read.”

 

“Why?”

 

There was a pause.

Then Sieun shrugged, just a little.
“…Because I felt like… just sitting here. Like this. With you.”

And Suho…
He looked at him.
Really looked.
Sieun’s face was turned slightly toward the lake. The orange light painted the side of his jaw, dipped gently over the curve of his neck, softened the shadows beneath his eyes. His expression wasn’t flustered. Wasn’t shy. Just quiet.
Just Sieun.
Suho smiled again. This time, it reached his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”
Sieun hummed, low and thoughtful, still staring at the water.
Suho, though —
He couldn’t stop looking.
Even when Sieun turned and caught him staring.
Even when he looked away again just as fast.

And then — out of nowhere —
Sieun muttered under his breath, “You know what… I should just read.”
Suho blinked. “What? No!”
Sieun was already reaching for his bag. “I should. You’re clearly bored of me.”
“I’m not! Don’t you dare—”
Too late. He pulled out the book and flipped to his bookmarked page with infuriating calm.
Suho let out a dramatic groan. “You’re unbelievable.”
And just then—
He saw it.
The tiniest smile.
Barely there. Just a soft twitch of the lips.
But it was real.
And in the middle of all that golden light, with birds dancing across the lake and laughter drifting behind them—
Suho fell for him.
A little more.

They stayed like that for a while.
Sieun, head bowed slightly over his book, flipping pages slowly — not rushed, not focused, just... touching each sentence like it was enough to be there with it.
Suho, beside him, had his phone resting in his palm now.
He wasn't texting.
He wasn’t even unlocking it yet.
He was just watching.
The way the orange glow kissed Sieun’s cheek.
The way his lashes curled down when he blinked slowly.
The way his hair, still slightly damp from earlier, clung gently to his forehead before he brushed it back again, fingers brushing along his temple like second nature.
Suho lifted the phone. Quietly. Carefully.
Framed the lake. The people. The sunset. The trees.
Click.
Click.
He smiled softly to himself, pretending to adjust the focus.
Then, casually, like he wasn’t doing anything important, he tilted the camera a little…
And captured him.
Sieun, in profile.
Face calm.
One leg pulled up, book resting against his knee, completely lost in the pages.
Sunlight threading through his hair, glowing around his silhouette like some gentle halo.
Click.
Another.
Click.
One more.
Suho swallowed.
He didn’t even know why he was doing this — why it felt important to capture Sieun like this.
He just knew it was.
Because no one ever saw Sieun like this.
Not like this.
Not in this quiet. Not in this light.
Not the way Suho did — as if Sieun were the calm center of a world that always spun too fast.
And Suho wanted to remember it.
The way he looked here.
Like peace. Like home.
Like something quietly beautiful — too unaware of its own softness.

But then the thought landed, sudden and selfish.
He didn’t want anyone else to see Sieun like this.
This version.
The softest version.
The one that felt like his alone.

Around them, people smiled. Laughed. Families threw crumbs to the fish. A little girl squealed and clung to her father’s leg. Someone nearby popped open a bottle of sparkling juice.
Suho looked around, lips slightly parted.
Everyone was smiling.
Everyone had someone.
A circle. A family. A pair.
He breathed in slowly. Exhaled.

“Hey,” he asked suddenly, voice soft, “why don’t you like this part of the park?”
Sieun didn’t look up immediately.
He turned a page. Let a breath stretch the space between them.
Then said quietly, “Because the path here is narrow. You have to walk slow.”
Suho tilted his head.

Sieun continued. “And… because no one’s alone here.”

Suho blinked.
Sieun’s voice was even. Steady. But something beneath it… tugged.

“Everyone has someone. Family. Lovers. Kids. Even the friends here — they come in groups. This place…” He looked up for the first time, eyes scanning the park. “It’s never empty.”
Suho stared at him, heart twisting.
So he noticed.
He noticed all of it — the couples holding hands, the parents carrying their toddlers, the kids calling “appa!” from across the path.
Suho looked down.
Was it because he never got to have that?
Because his parents were never around either?
And suddenly, Suho’s own chest ached too.
Because he got it. Not in the exact same way — but he got it.
His halmoni had raised him with everything she had, but there were nights he’d lie awake imagining what his mom’s voice would’ve sounded like.
What it might’ve felt like to be hugged without worry, or told, “I’ll handle it — you rest.”
He missed them.
Still.
Even now.
And Sieun…
He never talked about it. But Suho could see it — in the way he stared a little too long at families from a distance. In the way he never said he missed them, but never called anyone either.
Their stories weren’t the same.
But Suho understood that ache.
“It’s the opposite for me,” Suho said finally, his voice quiet.
Sieun looked at him.
Suho kept his eyes ahead, on the lake.
“I like this part of the park the best.”
Sieun turned another page but didn’t look down.
“I love seeing happy families,” Suho added. “I think… because even if I couldn’t have it for long, it’s nice to know it exists.”
For a long second, neither of them said anything.
Then, softly — so softly that Suho almost didn’t catch it — Sieun whispered, “I think I’m starting to like it too.”
Suho turned to him, heart full, lips lifting into another soft smile. “Yeah?”
Sieun gave a tiny nod.
“Hm.”
And Suho kept looking at him — so long that Sieun glanced at him again.
Then looked away.
Then — with no warning — said flatly, “You know what. I should just continue reading.”
Suho blinked. “What? No!”
But Sieun was already flipping to the next page.
“You’re unbelievable,” Suho mumbled, laughing.
And that’s when he saw it again.
That tiny, secret smile.
Just a twitch. A ghost of something soft and hidden.
And Suho caught it.
Captured it.
Right there in his mind.

They stayed on that park bench, side by side, letting the slow orange gold of the sunset soak into their skin.
The lake rippled in front of them, glinting like melted honey under the dipping sun. Birds skimmed the surface, shadows stretched long and delicate across the ground, and laughter from nearby families floated gently in the air.
Sieun had long stopped reading. His book lay open on his lap, but his eyes weren’t moving over the words anymore.
Instead, he kept flicking his gaze from the page… to the water… and, subtly, to the boy beside him.
And Suho?
He was quiet.
Unusually so.
Sieun’s book was still open, but he’d stopped reading ages ago. Every now and then he flicked his bangs out of his eyes absently, gaze flicking from the page to the lake, then to Suho’s reflection on the water — subtle, fleeting glances that he pretended not to notice.

Suho sat quietly beside him, looking out at the fish being fed, kids squealing with joy, and the soft hush of couples passing behind them. But his phone stayed in his lap, camera open. He captured the sun painting the trees gold, the ducks clustered near the shore, the shadows stretching between scattered benches…
His fingers were curled around his phone, the camera app open.
And then… one more picture.
Of Sieun.
That one he didn’t even dare review.
Because suddenly — Suho tilted the phone just slightly and tapped the shutter.
It was instinct. A quiet urge. A moment he didn’t want to lose.
The screen froze on a single frame:
Sieun.
The most dangerous one. The most beautiful.

Suho held his breath for a second.
Then quickly flipped to the gallery — just to make sure he’d gotten it. That he hadn’t imagined how pretty he looked just then.
He had.
God. He really had.
You’re unreal, Suho thought, lips twitching upward.
Sitting in profile. Book open on his lap, though his eyes weren’t reading. One elbow resting on the back of the stone ledge they were sitting on, the other curled lightly in his lap. The breeze had swept a few strands of his bangs across his forehead, and the last of the orange glow kissed the side of his face — nose, cheekbone, lashes.
He looked…
Peaceful.
Like something straight out of a dream Suho never thought he’d have.
And his heart hurt a little from it.
He locked the screen quickly, almost embarrassed at himself, and tucked the phone between his hands.
Just then, something else caught his eye.
A souvenir cart. Not far. Tucked between a snack vendor and a board with maps and park rules. It was filled with hand-painted fans, flower-shaped soaps, and an assortment of weirdly adorable animal plushies dressed in little outfits — soccer jerseys, lab coats, glasses, and tiny judge robes.
Suho leaned forward, eyes widening.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Look at that. That’s literally our chaos trio.”
Sieun blinked up.
Suho pointed. “That one’s literally Juntae with those stupid round glasses. And that duck—tell me that’s not exactly Gotak’s football uniform, and Baku–”
Sieun squinted. Then snorted — actually snorted — and set his book aside.
Suho grinned. “Let’s get them.”
Sieun rolled his eyes, but stood anyway. “You’re going to make me carry a duck in a football jersey home.”
“Damn right I am.”
They made their way to the cart. Suho picked three:
– A tiny bear with a book under its arm for Baku.
– A duck in cleats for Gotak.
– A sleepy owl with glasses for Juntae.
“Tell me this doesn’t look like our chaos trio,” Suho said proudly, holding them up.
Sieun sighed. “It does. Unfortunately.”

Just as Suho was reaching for his wallet, Sieun’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, thumb dragging across the screen as his eyes skimmed the message.
“What?” Suho asked, still holding the plushies.
Sieun held up the phone.

Baku: If the truck-kun didn’t hit you BOTH this time I swear I’ll do it myself. Where tf are you.

Suho almost choked on his laughter.

“Idiot,” he muttered, already pulling out his camera. He raised it lazily and snapped a picture of the garden around them — golden trees, still lake, faint silhouettes of people in the background.

Rolling his eyes.

Sent.
Then — he turned his head just slightly.
Paused.

Looked at Suho, still holding those ridiculous plushies, smiling brightly.
And before Suho could react,
Click.
A candid.

Suho startled, plushies still in hand. “Wait—did you—”

“Pose.”
“What?!”
“Come on. Properly.”

Suho blinked at him, then narrowed his eyes with mock offense. “You could’ve asked before violating my cuteness.”
“I’m doing it again.”
Suho groaned. “Fine.”
He tilted his head slightly, gave a sheepish smile — something crooked and a little shy — and Sieun clicked again.
Then stared.
Just… stared at the photo. For a beat too long.
Suho blinked. “What? Do I have something on my face?”
“No. You’re…” Sieun didn’t finish. Just turned and uploaded it silently to the group chat.
A few seconds later, the chat exploded.

Juntae sent a pouty selfie with his glasses slipping halfway down his nose and a dramatic sigh typed underneath:
“So this is betrayal. I see. I hope you both stub your toe tonight."
Gotak followed with a blurry photo of him mid-air, tackling Baku in what looked like an illegal wrestling move:
“Look what your betrayal made me do.”
And finally, Baku, in all his rage, sent a close-up selfie wielding a slipper like a weapon with pure malice in his eyes:
“Your house is going to BURN. 🔥 You will suffer. The plushies will suffer.”
Suho wheezed, almost dropping all three toys. “Okay okay—they’re actually terrifying—”

Sieun rolled his eyes but was still scrolling, clearly reading all of it, and—
Suho saw it.
That tiny, fleeting smile tugging at the corner of Sieun’s lips. So subtle, it might’ve disappeared in the blink of an eye.
And something in him warmed so fast it felt like he might melt.
He wanted to freeze this moment.
The sunset, the plushies, the soft breeze, the distant voices, Sieun beside him — smiling.
And Suho swore…
He’d never let it fade.

Notes:

SO I HOPE YOU LIKED IT AND DIDN’T GET BORED!?

There are some smaller Sieun POVs in this chapter, because it felt really important to include them.
I really hope I did justice to his character…
Because honestly? Sieun is the hardest to write.
He’s such a complex character — in a very weird way — but only until you really start to understand him.
He's actually a very warm person… but only to the people he truly cares for.

I also saw that one comment on Instagram where someone said Sieun believing Seongjae so easily shows how... innocent!? he is. But yeah — he did believe Seongjae pretty fast when he said he would help in the drama, and I get why that might feel frustrating to some. I just hope this chapter gave some emotional context.

If any of you felt this chapter was a bit slow or fluffy, please trust me on this —
you’re going to love the next one.
Can’t say much without spoiling… but just… yeah.
It’s good.
Very good.

 

AUTHOR’S RAMBLE (skip if you want!)

I just want to say — you all are the sweetest, purest souls out there.
Your comments genuinely make my day. They warm my heart in the middle of my chaos.
I wish I could reply to every single one of you — I really do. But life’s kinda hectic right now.

For example:
I was actually planning to post this chapter last night, but I ended up falling asleep.
So I literally finished editing the remaining part this morning — standing in a crowded train — while going to college. Yes. That happened.

Also yes, I have college. In July. In Mumbai rains. And yes, trains suck — if you know, you know.
My college starts at 9:30 AM and ends at 4:45 PM… but I have to leave home by 7:30 AM because of the travelling. Indian Railways really tests my soul sometimes.

Today, this girl boarded the compartment with her mom — she had shifted to Australia for her education. She looked super stressed and literally muttered, "This is ridiculous."

And honestly… I felt her.
I found it funny too, because that’s exactly what I go through every day.
Later I talked to her mom, and turns out the girl wants to shift to Australia permanently. The poor mom was explaining while the daughter was telling her “Don’t say that!” lol.

(Also yes, I offered her mom my seat — because manners still exist )

Anyway — all this happened while I was editing this chapter, hoping I could post it today.

And now, it’s 11:30 PM, I’ve finished two assignments, and I’m finally posting this.
Gonna have dinner after this…

So yeah —
Yes, I’m Indian.
Yes, I have college in July. During monsoons.
I’m a 2nd-year MMS/MBA student, and our semester starts early so we can finish early (and professors can focus on the juniors later).
I’m 24, a very delulu kind of girl dreaming of becoming a government officer — but also doing MBA as a backup.

So yeah — life is busy, but writing about this chaotic gang brings me peace.
And I hope they bring you some comfort too.

If I missed answering anything you asked — feel free to remind me. I’d love to reply and also know more about you.

I'll try to post the next chapter as soon as I can.

Until then — take care, be safe, and goodbye for now.

Love,
The sleep-deprived author.

Chapter 40: Why Is He Always Mad at Me?

Notes:

Hey everyone!
How are you all doing? I know, I know it’s been a while (more than a week ).
I’m really sorry for the delay! Things were super busy on my end, but I finally managed to finish this chapter for you.

This one is extra special. It’s honestly one of the fluffiest, cutest, most heart-fluttering chapters so far!

I hope you’ll enjoy every bit of it and forgive me for keeping you waiting.

Happy reading, and thank you so much for your patience and love!

The golden hour had begun to melt into something quieter, softer… all fiery streaks of tangerine and pink bleeding into the darkening blue sky. The warm afterglow of sunset clung to the rooftops and street signs, making everything look prettier than it had any right to. The wind was gentle, brushing past with just enough chill to make it feel like something was ending … or beginning.
They stepped onto the sidewalk, the world around them slowing down as lights flickered on one by one. Sieun pulled out his phone, fingers already moving to book a cab, ever the practical one.
But Suho stopped in his tracks.
“Let’s take the bus.”
Sieun looked up, surprised. “Your leg—”
“I’m fine,” Suho cut in gently, flashing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “I just… I want to feel the air. That open sky again.”
What he didn’t say was …
I want more time.
Just the two of us.
I want the quiet before we return to them.
To the chaos. The teasing. The shouting. The not-so-subtle glances.
Before we get swallowed back up in the noise.
Sieun studied him for a moment — really looked — and then nodded once, like he understood more than Suho expected.
"Okay," he said. “So… takeout or buy something? Because if we show up empty-handed, those idiots might actually throw me out of my own house.”
That earned a laugh from Suho — loud, unfiltered, shaking his shoulders as he leaned slightly on his crutches. “They really would,” he grinned.

“Are you tired?”
“Mm. A little,” Suho admitted. “But it feels nice.”

Sieun nodded. “So, what do you want for dinner?”

And Suho, still grinning, said with hope in his eyes, “Can I eat spicy tteokbokki? And maybe cold beer?”

The side-eye he got in return could’ve killed a man.

“No.”
Suho’s mouth fell open in mock horror. “Then WHY ASK ME?!”
Sieun sighed through his nose, expression flat. “You’re recovering. You need to eat healthy. Spicy food is the worst thing you could pick right now.”
“You’re literally sucking the joy out of my life,” Suho sulked, dragging the words with as much drama as his lungs could manage. “You know I’ve been craving that for WEEKS. This was a trap. You’re a trap.”
Sieun didn’t even blink. “Thanks.”

And then the bus arrived.

Before Sieun could stop him, Suho took off like a petty storm cloud on crutches, tapping his way onto the bus as if he were on a mission. “Slow down …” Sieun called, but Suho ignored him pointedly, like a rebellious teen who’d just been told he couldn’t have dessert.

He bowed politely to the bus driver … manners still intact, even mid-sulk … and went straight past the fare box without hesitation. Sieun would pay. He always did. Suho didn’t even flinch at the thought.

Behind him, poor Sieun was struggling like a loyal pack mule. He was carrying Suho’s sweaty T-shirt, the used napkin, two lunch boxes, one bag of soft plushies (for the chaos trio), and the special box of honey walnut cakes Suho had begged for … claiming, “They HAVE to try these. It’s an experience, not a snack.”
Suho didn’t even look back.
He was busy being wounded.
The bus was nearly empty. He found a two-seater midway and claimed the window seat like it was his throne. He yanked the window open, letting the cool air slap him in the face dramatically as if he were starring in a sad music video.

Then he heard Sieun approaching and immediately … immediately … he plopped his crutches across his lap, diagonally placing one to block the seat beside him.

Sieun stopped.
Stared.
Blink.
Silence.
Suho didn’t look. He could feel the stare, sure, but he wasn’t going to give in. He stared resolutely out the window like a sullen prince banished from his kingdom. His expression was the dictionary definition of betrayed. All because he wasn’t allowed to eat tteokbokki.
He was waiting. For mercy. For a miracle.
For Sieun to sigh and say, “Fine. You can eat spicy food, but just this once.”

But instead…
A louder, tired sigh.
And Sieun walked past.

Suho didn’t even turn, but the weight of that rejection hit harder than a rejection letter from his favorite idol.
He heard the bags thump gently onto the seat behind him. Then the bus pulled off. Suho huffed so hard his cheeks puffed out.

“Unbelievable,” he whispered to the wind.
And then…

Thud.
A water bottle appeared by his elbow. He blinked at it. Then blinked again at Sieun’s hand, casually holding it through the crack between the seats.

“Drink,” Sieun said.
“I’m not thirsty,” Suho muttered. Lying. Completely lying.
“Suho.”

A single command.
Suho snatched the bottle dramatically and took a sip … a long one. And then another. And another. He hadn’t realized it, but his throat was dry. He was parched.
As he drank, he caught something else.
A sigh.
From behind.
Soft. But so real.
It wrapped around his guilt like a blanket.
Because now his mind wouldn’t shut up.

Sieun woke up early today. Probably studied. Probably cooked. Made lunch. Cleaned up. Did laundry. Took him to rehab. Watched him walk, fall, wince, cry, and smile again. Then dragged him to a garden and made him feel … normal.
And what had Suho done?
Complained. Pouted. Acted like a spoiled brat. Refused to carry even one bag. Threw a tantrum over food like someone had ruined his wedding.
He was, undeniably, the problem.
And suddenly, the wind didn’t feel as freeing.
It felt like penance.
He turned slightly in his seat and peeked back … saw Sieun leaning against the window, head tilted, expression soft.

So beautiful it hurt to look.

Suho’s fingers twitched. He wanted to call him. Wanted to say: Sit here. Sit beside me.

But pride? Pride was a prison.
So instead, he bent down and moved the crutches. Quietly. Just enough space now for Sieun to take the hint.
He waited.
Nothing.

He saw. I know he saw.

But he didn’t come.
And Suho… Suho held that water bottle like it was the last shred of his dignity.
His eyes didn’t leave the window.
His jaw clenched.
And his heart? It ached in the stupidest, softest way.

Suho sulked.

That was the only word for it.

 

He was pressed against the bus window like some melodramatic protagonist in a sad indie film, chin resting in his palm, lower lip pushed out in a pout so natural he didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore.

Outside, the last of the sunlight painted everything in soft gold. The kind of glow that made old buildings look romantic and electric poles feel like poetry. A warm, syrupy orange hue spilling across the glass … and still, somehow, it wasn’t enough to melt the glacier of shame sitting in Suho’s chest.

 

Because God.

He was a dumb boy.

No, not dumb.

A complete and utter disaster of a boy.

 

He let out a slow breath, forehead bumping the glass lightly. And as if the bus seat had activated the flashback mechanism in his brain, the memory hit him like a punch.

Their first real fight.

No, THE FIGHT. Back in school. The Jeongbin incident.

Suho closed his eyes. He could still see it … feel it.

 

Sieun, the quiet, always-contained kid with the deadpan stare and frightening calm, snapping.

Snapping.

 

Beating the living hell out of Jeongbin in their classroom. Choking him. Book landing as a weapon fast and furious. And Suho … idiot, proud, clueless Suho … stepping in like some righteous hero.

He remembered yelling something. Calling himself a fairy.

 

“Do you think this is funny?” Sieun had asked, eyes blazing.

 

And Suho?

God help him.

 

He had said, “It’s supposed to be.”

 

Like some smug little fool who thought he understood the world.

 

A pen flew at his face.

Then a pouch.

Then—

 

A FREAKING CHAIR.

 

Not a metaphor. An actual school chair. Suho ducked like a cartoon character in a slapstick comedy while his brain screamed this kid’s lost it. His classmates weren’t exaggerating — maybe those whispers were true. Maybe Sieun really was psychotic.

 

But the thing is…

 

Suho hadn’t known then. He didn’t know what Jeongbin had done. The drugging. The sabotage.

 

He’d just seen a quiet kid go nuclear and thought, Yeah, he’s gone insane.

 

And he had tried to talk to Sieun. Like he had any right. Like he knew what he was stopping.

He had spoken with the confidence of a clueless, arrogant prick. He remembered that so clearly now. His voice steady, eyes narrowed, the full weight of his pride behind every word.

 

And then just a day later…
He learned the truth.

What Jeongbin had done. With Beo–

 

How it messed with his focus. How it cost him a test result. A future. An academic record that was near-perfect until then.

 

And Suho?

 

He felt like absolute garbage.

Like a crumpled-up receipt someone threw in the drain.

 

"I should’ve let him do it," he thought at first.
"Jeongbin deserved it."

 

But then—
A quieter voice inside reminded him: No.

 

He had done the right thing. Even if he was an idiot about it.

 

Because Jeongbin wasn’t worth it. Not worth Sieun’s career. Not worth a permanent stain on his record.

 

But maybe even if things had gotten worse … even if Jeongbin had ended up in the hospital for months … Sieun would’ve handled it. He’s that kind of boy.

 

Self-sufficient. Calm under pressure. Brilliant even in the worst-case scenarios.

But none of that made Suho feel better.
Not then.
Not now.

 

He still felt like trash for getting in the way. For speaking without knowing. For thinking he knew better than Sieun.

And when he saw Sieun next … just a few days later … it hit even harder.

 

The boy had been sitting on a bus, earbuds in. Suho, on his scooter just pulled up at a red light on his way to make a food delivery.

 

He had seen Sieun and…

 

And, because his brain had no filter and his heart was an idiot, he blurted:

“Maybe we were married in the past life.”

 

Not hello. Not sorry. Not “I feel like crap.”

 

Just that.

And Sieun?

 

He had looked up, blinking slowly … those soft brown eyes shining under the street lights, like liquid honey … and said nothing.

 

No grudge. No biting comment. No scowl.

 

Just a blink. Just those impossibly calm, dove-like eyes.

 

And Suho remembered thinking … again … what the hell were those jerks at school talking about?

 

Why would anyone make fun of those eyes?

 

Those eyes were everything.

 

Suho sniffed dramatically … not because he was sick, but because he was being emotionally congested, thank you very much.

 

He shifted his face against the bus window, letting the glow of the sunset warm his cheeks like a sad little pancake. His reflection looked pathetic. One shoulder bandaged. Both crutches leaning against the seat like it was tired of being involved in Suho's daily drama. And Suho, with his stupid pout, feeling a little too soft, a little too aware that Sieun was just behind him.

 

And yet… he wouldn’t move.

Of course he wouldn’t.

Because Suho was sulking.

Because that’s what idiots do.

 

“God,” Suho muttered under his breath, lips curling in self-disgust. “I’m such a dumb boy.”

 

A jerk. A brat. A complete idiot.

For Sieun.

 

Because honestly, who else would carry all the bags after a long day, keep reminding him to drink water, and still not roll his eyes when Suho pouted like a toddler denied a second lollipop?

 

Only Sieun.

Only freaking Yeon Sieun.

 

Who said, very calmly, “No spicy food. You’re still healing.”

 

And then quietly handed him water instead.

 

Suho scoffed. “Who does that?”

 

But also.

Who buys plushies for the entire gang? Just because Suho asked!?

 

Who lets you pick the last two keychains even when they’re clearly overpriced?

 

Who lets you complain about every little thing … and still listens?

 

Sieun. That’s who.

 

Suho sulking his way through the evening while Sieun quietly trailed behind, bags in one hand, Suho’s sweaty t-shirt in the other.

 

Like a tired husband. Dealing with his sulky wife’s tantrum.

 

Suho blinked.

 

That image popped in his head so fast, it made him laugh … an actual giggle escaping before he could swallow it.

 

Oh god.

 

Was he the wife in this scenario?

 

Was he the pouty, bratty wife who threw a fit because her husband didn’t let her buy a toy ring even after buying her a diamond necklace?

 

Yes. Yes, he was.

 

Because not allowing spicy tteokbokki and beer … that was the toy ring.

 

And the rest?

 

Paying for everything, carrying the bags, walking carefully behind him in case he tripped over his own crutch … that was the diamond necklace.

And Suho … sulky, spoiled Suho … had pouted through the whole thing anyway.

 

What a disaster of a wife, he thought, laughing quietly into the sleeve of his working arm.

 

It was stupid.

It was funny.

It was so… warm.

 

Because even if he was the worst kind of sulking idiot, Sieun hadn’t snapped. He didn’t scold. Didn’t get annoyed. He just… walked behind Suho. Quietly. Like always.

 

God, Suho thought, his heart doing something weird again, he’s so good for me.

 

The realization didn’t hit like a truck.

 

It floated.

Soft and slow, like the bus ride.

 

Like the orange light sliding through the windows and painting Sieun’s reflection in the corner of the glass … just barely visible behind Suho. Head slightly tilted, probably looking out the other side, as usual. Calm. Thoughtful. Beautiful.

 

Suho smiled to himself.

And leaned his head back against the window again.

 

Wishing, maybe, just a little, if Sieun would come sit beside him. Because he already miss him.

 

Even when he is just behind.

He miss him.

But it’s fine.

If Sieun wanted to sit there, Suho would let him.

Even if he didn’t want to.

Even if he wanted to turn around and whine “come here” like a child.

He wouldn’t. Because he was learning. Kind of.

 

So he stayed still.

 

One hand gently resting in his lap, the other curled against the window, his heart secretly aching in the warmest, strangest, sweetest way.

 

Sieun had seen it.

That small, sudden giggle.

It was quiet … barely there … but Sieun caught it.

 

Suho had been sitting ahead of him, head leaned against the window, face bathed in that warm sunset glow. Eyes half-lidded, mouth curled into the faintest curve.

 

And then he giggled.

For absolutely no reason.

Sieun had watched his shoulders move slightly with it … like a ripple through still water.

 

He stared at the back of Suho’s head, completely at a loss.

What even made him laugh like that?

 

There was no music playing. No phone. No message. Just Suho... being Suho.

And that was the thing … Sieun could never understand him.

 

The boy was a mystery.

 

A constantly shifting, stormy, ridiculous mystery wrapped in layers of pouts, tantrums, charm, and heart.

 

Sometimes smiling. Sometimes sulking. Sometimes melting down over nothing, then grinning the next second like the world was perfect.

 

Sieun blinked, his gaze drifting to the window reflection. He could see the edge of Suho’s face … his cheek pressed lightly to the glass now, eyes fully closed.

 

He looked... tired.

Really tired.

And it made Sieun’s chest tighten a little.

 

Today was supposed to be nice … Suho had smiled so much, laughed with his whole body.

 

But then it had ended ... with Suho sulking again.

Because of him.

Because he said no to beer and spicy tteokbokki.

 

Sieun’s brows furrowed faintly.

 

He didn’t like it. Not the sulking … that was normal … but the idea that he ruined Suho’s mood.

 

Maybe he was being too strict.

Maybe he should’ve just let Suho have it … just for today. Just this once.

 

But... Suho was still healing.

 

His body wasn’t fully recovered. His arm still ached if moved wrong. His leg stiff. His immune system weaker than usual. That kind of food … it wasn’t good for him. Not right now.

Still...

 

Was Sieun pushing too hard?

He glanced at Suho again.

 

Just in time to see his head loll to the right, then jolt slightly forward, his chin nearly hitting the top of the seat.

 

Sieun instinctively straightened.

 

Just as Suho’s head dipped again … this time toward the window.

Sieun moved fast.

 

He reached forward and slipped his hand between Suho’s temple and the cold glass, catching the fall just in time.

 

The impact pressed hard into Sieun’s palm … and it stung.

 

“Ssss…” he hissed quietly, wincing as his fingers curled reflexively.

 

The pressure hurt. The angle was awkward.

 

But still, he held his hand there.

Because Suho didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

 

Sieun sat up straight, reflexively leaning forward between the seats. “Suho,” he murmured … but the boy didn’t even stir.

Just kept sleeping.

Soft breaths, long lashes resting against his cheeks, lips parted slightly.

 

He must be really tired…

 

Sieun’s thoughts softened.

Did I wear him out? he wondered, guilt pricking behind his ribs.

Then Suho’s head slipped again … this time left.

Sieun caught it. Again.

Right. Left. Forward.

God. It was like babysitting a sleepy toddler.

Again.

And again.

And again.

 

Each time, Sieun caught him before his head hit anything.

And each time, he sat back just a little more, hand hovering like a shield between Suho’s sleeping face and the cruel, uncaring surfaces of the world.

Until finally … finally … Suho tilted too far left and …

 

Sieun didn’t hesitate now.

 

In one quick motion, he stood up from his seat.

 

A few people glanced up, but he ignored them.

 

He walked the one step forward and gently slid into the empty seat beside Suho.

 

Right as Suho was about to lean too far again, Sieun caught him … hand between Suho's forehead and the cold window.

Sieun adjusted his grip, gently coaxed Suho upright … and in the process, Suho’s body shuffled slightly... leaning fully into him.

 

Right onto him.

 

Suho’s head landed on his shoulder with a soft, warm thump.

 

His breath ghosted against the collar of Sieun’s shirt.

 

Sieun blinked.

 

Stunned.

Then slowly looked down.

 

The boy … the mystery … was fully asleep now. Breathing slow. Body relaxed, nestled into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Sieun exhaled, half a sigh, half a breathless laugh.

 

“This idiot,” he mumbled, voice low.

 

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t, even if he wanted to.

 

Because Suho’s weight was now leaning fully on him … and somehow, it felt... heavy in the nicest way.

Warm. Real. Close.

Too close, maybe. But Sieun didn’t push him away.

 

Outside, the light was fading … the fiery orange of sunset giving way to cooler shades of twilight. The air was starting to shift, hints of chill creeping in through the open bus window.

 

Sieun reached over carefully with one hand, the other still slightly sore and struggled to slip off his jacket.

 

It took effort. Quiet effort.

 

Because Suho was sleeping on him.

 

After a moment of quiet wrestling, he managed.

 

He draped the jacket gently over Suho’s shoulders. Adjusted it until it covered him fully. Then, using the tips of his fingers, reached across Suho to half-close the window … just enough to block the wind but not disturb the view.

 

Suho didn’t even stir.

Instead, he shuffled slightly. Closer. Warmer.

 

His forehead now rested gently against Sieun’s collarbone.

 

Sieun froze.

 

Oh.

 

He swallowed.

 

And leaned back. Just a little … until he was more comfortable.

 

The warmth between them settled.

His heart thumped quietly.

 

He adjusted the jacket again, tucking it in at Suho’s side like some kind of weird, silent ritual.

 

Then he sighed.

 

A long, exhausted, helpless sigh.

And turned his eyes to the window … watching the buildings blur by.

The city passing like waves.

It’s getting darker.

And home wasn’t far.

But with Suho asleep beside him, head heavy on his shoulder, Sieun braced himself.

Not for the weight.

But for the chaos waiting back home.

The noise, the teasing, the questions, the mess.

For now though…

For just this moment…

He let it be quiet.

And didn’t move.

 

The sharp screech of tires made the whole bus jolt.

The driver ajhussi grunted something under his breath. A curse maybe, or a grumble about the sudden dog that had crossed the road. Passengers swayed and steadied themselves.

 

And Suho…

Suho’s head jerked forward harshly with the sudden stop.

His body, still heavy with sleep, didn’t react quickly enough. His chin knocked forward, and his neck twisted with the force…

Except…

Except he didn’t hit anything.

Because a warm hand caught him.

 

Firm fingers cupped the side of his temple, gently slowing the motion, easing him back … careful, deliberate … until his cheek met the curve of a shoulder.

A shoulder that was steady. Strong. Familiar.

And that hand?
It stayed there. Still holding him.

Suho’s brows twitched slightly. His eyes fluttered beneath the lids. Not fully awake, but not completely asleep anymore either.

He stirred faintly, brows furrowing in confusion. The pressure from before, the little ache from his forehead knocking earlier … it was gone now. Replaced with soft fabric. And heat.

He was covered.

He could feel it.

 

Some jacket, draped over him, cocooning him from the chilly air now sneaking through the windows. And the scent that lingered on that jacket… god, it was so distinctly someone. That faint trace of soap and a hint of something neutral, warm, just like the boy himself.

 

Suho’s lips moved slightly, but he didn’t speak.

Because he didn’t need to open his eyes to know who was beside him.

 

That kind of warmth … the steady breath against his hair, the rhythm of the chest he was pressed against, the protective presence that held him each time he slipped … there was only one person in this world who could make Suho feel that safe.

 

Yeon Sieun.

 

The realization settled slowly over Suho’s sleepy mind like a heavy blanket.

He wasn’t dreaming.

He was literally curled up in the crook of Sieun’s neck.

 

His cheek pressed just beneath the boy’s jawline. One of his arms had unknowingly found its way to rest near Sieun’s ribs. The other hung limply, cradled by the jacket. His body fully relaxed, as if on instinct.

 

Another small jolt from the bus … another tiny break applied … and his head bobbed again.

 

But the hand was still there.

Sieun didn’t even hesitate.

 

Like it was second nature now, he gently steadied Suho again. His palm brushing over his temple, thumb hovering just shy of his ear. Keeping him balanced. Protected.

 

And Suho…
Suho couldn’t help it.

 

Even in his semi-sleep, he felt it. All of it.

 

That unwavering care. That quiet attention. That hand.

God, that hand was warm.

 

So warm it made his chest ache in a way he didn’t understand. A tiny part of him … the part still holding onto the last shred of sleep … whispered: Don’t move. Stay like this forever.

Then, suddenly, the warmth disappeared.

The hand left his temple.

Suho’s lashes fluttered.

 

The loss of contact was so immediate it made something inside him twitch … a noise almost escaped him. Like a child who just lost their blanket in the middle of a nap.

His body stayed still, but he cracked one eye open just a sliver.

 

Only to see…

 

Sieun, just beside him, glancing down at the phone he’d pulled from his lap.

A notification blinked on the screen. Bright. Silly.

 

Baku set the pan on fire and Gotak tried to kick the smoke away while I took a selfie. Pls come back soon. I'm scared. – Juntae.

 

Attached was a chaotic photo. Juntae's face pale, Baku waving a towel like a maniac, Gotak attempting a judo stance near the kitchen door.

Sieun sighed. The kind of sigh that lived somewhere between fondness and exasperation.

 

Then muttered quietly to himself, “Idiots.”

 

Suho watched from his corner of Sieun’s shoulder. His heart thumping like a dumb drum inside his chest.

 

He wasn’t supposed to be awake for this.

But he was.

 

And everything about this moment … the scent of Sieun’s skin, the echo of his voice vibrating in his collarbone, the safety he felt … was so overwhelming Suho thought maybe his brain had stopped working.

 

When Sieun tucked the phone away again, he mumbled, “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

 

And something about the way he said it…

 

It wasn’t annoyance.

It was affection.

 

Like he meant it. Like these idiots … Baku, Gotak, Juntae, and him … were precious to him in ways Sieun would never say aloud. Not in the usual way.

But Suho could tell.

He felt it.

The same way he could tell Sieun was the one who moved seats for him. The one who gave him his jacket. The one who kept holding him every time he started slipping.

 

And in that exact moment, Suho … still tucked beneath that jawline, still breathing in the scent of home … smiled to himself.

Not fully understanding why.

Just knowing that this… whatever this was…
This was everything.

The road curved. The bus swayed.

And Suho's body followed, leaning instinctively toward the direction of the curve. Right into the crook of Sieun’s shoulder again. The motion was subtle. Natural. Like his entire body trusted only that one place to land.

Sieun didn’t flinch.
Didn’t shift.

He just… steadied him again. Like he’d been doing this his whole life.

One hand found Suho’s temple with the same practiced care, his thumb lightly brushing against the side of Suho’s face as if to wordlessly say I’ve got you.

 

And Suho, half-asleep, body aching from recovery, still held together by that jacket and warmth and scent he couldn’t name …

 

Mumbled it.

Quietly.

Almost breathless.

 

“…you’re so warm.”

 

The words floated into the space between them, soft as a sigh.

Sieun stilled.

His eyes slowly dropped to the boy against his shoulder … to that messy brown hair, the flushed cheeks, the faintest curve of a sleepy smile on parted lips. And just as he looked …

 

Suho lifted his head ever so slightly, those heavy-lidded eyes cracking open just enough to meet his.

Sleep-drenched. Honest. Vulnerable.

Sieun blinked.

Time paused for a second.

And Suho, in a haze of half-consciousness, whispered like he was confessing a sin …

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He didn’t say for what.

Not for sulking. Not for whining. Not for the tteokbokki or beer. Not even for earlier fights, or tantrums, or the hundred moments Suho thought he didn’t deserve someone like Sieun.

 

Just a soft, aching, “I’m sorry,” like he meant all of it.

 

Sieun stared at him. Quiet. Unmoving.

Then slowly …
Gently …
He shook his head.

 

“You don’t have to be,” he murmured. His voice low. Rough. Barely a breath. “You really don’t have to.”

 

And he raised one hand. The one that wasn’t steadying Suho … and brushed Suho’s bangs from his forehead.

 

It was such a small gesture.

But Suho leaned into it.

Eyes closing again automatically. Breathing slowing. Like he was a plant and that touch was sunlight.

 

And Sieun…
Sieun couldn’t look away.

His heart thudded once. Hard.

Because Suho looked like that.

Like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

 

“…Sleep some more,” Sieun whispered.

 

And without thinking, without meaning to be so tender, he adjusted the jacket around Suho. Tucked it tighter. Pulled it over the boy’s knees.

 

Then rested his hand on top of Suho’s head. Not heavy. Not too soft either. Just enough pressure to say: Stay. I’m here.

He patted once.

Then again.

Long, slow strokes. Gentle and grounding.

And Suho…
Without another word…
Exhaled.

His shoulders softened. His lips parted slightly. And just like that, he slipped back into sleep.

 

Sieun didn’t move.

Didn’t shift even a little.

 

He just sat there, on that rattling bus, hand on the boy’s head, cheek tilted slightly toward Suho’s soft hair, eyes drifting outside to the moving city.

 

The sky was fading to indigo now. Buildings passed in a blur.

But all Sieun could think about was the boy curled up beside him.

The boy who sulked like a child.

Who threw tantrums over snacks.

 

Who got upset when he wasn’t allowed spicy food or beer….despite being half-crippled and on meds.

 

The same boy who giggled to himself earlier like a lovestruck puppy for no reason. Who said weird things. Said sorry when he didn’t need to.

And called him warm.

 

Sieun stared at the reflection in the window again. At that peaceful face resting against him.

And mumbled, almost to himself…

 

“…Idiot.”

But the corners of his mouth curved. Just a little.

Because somehow, in all the chaos, and despite everything…

This idiot had somehow carved out a space in his life.

 

…

 

“Suho… we’re here.”

 

The words were soft, just above a whisper, as Sieun’s fingers lightly tapped his arm … enough to rouse, but not to startle.

Suho blinked himself awake slowly, the lingering warmth of sleep still thick around his lashes. His mind was foggy, his body unusually light. He’d been dreaming about something warm. Something soft. Something that smelled like pine and soap and quiet evenings. But now that he opened his eyes, he realized…

He hadn’t been dreaming.

The scent was Sieun.

The warmth, too.

And when he finally lifted his head … reluctantly, sleep clinging to his bones … he saw Sieun already standing, holding out a hand to help him up.

Suho’s legs felt heavy, but not in a bad way. Just lazy. Well-rested. His body had melted into that bus seat far too easily.

 

He reached for Sieun’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet with surprising gentleness. Sieun didn’t rush him. Just waited. Supporting him wordlessly. Even draped his jacket over Suho’s shoulders … warm and a little oversized, its sleeves brushing against Suho’s hands.

The bus hadn’t moved yet.

The driver, an older man with a kind face, peered at them in the mirror but made no hurry. “Take your time, boys,” he said, smiling. “No rush.”

Sieun, still holding Suho with one hand and the bags in the other, turned to bow … a full, deep bow from the waist. A silent thank-you, full of sincerity.

 

The driver chuckled lightly. “You’re a good friend,” he said.

And Suho, just behind Sieun, heard it clearly.

His lips curled without even meaning to.
A good friend, huh?

He liked that. Liked hearing that about Sieun.

Because if only the man knew just how good he really was.

 

They stepped off the bus together, slowly. The evening air wrapped around them, gentle and cool. The sun had almost set, casting long shadows and honeyed light across the pavement. Everything felt quiet. Like the world had paused to let them walk in peace.

Sieun walked beside him, one pace behind … not pushing, not pulling. Letting Suho lead, even though it was clear he was watching Suho’s steps out of the corner of his eye.

A minute passed. Then another. Just the soft sound of their footsteps on the sidewalk.

Then…

“Is it heavy?” Suho asked, voice low.

Sieun looked over. His arms were full. Their shopping bag, Suho’s water bottle, the crumpled brown bag of snacks, and that soft panda plushie half-sticking out of one tote.

He shrugged. “It’s fine.”

Suho smiled to himself.

That’s what he always said.
It’s fine.
Even when it wasn’t.

Another minute passed.

 

“Are you tired?” Sieun asked, breaking the silence this time.

Suho thought about it. Tilted his head. Then slowly shook it.

“I wasn’t even aware I was tired…” he said softly, voice still a little drowsy. “Until I fell asleep… on someone’s shoulder.”

 

Sieun blinked, thrown for a second. He turned toward Suho, a question already forming in his eyes.

 

But Suho wasn’t done.

His lips curled into a quiet smile … not the teasing one he wore when he was being dramatic. This one was soft. Unfiltered. Honest.

“…Not anymore,” Suho added gently.

Sieun blinked again. Then looked away.

Suho watched his profile … the sharp jawline, the slightly messy hair, the hand adjusting the strap of the bag on his shoulder.

And in that exact moment, Suho made a decision. A solemn, heartfelt promise whispered only in his heart.

 

He would never get annoyed at Sieun again.
Never sulk.
Never pout when Sieun was busy.
Never act dramatic over nothing.

 

Because how could he?
How could anyone, when they had someone like Sieun?

 

He was patient. He was kind. He carried all the bags. Held Suho steady. Let him nap on his shoulder. Protected his temple from sharp bus brakes. Gave him warmth without ever asking for anything in return.

 

Just being near him made Suho feel safe. Grounded.

 

So this is what peace feels like, Suho thought, side-glancing at him once more.

His resolution was solid. Firm. Written into his soul.

 

No more silly sulking.
He was going to be better. For him. For them.

Even if Sieun never knew.

They were just nearing the apartment gate when Suho spotted a familiar figure bouncing lightly on his heels, a phone in one hand and his other waving in the air like a happy puppy.

 

“Suhooo!” Juntae called out with that unmistakable bright grin as he jogged toward them. “How was rehab today?”

Suho smiled, shifting slightly to balance on his good leg as Juntae reached them.

 

“It was good,” he said, voice a little breathy from the walk but filled with quiet pride. “My trainer said I’ve made noticeable progress. He even told Sieun that.”

“Ah, that’s a relief!” Juntae said, eyes genuinely lighting up. “See? What did I say? You’re tougher than you look.”

Suho chuckled, trying not to look too smug. Behind him, Sieun merely hummed in agreement.

Then Juntae’s gaze shifted between them, his brows pulling together. “But… why’re you guys so late? You should’ve reached almost an hour ago.”

 

Sieun exhaled through his nose. “We took a bus back. It got a little delayed.”

Juntae blinked. “You… took a bus?”

 

Sieun simply nodded, already starting to adjust one of the bag straps slipping from his shoulder.

 

Juntae frowned slightly but let it go. “Well… come on then. Let’s go up already. I’m pretty sure Baku burned something again.”

 

Just as they were about to step forward, Sieun suddenly said, “You two go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”

Suho and Juntae stopped mid-step, turning at the same time.

 

“Why?” they both asked in unison.

 

Sieun rubbed the back of his neck. “I just… need to go somewhere real quick.”

 

Suho didn’t even hesitate. “Then I’ll come with you.”

Sieun gave him a look. Not stern, more like fond exasperation.

“You’ve walked a lot today already,” he said gently. “You should go rest. I’ll be up soon.”

“Umm,” Juntae piped in. “Let me come with you. I do not want to go inside alone and become the victim of Baku and Gotak’s culinary disaster. I’m not emotionally strong enough for their version of ‘cooking.’”

Sieun blinked, clearly trying to process the resistance from both sides.

“Just tell them I’m here. That’s it. And see.”,he said plainly.

 

“Then they’ll try to convince me to clean the mess they've created in your kitchen while you’re not there. I know how this goes,” Juntae replied, squinting dramatically.

 

Suho watched the exchange like he was at a ping-pong match. Quietly observing.

Sieun sighed deeply. “Tae…”

And right on cue, Juntae clasped his hands under his chin and pulled the oldest trick in the book.

“Pleeease?” he said, pouting with full force, tilting his head and blinking rapidly like a Disney deer.

Suho’s jaw dropped. Visibly.

Did—Did Juntae just use his move?

That’s illegal. Suho’s inner thoughts screamed. That’s MY technique!

He turned to Sieun, ready to protest … only to catch the way Sieun was already sighing in defeat, clearly softening at Juntae’s over-the-top performance.

The betrayal burned.

 

Sieun glanced at Suho … whose face now had full-blown sulking mode activated: lips pressed, brows furrowed, and cheeks puffed just a little.

 

“You’re not seriously falling for that,” Suho muttered, voice low but pout fully activated.

Sieun looked at Suho. Then at Juntae. Then at Suho again.

He looked tired. But more than that, helpless.

 

“I’ll just … I'll take Suho upstairs first and come back down—”

 

But before he could even finish, Juntae was already reaching over, casually grabbing all the bags from Sieun’s hands like some overly eager bellboy.

 

“I’ll help Suho up,” he said brightly, smiling like nothing was wrong. “You stay here.”

 

Suho and Sieun stood frozen, both of them blinking in perfect sync.

Sieun furrowed his brows. “Didn’t you just say—?”

“I’ll come right back down!” Juntae interrupted, already looping a bag over each arm. “Promise. Cross my heart.”

Suho just stared at him like he’d grown another head. Then turned to Sieun with full pout, eyes wide and judging.

How dare he.
How dare he abandon him like this.
After everything they went through on that bus…

Sieun looked between them again — between Juntae’s overly eager smile and Suho’s very obvious sulking.

Then with a long, drawn-out sigh, he reached out and gave Suho’s back a light, familiar push toward the entrance.

 

“Just… go up with him. I’ll be quick. Come down early, Juntae,” he added with a faint warning tone.

 

Suho didn't move immediately.

 

He looked back at Sieun with a betrayal-ridden pout that screamed: I trusted you.
I made a resolution about you.
And THIS is what I get in return??

 

Sieun just sighed again and scratched the back of his head, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.

Juntae, meanwhile, was happily bouncing on his heels, fully unaware that Suho had just silently declared war.

 

Because Suho was sulking again.

Hard.

And this time?

The pout was going to stay.

The resolution he made ten minutes ago? Dead.

Gone.

Buried.

How dare Sieun leave him behind the second Juntae showed up?

 

He puffed out his cheek further, making it very clear that he was unhappy. The pout was almost comedic now, the kind you see on toddlers in cartoons … pout with purpose, pout with pain.

Sieun saw it. He stared back for a moment, exhaled in defeat, then scratched his head tiredly and mumbled under his breath something suspiciously like, “Why are you like this…”

He turned and walked away, leaving Suho and Juntae to begin their slow walk toward the elevator.

But Suho?

Suho was fuming in complete silence.

His glare was sharp. His sulk? Immortal.

And his next target?

 

Juntae.

Because the moment they stepped into that elevator, war would be declared.

The moment the elevator doors closed, silence fell. But not the peaceful kind.

No.

This was the tense, storm-brewing, thundercloud-simmering kind of silence.

Suho stood on one side, gripping his crutch with noble, betrayed pride. And on the other, Juntae casually held all the bags like nothing had happened, humming slightly.

Until he felt it.

That glare.

 

He slowly turned his head and flinched.

 

“…Why are you glaring at me like that?” Juntae asked cautiously, brows furrowing.

Suho, without missing a beat, narrowed his eyes even further. “You know what you did.”

Juntae blinked. “What did I do?”

“You’re a thief,” Suho replied darkly.

“…Huh?”

“You are STEALING Sieun away from me.”

 

Juntae looked like someone had just told him his hoodie committed tax fraud. “YAAHH—what are you even talking about?! Didn’t you spend the whole day with him?”

 

Suho huffed. “Yeah, so what?!”

 

“So let me talk to my best friend a little!” Juntae countered, eyes wide in disbelief.

Suho crossed his arms. Or, at least tried to, but his balance was off because of the crutches so he just kind of stood there like an angry penguin. “Who stopped you? But why push me away then?!”

 

“When did I push you away?” Juntae looked like he was trying not to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Just now!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!”

“DID NOT!”

Ding!

 

The elevator interrupted their childish standoff with a gentle chime, and the doors opened.

Suho marched out first, huffing like a betrayed Victorian housewife, every stomp of his crutches echoing his fury.

Juntae followed sheepishly behind, still lugging the bags, mumbling, “How did I become the villain in this...?”

Just as they reached the apartment door, Juntae bent down to put the bags down. That’s when Suho, with full vengeance in his bones, suddenly leaned forward and typed the door code.

Beep beep beep—click.

The door unlocked.

Juntae’s head snapped up in slow motion. “W-Wait—why did you do that?!”

Before Suho could even answer—

“YAAHH JUNTAE WHERE WERE YOU—LOOK WHAT HAPPENED—COME INSIDE HELP US BEFORE SIEUN COMES—”

Gotak came charging toward the door like a panicked anime side character, arms flailing, flour-covered sleeves flying, yelling like a man on fire.

—until he spotted Suho.

He froze.

His eyes widened in horror. He screamed.

 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH—”

 

Suho flinched violently. “WHAT?! WHAT HAPPENED?! WHAT IS IT?!”

 

Before Gotak could respond, Baku came barreling out of the kitchen too, covered in an ungodly amount of white powder—his hair, his face, even his eyelashes were dusted like a cursed snowman.

 

The moment Baku saw Suho, he screamed too.

 

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH—SUHO?!”

Seeing Baku, Suho screamed back.

“AAAHHHH—WHY ARE YOU WHITE?!”

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” Baku yelled.

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!” Suho cried, now shielding his ears.

Then Juntae screamed, because why not. Everyone was doing it.

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

Baku and Gotak grabbed each other, yelling in pure panic, “IS SIEUN HERE?! IS HE BEHIND YOU?!”

Juntae, wiping a fake tear from his eye and trying not to choke from the flour cloud, said, “No, he’s downstairs!”

Both Baku and Gotak froze.

Then they turned to each other with matching expressions of sheer doom.

And screamed again. “HE’S DOWNSTAIRS?! OH MY GOD—”

“JUNTAE-YAAAAH HELP US!!” Baku begged.

“COVER FOR US!!” Gotak added.

“No!!” Juntae shouted, turning on his heel. “I’m out! I’m not dying for your crimes again!”

And then—

Chaos.

Gotak lunged. Baku followed. Juntae ran like his life depended on it.

Suho, now safely pressed against the wall with his ears ringing and a deep spiritual exhaustion overtaking him, watched the scene unfold like a nature documentary gone wrong.

He muttered under his breath, “My ears… my soul…”

One leg, one shoulder, and one peace of mind — all officially ruined by these idiots.

But his brain still whispered: Sieun’s gonna be here soon…

And that, somehow, made all of it a little better.

 

Sieun sat alone on the cold cement bench just outside the apartment building.

Twilight had deepened the sky to a dusky blue. Streetlights flickered on one by one, their orange glow stretching shadows across the empty pavement. A soft breeze tugged at his sleeves, but he didn’t move. Arms crossed, one leg bouncing slightly — waiting.

He kept replaying the look Suho had given him. Like Sieun had betrayed him. Like he was angry — truly angry. And the worst part was, Sieun had no idea what he’d done this time.

 

So he just sat there. Looking up.

The air was crisp. Chilly against his skin. But the sky above was unusually clear. Stars shimmered quietly. The moon hung low.

Maybe I should’ve let Suho come with me, he thought. He would've loved this.

He pulled out his phone and checked the time.

Then paused.

Tilted his head back again, took a deep breath — and lifted the phone to capture the sky.

 

“Okay,” he murmured to himself. “To show Suho later.”

He opened the gallery to check the shot. When he swiped once, the next photo filled the screen — Suho, smiling from earlier today. Laughing, carefree.

Sieun stared at it for a moment. Then looked back up at the stars.

And above him?

Chaos.

Muffled yelling. Rapid footsteps. A very suspicious series of thuds. Then someone’s voice — loud and dramatic — pierced the evening.

“OH MY GOD HE’S COMING!!”

It sounded like a scene straight out of a horror film.

A few people passing by glanced upward, toward the apartment windows.

Sieun followed their gaze slowly. His eyes settled on the familiar window.

He sighed.

 

“…What kind of idiots am I raising,” he muttered under his breath, eyes fluttering shut for a moment in tired resignation.

Then he shook his head, like a weary single parent too exhausted to be surprised anymore.

 

And then—just as expected—Juntae came sprinting toward him like a panicked delivery boy on a time bomb.

Hair a mess. Breathing loud. Flour handprint on his shirt.

Sieun didn’t even bother to speak. He just exhaled again, long and tired, and pulled out his phone.

 

Beep—Calling: Suho

 

Upstairs, Suho was still leaning on the wall like a defeated war general. The chaos of flour and fear had finally dulled into a quiet standoff.

Baku and Gotak stood frozen, halfway between yelling at each other and debating whether to hide in a laundry basket.

Then—Suho’s phone rang.

 

Buzz… Buzz… Buzz…

The sound was soft. Innocent, even.

But to Baku and Gotak?

It was DOOM.

 

“AAAAAAAHH—” they screamed again, in sync like traumatized backup dancers.

Suho flinched again, his poor ears already overworked today. “Aishhh—!!” he hissed, pressing a hand to his temple.

He didn’t even have to check the screen.

He knew.

That ringtone? That vibration rhythm? That soul-freezing aura climbing up his spine?

It was Sieun.

Still sulking, Suho took the phone out of his pocket with all the enthusiasm of a scolded puppy and held it out in front of him—without even looking at it.

“I’m not picking that up,” he muttered. “Here. One of you do it.”

Baku and Gotak backed up as if the phone was cursed.

“No no no please don’t pick it up—don’t answer it Suho-sshi pleasee—he’ll kill us by association,” Baku whimpered, grabbing Gotak’s arm like a horror movie heroine.

Gotak just shook his head rapidly, as if that would make Sieun vanish from existence.

But then—

Suho's thumb slipped.

“…Hello,” came his voice.

Flat. Calm. Cold enough to freeze air molecules.

Suho didn’t even realize the call had connected—until that voice sent a shiver up his back.

He slowly brought the phone closer to his ear, swallowing.

And then came the order:

"Put it on speaker."

Suho sighed heavily, glaring toward the floor like it personally wronged him. “Ugh, fine,” he muttered, thumb tapping the speaker icon with all the grace of a child told to clean his room.

Click.

A silence fell in the room.

Baku and Gotak stood like statues. Mouths shut. Breath held.

Then—

“I won’t repeat again.”

Sieun’s voice, coming through the speaker, was low and composed. Like a mafia don calling from a distance.

“So listen carefully.”

Even Suho blinked at the sudden tone shift. His pout wavered a little.

“The bags that are still on the floor?”
“Pick them up.”
“Take them inside.”
“Take Suho inside. Let him rest. He’s tired.”

That last line hit a little harder than Suho expected.

He glanced down at the phone.

Then sideways at the bags.

Then at Baku and Gotak, who were looking back at him like guilty golden retrievers.

But Sieun wasn’t finished.

“You have 30 minutes until I come back.”

“You know what you need to do.”

Click.

The call ended.

Not a goodbye. Not a “see you soon.” Just pure boss energy.

 

The phone screen faded to black in Suho’s hand.

Silence.

Suho stared at the screen for a second longer. His pout slowly returned.

“...Thirty minutes?” he whispered to himself, eyes narrowing slightly.

Where exactly is he going for thirty minutes?!

But before he could whine further—

 

“HYUNG I’M SORRY I’M SORRY—” Baku whispered and immediately dove toward the bags like a man begging for redemption. He stacked them like a soldier loading ammo.

Gotak, still wide-eyed, gently stepped beside Suho, lightly touching his elbow. “Let’s get you inside, okay?” he said, voice soft as if Suho was a fragile ghost bride.

 

Suho blinked. “I’m not a patient in a war drama—”

“Please don’t talk loud… he might hear you…” Gotak whispered dramatically.

Baku returned, arms shaking under the weight of all the stuff, and practically crawled to the door, nudging it open with his foot.

 

“Inside, please. You too. GO,” he urged Gotak.

 

Gotak nodded and began guiding Suho inside with the utmost care, like he was made of glass. Suho looked over his shoulder as he crossed the threshold.

Still pouting. Still thinking.

Thirty minutes, huh?

Where did you go, Yeon Sieun? And why do I miss you already?

 

. . .

 

Suho was still curled up on the couch, arms crossed and lips pushed out in a full-blown sulk.
He hadn’t moved in the last ten minutes. Hadn’t freshened up. Hadn’t even changed his position.

He sat there like a disgruntled royal left behind by his favorite subject.
Like a child grounded for crimes he absolutely did not commit.
Like a cat waiting by the door for the audacity of its owner to be punished.

The only thing louder than his pouty silence… was the storm currently brewing in the kitchen.

CRASH
BANG
“NOOOO BAKU DON’T—!”

He turned his head just slightly to the side.
The scene unfolding in front of him looked like a kitchen-themed apocalypse.

And Suho?
Suho blinked.

Then smirked.
Then let out a soft, amused snort.

Oh…
So this was what Sieun meant.

 

“Just tell Baku and Gotak that I’m here and that's all.”

 

That’s what Sieun had told Juntae.
And now?

Now Baku and Gotak were fighting for their lives in that kitchen.
Desperately trying to clean the mess they themselves had created.

There was flour on the cabinets.
Flour on the fridge.
Flour on Baku's eyebrows.

Baku, armed with a dishrag and panic in his eyes, was scrubbing the kitchen counter like it had personally wronged him.
Every time he wiped, the flour just floated back down from somewhere. Like karma was stuck in a snow globe.

“ARGHH WHY IS IT STILL FALLING!?” he yelled.

 

Suho, eyes twinkling, raised a brow and called out helpfully,
“You’re the one knocking the fan with the mop…”

“I’M TRYING TO REACH THE TOP SHELF!!” Baku snapped back without looking.

 

Gotak, meanwhile, was running back and forth with a garbage bag, catching clumps of whatever Baku swept.
It looked like a desperate ballet of two lost souls fighting a kitchen ghost.

Suho laughed again, this time louder.

He rubbed his temple gently as he leaned back further into the couch.
His head hurt. His legs ached a little.
His body clearly wanted him to get up, freshen up, and lie on the bed.

But…

He didn’t want to.

Not yet.

He looked away from the kitchen, and stared at nothing in particular.

Then a memory flashed in his mind.

Clear and cruel:

That moment downstairs, when Sieun looked between him and Juntae, visibly tired and torn…

 

And still chose to go with Juntae.

 

After Juntae's pout. That damn pout.

The pout that Suho had practically patented.

And Sieun…
Sieun just sighed, scratched his head, and gently pushed Suho toward the elevator.

Like he was handing over his favorite plush toy to someone else.

Unbelievable.

Suho exhaled sharply.

“How dare he…”

 

That thought burned quietly in his chest.

“How dare he just leave me up here… alone… after I clearly wanted to go with him…”

 

He knew it was petty.
He knew it was dramatic.

But that didn’t stop the sulk from bubbling.

“So what, anyone who pouts now gets their way?”

 

“Is that what we’re doing now, huh, Yeon Sieun?”

 

He glanced back at the kitchen, watching Gotak slip slightly on a wet floor and Baku yell, “FLOOR! YOU DUMBO!”

Suho sighed.
Crossed his arms again.
And pouted deeper.

He'd already told Baku earlier, “Just go shower first and clean later.”

But Baku?

Baku had looked offended.

“No!” he’d declared passionately, “I don’t want to miss even a minute of the precious cleaning time that our Master has granted me.”

Master. Sieun.

And Gotak?

Gotak, with all the grace of a wingman from the underworld, had added:

“Don’t shower yet. We’ll shower together. We’ll save water. For the planet.”

Baku nodded enthusiastically, white powder falling off his hair like dandruff from hell.

Suho blinked once.
Then blinked again.
Then stared like he was being personally cursed.

“…Why are you saying this like it’s a gift?”

But his words were lost to the chaos.

 

And Baku had nodded. Like an idiot.
A smiling, dusty idiot.

Suho let out a wheezy laugh again and shook his head.

But even the amusement couldn’t fully quiet that ache in his chest.

That heaviness.

Because in the quiet moments…

He realized something else.

He had been sulking at Sieun a lot lately.

A pout here. A glare there. A guilt trip or two.

And yet, through all of it, Sieun never snapped at him. Never pushed him away.

He always just…

Made sure Suho ate enough.

 

Gave him space to rest.

 

Carried his bags.

 

Let him nap on his shoulder on the bus.

 

Covered him with his jacket.

 

And just earlier, on the phone, told everyone: “Take Suho inside. Let him rest. He’s tired.”

 

Every little act…
Every quiet instruction…

Was always for him.

And still… Suho sulked.

He pressed his hand to his heart.
Closed his eyes.

 

“Haaa…” he whispered. “What a load of nonsense.”

 

Was he being spoiled?

Probably.

Did that stop the pout?

Absolutely not.

 

Time: One Hour Later.

Suho was still sitting on the couch.

Same spot.
Same crossed arms.
Same pout.

But now?

Now there was visible steam coming out of his ears.

Because it had officially been an hour.

An hour since Sieun disappeared with Juntae.

An hour since he got abandoned like a sad, half-eaten dumpling.

And to make matters worse, the chaos around him had somehow increased.

From the kitchen disaster to the Great Communal Shower Battle.

 

Yes. That happened.

Baku and Gotak had managed to clean the kitchen
Miraculously — in exactly 20 minutes.

They looked like soldiers returning from war.
Flour on their eyelids. Water dripping from their shirts.
A broken mop as a casualty.

And then came the next fight:

Who showers first.

 

Gotak, with a firm hand and deadly calm, had shoved Baku away from the bathroom door.

“YOU go second,” he had said, like he was declaring war.

Baku had screamed, “WHY?! I DID MORE WORK!”

“You rolled in the flour,” Gotak said. “That doesn’t count as work. That’s cosplay.”

And before Baku could argue further, Gotak slammed the bathroom door shut.

Suho had wheeze-laughed so hard, his stomach hurt.
He had genuinely thought he’d pass out from how hard he laughed when Baku tried to body-slam the door and got rejected by ceramic tiles.

But now?

Now the laughter had died.

Because…

Where. The. Hell. Was. Sieun.

His pout had turned into an angry scowl.
His arms crossed tighter.
He was tapping his foot now.

Sieun had said 30 minutes.
Not 60+. Not an hour.
And yet, no call, no text.

"Where did he even go with that pout-thief Juntae, huh?!"

Suho huffed.

Was he taken to another park? Another café?
Was Juntae making him drink some weirdo juice while bragging about old test scores!?

He sat there like a moody teen who’d just been left behind at a shopping mall.

Then came Gotak, fresh from the shower, towel-drying his hair as he walked over.

He plopped down beside Suho, giving him a curious glance.
“You haven’t freshened up yet?” he asked. “Waiting for Sieun?”

He leaned in slightly, voice softer. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll help you.”

Suho didn’t even spare him a glance.

 

“No.”

“But you’ll feel better.”

“I said no.”

Gotak blinked, looked at the time, and muttered, “Where the hell is Sieun anyway… it’s been over an hour.”

Suho’s eyes twitched.

“Exactly,” he thought. “Exactly! Even you’ve noticed!”

 

Baku walked out next.

Hair still damp, a towel draped loosely around his neck.
“Alright,” he declared, stretching his arms, “kitchen’s clean, body’s clean… conscience? Not clean.” He scratched his head like he was trying to scrub off the guilt too.

Gotak turned to Suho with a sly grin. “Hey… I have a genuine question,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, lowering his voice like he was about to share government secrets. “What’s it like when he helps you shower?”

Suho froze.

So did Baku.

Gotak tilted his head, watching Suho. Baku, still halfway to wherever he was going, slowly sank down onto the couch like he had just remembered his full-time job was keeping up with Suho's drama.

Suho blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Come on,” Gotak nudged, voice teasing. “You know what I mean.”

“I— I don’t,” Suho mumbled, trying hard not to blush. His ears betrayed him.

Baku raised a finger. “Wait. I think I know what he's asking,” he said, pointing at Gotak like he’d cracked a secret code. Then he leaned in slightly, intrigued.

Gotak grinned. “I mean, how does it feel when he’s in the bathroom with you? When he helps you unbutton your shirt… wash your back… later, maybe when he dries you off or helps you change into your clothes.” His voice wasn’t teasing anymore. It was strangely sincere. “What’s it like… being that close to him? Being taken care of like that?”

Suho looked at him. Startled, unsure.

And even though Baku looked like he was seconds away from cracking a joke, he didn’t. He was just watching Suho quietly, with something unreadable in his eyes. Something Suho couldn’t name.

Suho hesitated, then looked down. “I don’t really know how to explain it,” he said softly. “But when it happens… my heart— it races. It’s like it’s going to burst. But not in a bad way. It’s… warm. Safe. Like… like heaven, almost.”

Neither of them interrupted. They were really listening now.

Gotak tilted his head. “Why do you feel that way?”

 

Suho had no answer. He just blinked, lips parting, but nothing came out. He looked at Gotak like maybe he’d finally realized he didn’t know himself.

And then Baku looked at Gotak. Just looked. Quietly. For a moment too long.

Gotak noticed, raised his eyebrows. “What?”

The eye contact lingered.
Heavy, wordless.

 

Then Baku suddenly snapped out of it, breaking the tension with a loud clap. “Anyway! What are we doing for dinner?”

Gotak leaned back, casual again. “Takeout? Pizza?”

“Oooh, or ramen?” Baku added, bouncing back to life. “Or that fried chicken combo we saw online?”

“Rice balls,” Gotak suggested. “Or mandu. Ooh, mandu sounds good.”

“Let’s order everything,” Suho muttered under his breath, still a little dazed.

“Or ramen? Or maybe... that fried chicken set we saw online?” Baku said, his eyes lighting up.

“Yeah, and rice balls? Or mandu?”

Then both of them turned to Suho.

“Suho-sshi, what do you wanna eat?”

And just like that—

Suho remembered.

Earlier in the evening.
When he’d asked Sieun for tteokbokki. With cold beer.
And Sieun had looked him dead in the eye and said, “No.”

“No, it's too spicy for your stomach right now.”

 

And that memory?

That memory hit Suho like a truck.

His eyes widened.
His jaw dropped slightly.

And then
The pout returned.

Angrier. Poutier. More intense than ever before.

Gotak tilted his head. “Uh… what?”

Suho glared at the floor. “Nothing.”

Baku narrowed his eyes. “Did you remember something?”

“NO.”

“You look like you remembered something very specific,” Gotak added, inching closer.

“I didn’t,” Suho snapped.

“You’re sulking again,” Baku said. “Was it Sieun?”

“Don’t say his name right now,” Suho hissed.

Gotak suddenly gasped. “Wait. It was Sieun?”

Suho turned his face away, slow and dramatic. Like a betrayed lover in a weekend drama rerun.

“I asked him for spicy tteokbokki… and cold beer,” he said, voice low with pain. “And he said no.”

Gotak blinked, genuinely confused. “I mean… he’s probably just worried about your health?”

Suho whispered, clutching invisible pearls, “But it still hurts. The pain… lingers…”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Baku glanced at the clock and frowned. “Okay, but real question. Where is he? He said thirty minutes. It’s been over an hour now.”

 

Just then—
CLICK.
The sound of the door unlocking.

Like a horror movie moment.

The three boys froze.
Gotak grabbed Baku’s arm.
Baku grabbed Suho’s leg.
Suho didn’t grab anyone, but he widened his eyes like a betrayed housewife seeing the cheating husband return.

 

“...He’s here,” Gotak whispered.

“I’M NOT READY,” Baku whined.

“I AM,” Suho muttered, folding his arms like a war general.

The door opened. Slowly.

And there he was.

Sieun.

Hair slightly windblown. Face neutral. Calm.

Holding a plastic bag. Possibly groceries.
Behind him, Juntae. Looking too cheerful for Suho’s liking.

Baku and Gotak immediately hugged each other and whispered, “We tried, master.”

But Suho?

Suho just glared.

Hard.

No words. No smile.
Not even a “you’re late.”

Just a teen boy’s full angry silence and betrayed expression.

And Sieun?

Sieun blinked.

Then sighed.

Then muttered under his breath.

“Here we go…”

 

He stepped into the apartment.

The door clicked shut behind him.

His eyes scanned the room.

There was Suho.
Sitting like a sulking royal. Arms folded. Head tilted dramatically to the side.
Glare sharper than a kitchen knife.

And standing behind him was Juntae. Looking like a guilty puppy who’d peed on the carpet.

Sieun barely took one step forward—

“MASTER!”
“SENSEI!”

Suddenly, Baku and Gotak sprang into action.

Baku, full of panic loyalty, rushed forward.

“We TRIED, Master! We really tried!” he exclaimed, dramatically gesturing toward the kitchen. “You can see it for yourself! Look! CLEAN! Spotless!”

Gotak jumped in too. “YEAH! We scrubbed it! Disinfected it! Polished it with our tears!”

Sieun blinked.

Baku continued, pointing to himself, “And look at ME! No flour! No butter on my elbows! That’s progress!”

Gotak added solemnly, “We even forgave Juntae for abandoning us during wartime. That’s character development.”

Juntae peeked out from behind Sieun like a scared child. “I didn't abandon—”
“Shhh,” Baku said, shoving him back behind Sieun. “Let the grown-ups talk.”

Sieun blinked again. Silent.

Then suddenly …

“...What’s that smell?” Baku asked, sniffing the air.

Gotak followed, nose twitching like a squirrel. “Wait... I smell it too…”

Suho’s nose twitched next.

That smell…

That smell was familiar.

Like something warm.
Spicy.
Savory.
Soul-repairing.

Baku's eyes widened. “IS IT FOOD?!”

Gotak gasped. “IS THAT WHAT’S IN THE BAG?!”

All eyes turned to the plastic bag in Sieun’s hand.

Still unreadable, Sieun calmly turned his gaze away from the hungry wolves and looked at Suho.

Suho didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
Still sitting on the couch like a wounded emperor.

Sieun spoke, soft but clear:

“Why haven’t you freshened up yet?”

 

Silence.

Suho didn’t even look at him.
Just let out a long, over-the-top D-R-A-M-A-T-I-C sigh, like he was in a historical palace drama.

“Haaa…”

 

Then he turned his head even further the other way.
If he turned any more, his neck might cramp permanently.

GASP.
From all three idiots.

Baku covered his mouth. “He ignored him.”
Gotak whispered, “Did he just... sigh?”
Juntae whispered from behind, “I think… he’s in his final form now…”

Sieun stared at Suho for a long second.
Then sighed his own sigh — the tired kind.

He handed the bag to Baku.

“I’m giving you one responsibility,” he said flatly.

 

Both Baku and Gotak stood to attention like soldiers.

“Yes, Master!”
“We’re ready!”

“Take this out carefully,” Sieun instructed. “Set the table properly. Plates. Chopsticks. Napkins. Don’t touch anything with your bare hands. I’m going to freshen up.”

He then turned to Suho.

“Let’s go,” he said softly. “You need to freshen up too.”

 

He reached out a hand to Suho’s arm.

Suho didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe, it seemed.

Sieun crouched slightly.

“Suho... come on. You’ve been sitting like that for too long. Your back must be stiff.”

Gotak chimed in, raising his hand like a teacher’s pet.

“Yeah! He’s been sitting like that since we got back! Like, statue-level still! We even checked if he was breathing once!”

Still no reaction from Suho.

Sieun leaned closer, tried to tug his arm again gently.

Suho resisted again.

So finally—

“Ahn. Suho.”

 

He said it.

The full name.

And just like that—

Suho flinched.
Like a child caught playing with a lighter.

His eyes widened.
He looked up at Sieun, blinking rapidly.

His lower lip quivered.

His whole posture went from teenage rebellion to wounded puppy who just got scolded.

Baku gasped.
Gotak looked like he was about to cry out of secondhand tension.
Juntae ducked behind a pillow.

Sieun’s expression softened.

Then he did the unthinkable.

“Please,” he said gently.

 

Soft. Sincere. So un-Sieun-like.

And then he reached out both hands and slowly helped Suho stand up.

This time, Suho let him.

He rose, slowly, arms still crossed—but he allowed Sieun to support him.

The two of them walked silently toward the room.

Baku, Gotak, and Juntae stood frozen.

Watching.

Mouths slightly open.

Like villagers watching a divine couple ascend a staircase.

Finally, after a long pause—

Gotak blinked and whispered, “...What just happened?”

Baku replied, equally stunned, “I think… we just witnessed a domestic cold war end with a truce offering.”

Juntae murmured, “...He called him by his full name. I’ve never seen Suho blink that fast in my life.”

Gotak added, “And did you see how fast he got up after the ‘please’? That wasn’t just guilt. That was spine-tingling obedience.”

Baku nodded solemnly. “That’s wife mode activated. Pray for our general.”

They all slowly turned to the table—

And then Baku yelped, “WAIT! THE FOOD!”

They scrambled to open the plastic bag as reverently as if it held ancient treasure.

 

Gotak almost cried. “Suho… gonna love it.”

Juntae sniffled, “Sieun may be scary… but damn if he isn’t thoughtful…”

 

.
.
.

 

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them.

Sieun gently released Suho’s arm, his touch lingering for a brief second longer than needed. The air was quiet between them.

Not heavy, not cold… just tense with unsaid things. Suho stood there, arms still crossed, eyes lowered, his jaw slightly puffed out in that stubborn pout of his.

Sieun quietly moved to the wardrobe and pulled out a fresh towel, holding it out.

“Do you want to shower first?”
His voice was gentle. Careful.

 

Suho didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at him.

Just stood in the middle of the room like a scolded kid who wasn’t ready to forgive his mom yet.

And… yeah.

He knew Sieun hadn’t actually scolded him.

But…

He used his full name.

 

That was practically a scream by Sieun’s standard.

After such a cute, perfect, sweet little dat– … okay… outing … Sieun had the audacity to call him Ahn Suho?

Not “Suho-yah”
Not “Hey, you” with that faint smile.
Not even a silent head tilt with eyes that meant “move your butt.”

No.

It was “Ahn. Suho.”

And Suho was still not okay.

Without answering, Suho turned around and walked toward the bathroom, not even sparing a glance. As he reached the door, he felt Sieun’s eyes still on him … quiet, unreadable, waiting.

And then.
BANG.

He shut the bathroom door.

Not loud enough to be angry.
Not soft enough to be casual.
Just firm.

Final.

So this is what we’re doing now? he thought, yanking his hoodie over his head. (With very difficulty ... Because it hurts … Fuck …)

So yeah. Are we really doing this now? Calling people by their full names like some high school homeroom teacher?

 

He washed his hands.

Then splashed cold water on his face.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.

His cheeks were still warm.
From the drama. From the day. From Sieun.

He stood in front of the mirror, blinking at his reflection, the water dripping down his chin.

 

“You’re sulking again,” he mumbled to himself.

 

But still…

He toweled off, fixed his hair just a little, and walked out with a slow shuffle.

 

His expression?
Neutral.
Too neutral. Which meant: pouting.

He plopped down on the bed, still damp.
Hair sticking to his forehead.
Lower lip puffed just enough to demand a hundred apologies.

Sieun was waiting by the side, holding out a fresh towel.

Suho looked at it.

Paused.

Then… looked away.

Didn’t take it.

Didn’t say anything.

 

Just sat there, arms back across his chest, staring at the wall now, as if it personally offended him too.

Sieun didn’t speak either.

He simply looked at him for a long moment … the faintest something in his eyes. Not frustration. Not disappointment. Just… a quiet sigh he didn’t say out loud.

Then, without a word, he placed the towel gently on the bed beside Suho. Just close enough to reach, but not touching him.

And then… turned around, picked up his own towel, and walked into the bathroom.

Click. The door closed softly behind him.

Suho was left sitting there.

Still mad.

Still wet.

 

Still... pouting.

 

But now?
Now his eyes trailed toward the bathroom door.

He flopped backward onto the bed, arms spread out, staring up at the ceiling like the world had betrayed him.

“Ughhhhhh,” he groaned, dragging the sound out dramatically.
“Why am I like this?”

 

The ceiling, unfortunately, didn’t answer.

His eyes scanned the plain white surface above.

He remembered how pretty the park looked today.
The leaves fluttering above them.
The way Sieun had packed that stupid little bottle of water and lunch for him.
The way he let him cling onto him and sleep on his shoulder.

 

His lips curled just a little.

Then flattened again.

 

“Okay… maybe I’m overreacting a little,” he admitted in his mind.

 

But still.

Still.

He called him by his full name.

 

Suho groaned and curled onto his side, clutching the spare towel to his chest like a stuffed animal.

 

Outside, he could faintly hear Baku shouting “THIS TABLE SETTING IS NOT A DRILL” and Gotak saying “I googled how to fold napkins like swans—WAIT WHERE ARE THE CHOPSTICKS?!”

 

And Suho?

He just lay there, head buried in the soft bedspread.

Still sulking.
Still dramatic.

But maybe…

Just maybe…

Ready to forgive.
If Sieun says sorry first.
Maybe.

Probably.

...Definitely.

 

Suho was still lying curled up on the bed, towel loosely hugged to his chest, blinking at the ceiling like it held the answers to his increasingly dramatic mood swings.

His stomach, however, had other plans.

A low, sad grrrgrrr rumbled through him.

 

“Oh no…” he mumbled, flattening his hand to his belly.

 

Of course. Now he was hungry.

Of course.

And right on cue, like a gentle memory clicking into place, his mind flashed back. Sieun had come home earlier holding a plastic bag. He’d handed it to Baku and Gotak, told them to set the table, and then headed to shower.

Food.

There was food out there.

And if Suho didn’t get there soon, those two tornadoes in human skin would probably mess it all up. Or worse. Eat it all.

He pushed himself up.
Almost toppled sideways.
Caught himself on the edge of the bed with a startled squeak.

His eyes darted to the bathroom door.

The water had stopped running.

“Oh no no no— he’s coming out—”

 

Suho scrambled to his feet like a sneaky raccoon trying to escape a flashlight. He fluffed his damp hair, wiped invisible crumbs from his cheeks, and darted to the door.

 

“I cannot be in the room sulking when he comes out. No. That’s too dramatic. Even for me.”

 

His bare feet padded quickly down the hallway as he whispered to himself:

 

“Why am I being like this lately? Why am I always… mad at him? He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just…”

 

He paused.

“...him.”

 

His fingers tightened at his side.

 

“What if he gets tired of me?”
“What if one day he just sighs and walks away, like everyone else?”

 

The thought hit him like a quiet thud.

But before he could spiral further, something stopped him in his tracks.

 

A smell.

Warm. Sweet. A little spicy. Comforting in a way that hit straight in the chest.

 

Red pepper paste.
A little honey.
Boiled eggs. Fish cakes. Rice cakes.
Sliced greens. Carrots. Mushrooms.
That soft scent of freshly steamed sesame.

Suho’s eyes widened. He knew that smell.

HE KNEW THAT SMELL.

 

He tiptoed forward until the dining room opened up in front of him.

There, on the table, surrounded by little bowls of side dishes and a plate of soft, leafy lettuce wraps, was exactly what he had been craving.

Hot, glistening, thick sauced, bubbling slightly in the tray.

He blinked.

Baku was hovering over the table, hands in the air like he was going to perform a sacred ritual.

“I’m telling you, if they don’t come out in the next minute I’m taking one. I’m just checking the spice level.”

 

His fingers inched toward the tray.

Smack!

Gotak slapped his hand like an angry mom.

“Bad manners! Sit. Down. Let them come first.”

 

“I wasn’t gonna eat, I was just gonna check—”

 

“You were going to stuff three pieces in your mouth and burn your tongue, don’t lie.”

 

Suho stood silently near the corner, watching them.

Then his eyes slowly drifted to the table again.

The food. The smell. The wraps. The side of clear soup.

 

Why...?
He stepped forward. Sat down.

 

His voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

“Why did he…?”

 

But he didn’t finish the question.

Because Juntae, who had been quietly setting spoons at each place, looked up and smiled at him. That quiet, knowing smile of someone who understood Suho far better than Suho liked to admit.

 

“You were craving it earlier, weren’t you?” Juntae said.

 

Suho blinked.

Nodded.

“Sieun remembered.”

 

Suho’s eyes drifted back to the food, and something inside him melted. He didn’t even have words for it. He just… stared.

So he had gone out.

That whole time — over an hour — Sieun wasn’t out sulking with Juntae.

 

He was… getting this.

His favorite dish.

The one Sieun had refused earlier, because it was “too greasy, too spicy, not good for recovery.”
But now it was here. And it wasn’t just that dish. It was a healthier version, mixed with things Suho would never add but Sieun always insisted were “for balance.”

He’d compromised.
He’d listened.
He’d remembered.

And he still made it special.

He wasn’t even hungry anymore.

He was just full.

Of feelings.

Of Sieun.

Of everything Sieun didn’t say. But always did anyway.

 

Just as Suho was still standing awkwardly near the table, staring like the food might vanish if he blinked too hard, Juntae silently got up from his seat. Without a word, he gently reached for Suho’s arm.

 

“Here,” Juntae said softly, guiding him toward the chair beside him.

 

Suho didn’t resist. His legs were still wobbly. Maybe from standing too fast … or maybe from the sudden wave of feelings washing over him again. Either way, he let Juntae help him down.

The crutches were gently leaned against the wall nearby.

Suho sat.

Right in front of the tray.

The one filled with that exact smell. The one his brain and his heart recognized long before he could name it.

He blinked at it again.

Red sauce. Shiny. Comforting. Warm.
Soft rice cakes nestled beside leafy greens.
Boiled eggs sliced in half.
Thin mushrooms and carrots tossed delicately over the top.
Sesame seeds scattered with intention.
Little side bowls of soup, sprouts, kimchi, and more.

Everything about it screamed “home.”
But also… “you’re being taken care of.”

Suho stared.

Then finally, he whispered, more to himself than anyone else:

 

“Why…? How come…?”

 

Everyone turned to look at him.

“He said…” Suho began slowly, “that it’s not healthy. That I shouldn’t eat spicy food while healing. That I should eat balanced meals.”

 

His voice got smaller with each word.

He didn’t even realize he was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, like a child who was just told their bedtime was being extended but now didn’t know whether that meant a reward or a trap.

And honestly…

The more he thought about it…

The worse it got.

 

“Why would he suddenly change his mind?”
“Did I pressure him?”
“Is he giving in to shut me up?”
“Is he tired of me always sulking and being difficult?”

 

His chest tightened.

Suho’s lips parted, about to ask the question out loud.

But before he could spiral further—

Juntae reached out and patted his shoulder.

 

“It’s not that spicy,” Juntae said gently.

 

“Huh?” Suho blinked.

 

“That dish,” Juntae explained, motioning toward the tray with a little smile, “was a special order. Made just for you.”

 

Suho turned to him, eyes wide.

“What do you mean?”

 

Gotak tilted his head. “Special? Like... how special?”

Baku leaned forward, curious. “Wait, wait, you mean this isn’t regular tteokbokki?”

 

Juntae nodded, picking up his chopsticks casually. “We went to that little ajumma’s stall. You remember? The one down the alley near our cram school.”

Baku gasped. “Yooo! That place? Her food was like a warm hug from the heavens.”

“Is this from there?” Gotak asked, already halfway out of his seat, eyes glittering with hope.

 

“Yup.” Juntae smiled.

 

He stirred a spoon through the clear soup. “But Sieun asked for something really specific. He told her it’s for his friend who’s recovering. Asked if she could make it as mild as possible. No strong chili powder. Less oil. Lots of veggies. Added fiber. All that.”

 

Suho just blinked again.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even move.

His heart just squeezed.

 

“He said that…?”

 

Juntae nodded, now glancing at Suho with a meaningful smile.

 

“He told her to add anything she thought would help in healing. And he said…”
“He said—‘I want to make sure he feels cared for, but also still enjoys the food he loves.’”

 

Suho froze.

Gotak’s jaw dropped dramatically.

Baku was halfway to gasping again, then clutched his own chest. “Special treatment?? Whoa…”

 

They both turned toward Suho and gave him the most chaotic double side-eye ever.

“So this is how it is now, huh,” Baku muttered dramatically.

 

“We break our backs cleaning the kitchen and get yelled at. Meanwhile, Prince Suho gets custom gourmet healing cuisine.” Gotak huffed.

 

Suho didn’t even hear them.

His brain was still stuck on the image of Sieun standing in that small stall, hands probably tucked into his coat sleeves, politely bowing and apologizing and explaining everything to the ajumma.

 

And Suho could picture it so clearly it hurt.

Sieun saying “please” and “sorry” and “thank you” all in one breath, all while thinking about Suho. About what would make him happy. What would comfort him.

All because Suho had sulked. Just a little.

 

“Did he really do that… just for me?”

 

His fingers curled over his knees.

His heart? In shambles.

His eyes? Dangerously shiny.

And just then—

They heard footsteps.

Suho turned instinctively.

Sieun.
Freshly showered. Hair still a little damp. Shirt clinging to his collar.

He walked into the room like he hadn’t just casually rearranged the stars for someone and now expected everyone to eat dinner like it was nothing.

The sound of footsteps padded closer from the hallway.
Sieun appeared.
Hair damp. Towel lazily tossed over his head, still rubbing at the ends like he was drying it on autopilot. One hand busy on his phone. Thumb flicking across the screen with practiced ease.
He wasn’t rushing.
He wasn’t flustered.
He was… focused — on whatever he was reading.
He didn’t even glance around the room.
He just walked in, paused for a second at the edge of the table, still staring at the phone, then—
Sat down.
Still staring.
Still scrolling.
Still texting.
But…
Not beside Suho.
Nope.
He plopped down on the other side of the table — not his usual seat right next to Suho. Not the warm spot he always, ALWAYS claimed.
Suho blinked.
And blinked again.
His lips parted just slightly. His neck tilted.
Eyes flicked between Sieun… and the empty space beside him.

“Why… didn’t he sit here?”
And then another thought.
A worse thought.
Suho narrowed his eyes slightly.
Sieun’s fingers were still flying across the screen. Tap tap tap. Pause. Tap again.

“Who’s he texting?”
“Why is he texting during dinner?”
“Why is he not even looking at me??”
“Did I do something?”
“Is he mad at me?”
“Wait—was he ever even mad?”

Before Suho could go full spiral again, Sieun calmly reached out for a glass of water, took a long sip, placed it back, still not looking at Suho, and—
Baku slammed a hand on the table.
“Yah! You traitor!”

Sieun blinked. Finally looked up.
Baku pointed a chopstick at him like a weapon. “Why’d you sneak off alone to the ajumma’s stall!?”

Sieun just blinked at him, deadpan. “Because someone had to stay behind and clean the mess someone created.”
Gotak and Baku gasped together.
A scandalized, dramatic gasp.
Hands over hearts. Eyes wide. Baku dramatically clutching Gotak's shoulder like they’d just been framed for murder.
“We did so much work,” Gotak whispered to no one in particular.
“We were domestic goddesses today,” Baku muttered, devastated.

Sieun asked,“Is that so?”
Then, realizing the tables were turning, they both suddenly changed the subject.
“Anyway, let’s eat!”
“YEAH FOOD!”
Sieun didn’t argue.
Instead, he looked up again—
And locked eyes with Suho.
Suho, who had been already looking at him, eyes wide and still very much in “why-aren’t-you-sitting-next-to-me-and-who-were-you-texting” mode.
Sieun just gave him a soft, tiny nod.
That’s all.
No words.
No explanation.
Just a nod.
Suho didn’t even realize his shoulders relaxed.
Everyone started eating.
Suho slowly picked up his chopsticks. Took a bite.
And he nearly cried.
It was—
It was perfect.
Exactly how he remembered.
Soft and chewy. Slight warmth, just enough to tingle his tongue. Not overpowering.
The vegetables were fresh, sweet, crisp. The broth was light but comforting.
His mouth hummed with happiness.
“So good…”
He blinked down at his food like it was a miracle.
Like it had healed every sulky part of his body all at once.
Craving: Fulfilled.
Mood: Still moody, but less acidic.
“Oh my GOD,” Baku moaned dramatically, chewing, “it’s soooo good.”
“I’m gonna marry this dish,” Gotak declared. “It’s everything I’ve ever needed.”
“I feel like my childhood is being healed,” Baku sighed again, twirling a rice cake like pasta.
Then, between bites, Gotak paused.
“Wait wait wait—hold up. For real though. How the hell did ajumma agree to this custom order?”
He turned to look at Sieun. “Like... wasn’t her place always packed? And she never allowed special requests?”
Juntae grinned.
The glint in his eyes was evil.
He didn’t say a word. Just stared at Sieun knowingly, chopsticks slowly tapping against his bowl like a beat.
Waiting.
Sieun, still chewing, calmly responded:
“I promised her we’d show up once a month at least.”
Baku’s mouth fell open, mid-bite.
“...AND?”
Sieun added, still deadpan:
“And I said I’d tutor her daughter once a week.”
Suho almost choked on a carrot.
“YOU WHAT?” Baku shouted.
“Every week??”
“For how long??” Gotak asked, already giggling.
Sieun shrugged. “That part’s not decided.”
“Ohhhh my god,” Baku laughed, “you sold your soul for rice cakes!”
“You made a whole pact with the rice cake devil!” Gotak added.
“That’s romance,” Juntae muttered smugly under his breath.

Suho sat in silence.
Chewing slowly.
Processing.
Heart pounding.
All that...
For him?
But Sieun still hadn’t looked his way again. Not once.

“Why won’t he look at me now?”

Suho pushed a veggie aside with his chopsticks, then peeked from the corner of his eye.
Sieun was just eating. Calmly. Casually. Not texting now. Not talking. Not looking either.

“Why won’t he just say something…”
“Why is it always these little things?”

Suho stared.
At the boy who sold away hours of his week.
Who arranged a custom healing meal.
Who didn’t sit beside him today.
But somehow still saw everything.
Suho blinked.
And for the first time in a long time…
He didn’t even know what to say.

“But yeah,” Baku said, mouth still full of rice, “this food is so good. Remind me again… why did we stop going to ajumma’s stall?”

 

He licked his lips, savoring the sauce like it was divine. Gotak nodded in agreement, already mid-second-serving.

That’s when Juntae struck.

Eyes gleaming. Mischief dancing in his voice.

“Because...” he said slowly, drawing it out, “ajumma’s daughter couldn’t keep her heart in check around our master here.”

 

He didn’t even bother to look at Sieun as he gestured dramatically in his direction.
He didn’t have to.

Everyone froze.

Chopsticks halfway to mouths.

Eyes darting from Juntae… to Sieun…
Then to each other.

 

“WHAT?!”

 

Baku and Gotak gasped in unison, their heads swiveling toward each other like synchronized swimmers.

Then they burst out laughing — ugly, chaotic laughter.
Baku clutched his chest like it physically hurt.
Gotak slammed the table once, then again, and finally wheezed:

 

“Why didn’t we KNOW this before?!”

 

Sieun just kept eating.

Calm. Quiet. Completely unfazed.

 

“Wait wait wait—” Gotak leaned in, peering at him. “Were you just talking to her just now? On your phone?”

 

No reply.

 

“Yah! That means YES, doesn’t it?!” Baku accused, pointing a spoon at him.

 

Sieun… still didn’t respond.

He didn’t smile.
He didn’t deny.
Just sipped his soup like they were talking about the weather.

And then—

Ping.

Sieun’s phone lit up.

Before he could grab it, Gotak lunged across the table and snatched it.

 

“GOT IT!”

 

Sieun just looked. Calmly.

 

Gotak was already holding it high.
Eyes widening.
Then bursting into laughter again.

“YAAAAH it’s HER,” Gotak declared, shoving the screen toward Baku and Juntae.

 

Juntae was already giggling.

“She messaged twice in two minutes—someone’s eager,” he sang.

 

Even Baku had to lean away from the phone to breathe from laughing too hard.

 

Suho?

Suho was staring.

Expression?
Neutral.
Too neutral.

He hadn’t even touched his second helping.
He wasn’t laughing.
Not even a twitch.

 

He looked at the phone, then at Sieun.

Then at the phone again.

Then at Sieun’s face, which remained as unreadable as ever.

Something burned under Suho’s ribs.

Not fiery.

Not jealous.

Something worse.

Icky.

 

“Why do I feel… sick?”

 

He looked away.
Then looked back.

Still sick.

 

Still staring at his best friend — the boy who brought him custom-made food, called his full name when he was being a brat, and now apparently had girls texting him nonstop.

 

That… was gross.

 

“What about you, though?” Suho suddenly said out loud.

 

The table went silent.

Every pair of eyes whipped toward him.

Suho blinked slowly, trying to keep his voice casual, but it cracked slightly.

 

“Do you like her?”

 

It slipped out so easily.

But now that it was out — hanging in the air like thick smoke — he couldn’t take it back.

Even Sieun looked mildly surprised.

He blinked at Suho.

Paused.

Then said, slowly:

“Well… she’s nice.”

 

Chaos. Immediate.

 

“OOOOOOOOOH!!!”
“IT’S CONFIRMED!”
“HE THINKS SHE’S NICEEEEE!”

 

Juntae covered his face, dying.
Gotak fake fainted on Baku’s shoulder.
Baku dramatically wiped a fake tear.

 

“They grow up so fast,” he whispered.

 

Suho?

He just sat there.

Stiff.

Trying to process.

His heart was thumping in his ears, but not in a good way.

It felt off. Tight. Awful.

Why did it feel so bad?

 

“Is that why you were late?” Baku asked, nudging Sieun, wiggling his brows.

 

Sieun shook his head. “No.”

Juntae leaned in again.
Full gossip mode, grinning like he was holding tea hotter than the tteokbokki.

 

“It’s because ajumma stopped us. She was talking to us about … get this … how her daughter really likes our dear Sieunie.”

 

Baku gasped. “Still?!”

“Yep,” Juntae nodded. “Apparently, her daughter confessed everything to her. She said she doesn’t mind if they end up dating.”

 

Gotak: “WHAAAT—”

 

“She even started listing his good qualities,” Juntae went on. “You know, the usual. Smart, kind, good reputation, polite, quiet…”

 

“A little hot, very hot,” Baku muttered under his breath.

 

“Basically, she was pitching her daughter like a marriage proposal,” Juntae said with a grin.

 

The others were wheezing.

But Suho…

He felt frozen.

Like someone had dropped a giant ice cube down his shirt.

Like a weight was pressed to his chest.

 

She’s not wrong though.

 

Sieun is perfect.

 

He’s polite. Smart. Well-mannered. Responsible.

 

Of course people like him.

 

Of course girls like him.

 

Of course her mom thinks he’s a great match.

 

Suho blinked.

 

Tried to smile.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

Because deep down, something twisted.

He didn’t understand why it bothered him so much.

 

It wasn’t the crush.

It wasn’t the teasing.

It was the way it all made sense.

 

The way everything about Sieun was so deserving of someone.

Someone smart.

Sweet.

From a good family.

Someone with a mom who already approved.

Someone who wasn’t sulky, bratty, or high-maintenance.

Someone who wasn’t Suho.

 

The teasing kept going. The room was warm and alive with laughter. Baku was howling, practically rolling across the floor while Gotak swatted at him, saying, “Hyung, shut up, I’m trying to breathe!”

 

Juntae had his sleeve over his mouth to muffle his laughter but wasn’t even trying to hide the smirk that curved at the edges of his lips. The moment Sieun’s phone pinged again, the boys pounced like wolves. Gotak had already snatched it earlier, laughing maniacally. This time, Baku was ready to grab it but Sieun merely flicked his eyes up and gave him the “try me and die” look.

 

Even then, the teasing didn’t stop.

 

Suho sat still in the corner of the floor mattress setup, tteokbokki half-eaten in the bowl on his lap, his other hand limp because of his shoulder injury, crutches resting beside him like forgotten weapons. He wasn’t laughing. Not even smiling.

He was glaring.

At Baku, specifically, for daring to tease Sieun like that.
But also… at Sieun. For being too quiet.

 

Was it guilt? Jealousy? Both? Probably.
Mostly, it was the sinking feeling that had been growing like a weed since that damn phone pinged and Sieun had smiled.

 

After dinner, the chaos slowly died down.
Gotak was at the sink. Baku was wiping the table while talking about how he needed to bulk up again for football training. Juntae, weirdly focused, was rearranging the cushions into color-coded stacks because… well, Juntae.

And Sieun?

Sieun quietly got up, left, and came back with a small medicine box. He didn’t say anything. Just placed it near Suho’s pillow. His fingers brushed Suho’s knee lightly as he moved past, but there was no eye contact. No teasing. No snark. No smile.

Just that quiet, unreadable look on his face.

Suho watched him.

Waited.

And then—couldn’t hold it in.
It was eating him alive.

 

“…Are you mad at me?”

 

The words slipped out too fast, too soft. But Sieun stopped. His head tilted slightly, brows pulling together like he was computing the question.

“What?” he asked, like he genuinely didn’t get it.

“I asked…” Suho hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line. His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Are you angry with me?”

Sieun turned around this time. Fully.

 

“…Why would you think that?”

 

Suho didn’t answer. Just looked down. That stupid medicine box was right in front of him. The silent proof that Sieun did care.
But Sieun hadn’t sat beside him during dinner. He hadn’t looked at him much. Had smiled at his phone. Had smiled… at someone else.

 

And it wasn’t like Suho could say any of that. He wasn’t that brave yet.

So he just sat there, lips pressed tight.

Sieun blinked again. Studied him for a second, like he was reading something behind his face. Then finally, in the quietest voice, he said:

“No. I’m not mad.”

 

It should’ve made Suho feel better.
It didn’t.

Because Sieun’s voice was gentle, yes. But not teasing. Not soft like it used to be.
Or maybe that was just in Suho’s head.

He stared at the medicine box again. Then at Sieun.

“Take your meds,” Sieun said softly. “Don’t be late with it.”

Then he turned to help Gotak with the dishes, sleeves rolled up, back turned.

 

Meanwhile, in the background…

Baku: “Hey! That’s MY rag!”

Gotak: “Then stop using it to wipe your sweaty armpits!”

Juntae: folding cushions like origami “Why are none of you normal?”

Baku: “Says the guy who color-matches floor mats!”

 

And Suho?
He popped the pills in his mouth, swallowed with a sip of water, and whispered to himself:

“…I hate everyone.”

Except one person.
And that person wasn’t looking at him anymore.

Notes:

So, I really hope you all loved this one!
This chapter is honestly one of my favorites too. Because it’s from Suho’s recovery days. The time when Sieun was taking such good care of him.

This part is really important because it's the base for Suho's feelings. It shows why Suho is so gone for Sieun in the current timeline. Why he looks at him the way he does… and also why he’s so scared to confess now. (Future chapters will clearly explain why he’s scared, but for now, you all can connect the dots on your own).

As for when the confession will finally happen… even I don’t know exactly. It might take 5 chapters, or 15 or 20. I REALLY DONT KNOW.

What I DO know is that it’s going to be a literal K-drama type confession... the slow-burn, heart-fluttering, scream-into-your-pillow type. And to be very honest I don’t want to rush it. I want to make sure every little thought and feeling gets portrayed properly.

I know it can be frustrating to wait, but I promise it’ll be worth it. Pinky swear!

 

Author’s Ramble:
Someone asked me about my degree in the comments...yes, I’m doing my post-graduation! I’m in my final year right now.
My days are super packed (I leave home at 7:30 a.m. and come back around 6:30 p.m., and on good days 4 p.m.), so I barely get time to sit and write.

Also, I absolutely love how you all share little details about your own lives in the comments. It makes me feel so connected with you guys. Thank you for that.

I’ll try my best to post the next chapter soon. Until then, take care of yourselves.
Bye bye!

Chapter 41: The Mystery of Ahn Suho’s Endless Pouting

Notes:

Hie guys!
Hope you’re all doing well. So, I felt the last chapter was a bit on the shorter side, so here I am posting the next one a little earlier than planned.

I’ve actually started posting this story on Wattpad too — mainly because over there you can react to specific sentences.
That was the whole reason! 😅 (The name is All The Ways They Guard Him)
I thought it would be fun to see which lines make everyone scream, cry, or melt, so now you can tap on those exact moments.

 

Also this chapter might give you a bit more clarity on why Suho has been sulking so much lately. Hope you enjoy it.

Happy reading

Suho sat curled up on the couch, arms folded around himself as the usual chaos of the apartment unfolded in the background — Baku loudly groaning about dish duty, Gotak chasing him with a wet towel, Juntae folding napkins with monk-like precision.

But Suho’s eyes weren’t really on them.

They were on Sieun.

Sieun, who right now looked… unfairly soft.

He had already showered earlier, before dinner. His hair was clean and slightly fluffy where it fell forward, his loose nightclothes — a plain T-shirt and drawstring pants — looked so comfortable it was almost annoying, and his face had that freshly-brushed-teeth kind of calm that made him look ready to fall asleep at any moment.

He looked warm. Clean. Huggable.

And Suho couldn’t look away.

Especially because he was the exact opposite.

The sticky itch had been creeping up on him since they’d come back — a leftover from rehab earlier, where he’d worked himself into a sweat during stretches and walking drills. After that, Sieun had wiped his face and arms with a cool wet cloth while Suho slumped on the bench, too tired to even hold the bottle of water properly.

And then they’d gone out.

That ridiculously cute date—
No. Outing.

Hours outside, walking, talking, being together.

And since then? He’d never changed.

No shower. No clean clothes. Nothing.

He still had that clammy shirt sticking to his skin, every inch of him feeling gross and itchy.

And to make it worse, he remembered how, the moment they’d come home, Sieun had quietly told him to freshen up. “Take a shower,” he’d said, so gently.

And Suho… had just sulked. Pretended not to hear.

Now he felt horrible. Sticky. And small. And very aware of how nice Sieun smelled from where he sat across the room.

It made him squirm.

Finally, he gave up. The words slipped out low, almost like he didn’t mean for them to be heard:

“…Sieun.”

Immediately, Sieun looked up, his attention snapping to him. “Hm?”

“I… wanna shower,” Suho muttered, barely above a whisper.

There was no teasing in Sieun’s face. No I told you so.
Just that steady, patient expression as he walked over, crouching slightly.

“Okay,” he said simply. “Come on.”

He offered his hand.

Suho hesitated only a second before taking it, feeling the solid warmth of him even through the soft sleeve of his nightshirt. The fabric smelled faintly of soap and something clean and warm — like Sieun himself.

And that was all it took.

He let Sieun pull him up, help him balance with the crutch, and quietly guide him to the bedroom.

Inside, Sieun went to the bathroom first, turning the tap and testing the water until it was perfectly warm. Then he turned back.

And stopped.

Because Suho wasn’t moving.

 

Suho stood there, frozen by the bed, while the sound of running water filled the bathroom. The warm steam curled lazily out of the open door, but he couldn’t make himself move.

His hands, tight on the crutch, had gone clammy.
Every muscle in his body felt heavy.

And then slowly, deliberately, he let the crutch lean against the bed.
He just stood there, shoulders tight, staring at the floor.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes found Sieun.

And without a word… he simply lifted his arms a little, hesitating, like a silent admission: I can’t. I need you.

That was all.

No spoken plea. Just that small, wordless gesture.

Sieun stilled.

Then he walked forward, quiet as ever, and reached for Suho’s damp shirt.

He peeled it off slowly, careful of the bad shoulder, careful not to drag fabric against sensitive skin. The shirt came away heavy with sweat, leaving Suho bare and flushed.
For a long heartbeat, they just stood there.

Suho’s chest rose and fell unevenly, every breath shallow, his lashes trembling as they lowered.
Across from him, Sieun’s gaze stayed steady—quiet, patient, unreadable.

Then, with a faint scrape of crutches against the floor, Suho started toward the bathroom.
Each step was slow, deliberate… but halfway there, he stopped.
Didn’t move again.

He just stood by the doorway, shoulders tight, the warm mist from the running water curling around him, clinging to his skin.

His hands never went to his waistband.
Not even a twitch.

After a moment, Suho lifted his gaze to Sieun.
Just looked at him—wordless, caught, almost pleading without meaning to—until it became too much and his eyes dropped again, helpless.

And that—without a single word—was all it took for Sieun to understand.

 

The silence between them thickened instantly, heavy as the steam in the small room.

 

A slow exhale left Sieun, almost soundless.

And then, without hesitation, he crossed the short distance between them, lowered himself into a crouch, and reached for the knot of the drawstring at Suho’s waist.

The cotton of Sieun’s soft nightshirt brushed lightly against Suho’s thigh as he leaned in, fingers working carefully at the knot.
He moved slow, precise, as if even the fabric might bruise Suho if tugged too harshly.
The only sound was the faint scrape of cotton and the low, steady hum of running water.

Suho stood perfectly still.
Breathing uneven.
His good hand tightened slightly on the crutch, knuckles pale, but he didn’t move away.

When the knot came loose, Sieun paused, giving him a silent moment — a chance to change his mind.
Suho didn’t.
So, with careful hands, Sieun hooked his fingers into the waistband and began to ease the fabric down.

The pants slid against Suho’s legs, slow, deliberate.
Every inch revealed was met with Sieun’s steadying touch — one hand bracing gently at Suho’s hip to keep him balanced, the other guiding the fabric downward.

And then, without even thinking about it, Sieun shut his eyes.

He kept them shut tight.
Not because he didn’t trust himself — but because this wasn’t about him.
This was about Suho’s comfort. His dignity. His trust.

Every second was careful.

He guided the pants down, slow, deliberate, steadying Suho whenever he swayed.
The steam in the room made everything feel closer, quieter, heavier.

And then came the hardest part.
The last layer.
His underwear.

 

Sieun’s fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pressed lightly to the waistband — still with his eyes closed, his breathing slow and deep, grounding himself.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t casual.
But it was steady.
Bit by bit, he helped Suho out of that, too.
Never once opening his eyes.
Never once making it feel like anything except what it was: quiet, wordless care.

When it was done, Sieun set the clothes neatly aside, then straightened slowly.
He still kept one hand on Suho’s arm until he was sure he wouldn’t wobble.

Only then did he let go.

“…I’ll leave now,” Sieun said softly, still keeping his eyes closed as he turned away.

He didn’t open them again until his back was to Suho.
And before stepping out, his voice — calm and simple — reached back through the warm mist:

“If you need anything… just call.”

A promise, left hanging in the steam, before he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

 

“...I—”

The sound of Suho’s voice, small and sudden, stopped him mid-step.
Sieun froze.
He didn’t turn.
Didn’t move.

The steam curled around them like a veil, soft and hazy, making the silence stretch unbearably long.
It was obvious why he wasn’t turning — Suho was bare. And Sieun wasn’t going to risk even a flicker of disrespect.

But Suho… Suho didn’t care about that right now.

His fingers curled tighter around the crutch. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. Something inside him — that stubborn pride that always wanted to say “I can do it myself” — had gone quiet.

Because right now, he didn’t want Sieun to leave.

Not yet.

“I… I want to…”
His throat bobbed, dry.
“…use… body wash.”

Sieun’s head tilted slightly at the words — just a fraction, as if acknowledging him — but he still didn’t turn.

And Suho’s heart nearly burst.
Because of course Sieun wouldn’t look. Because he always, always knew how to protect Suho’s dignity. Even now. Even here.

In a low voice, Sieun said quietly, “But… you don’t use it at night, do you? You usually just rinse off with water.”

Suho swallowed. His lashes trembled.
“I want to use it now,” he said, soft but certain. “I… I feel so itchy.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the running water.
And then — that same small nod from Sieun.
Still not turning.

 

“Do you want to sit?”

Suho blinked. His lips parted, but no words came out.
He just looked at him — at the line of his shoulders, at the way those careful eyes never wandered.

“I… don’t know,” he admitted, honestly. Almost whispering.

Sieun held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once, slow.
“Alright,” he said gently. “Then stand for now.”

His tone was so simple, but so full of patience, that Suho’s throat felt tight.

Then he reached behind him to pick up the bottle of body wash.
He placed it carefully by the shelf within Suho’s reach.

And then he straightened again.

“Take your time,” he murmured, voice softer now.
“I’ll be right outside.”

He waited for a nod — just a small one — before finally stepping back, slow, and heading toward the door again.
He had insisted for weeks now.
“Let me do it myself. I can manage.”
Pushing Sieun’s hands away even when it hurt, even when his shoulder throbbed so bad he had to grit his teeth.

And Sieun—patient as always—had stepped back. Let him try. Let him learn.

But right now…

Right now his skin itched where sweat had dried after rehab. His back ached from the effort of the day. And his hand, the good one, trembled slightly as he tried to hold the towel steady.

And when he looked at Sieun—
really looked—
all that stubborn pride cracked.

He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.

It was just in his eyes:
I can’t.

And Sieun saw it instantly.

His expression softened, the faintest sigh leaving him, like he had been expecting this from the moment Suho stopped at the door earlier.

 

No teasing. No I-told-you-so.

 

Just that same steady presence.

 

“Alright,” he murmured. “Wait here.”

And then he was gone.
The soft pad of his steps down the hall.
The sound of the bathroom door opening and closing again.
Leaving Suho alone with the hiss of water and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He lowered his gaze, pressing his lips together.
Why am I like this? he thought.
Every time Sieun turned away, a part of him ached like something was being pulled out of his chest.

And when Sieun came back, the sound of his soft steps reached him first.

He wasn’t looking at Suho when he entered.
His gaze stayed carefully a little above — somewhere behind Suho’s shoulder, like he was looking through the steam.

And in his hand was another towel, folded once.

Without a word, Sieun stepped close.
Suho didn’t breathe.
The fabric brushed his skin as Sieun leaned in just enough to drape the towel around his hips — slow, careful, precise, keeping it from slipping.

Suho’s head ducked down, cheeks warm.
For some reason, that small gesture — the care in it — made him feel even more exposed. Not because of his body. But because of what it meant.

Sieun’s voice came again, quiet but steady, close enough that Suho felt it like a low hum in the air between them.

Sieun adjusted the towel once more, just to be sure it was secure.

 

“Turn a little,” Sieun murmured, voice low, even.

The steam curled around them, heavy and warm.
Sieun gently guided Suho until he was standing directly beneath the stream, the spray of warm water cascading down his shoulders and spine, soaking through hair and skin alike.

Suho’s lashes fluttered shut on their own. The heat seeped into every tired part of him, down to his bones. He could hear the steady rhythm of the water, could feel it drumming against his skin. And somewhere, just outside the mist, was Sieun’s quiet presence — close enough that Suho could feel it without needing to open his eyes.

“Shampoo?”
Sieun’s voice came low, calm.

Suho swallowed, hesitated, then whispered, “I… don’t know.”

He could feel Sieun’s eyes on him. Could feel that gaze even through the curtain of water sliding down his face. The weight of it made everything inside him coil tight — shy, warm, almost burning.

Sieun didn’t say anything. Not a single word.
And that silence… it made Suho’s skin feel hotter than the shower itself.

The sound of a bottle cap snapping open broke the hush.
And then that scent hit — blueberry.
Sweet and dreamy, with something soft and fresh beneath it, the kind of smell that could make you dizzy if you breathed in too deep.

Sieun’s hand pressed something soft — a bath puff, foamy with the blueberry body wash — against Suho’s back. The touch was slow, deliberate. The soft mesh of the puff swept over his shoulder blades, over the sore line of muscle, sliding down along his spine in careful strokes.

Suho’s breath caught in his throat.

Eyes closed, he let it happen. Let Sieun draw gentle, unspoken patterns across his back while the water rinsed everything away in slow ribbons.

The scent wrapped around him. Sweet. Familiar. Comforting. It was dizzying.

And then — with a light, almost hesitant touch — Sieun’s hands came to his shoulders and turned him.

Suho opened his eyes just a sliver, just enough to see him through the mist.

Sieun was soaked now. The water had long since plastered his nightshirt to him, dripping from his hair, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even flinch. His whole attention was on Suho, calm and unwavering.

Suho couldn’t look away.

Even when the puff brushed across his chest, gentle, over ribs and collarbones, Suho only stared. Every slow stroke was a wordless promise that Sieun wouldn’t let him slip, wouldn’t let him fall.

When Sieun reached for another bottle — this one the shampoo — Suho thought he might shatter from how warm his own face felt.

But instead of making him stand through it, Sieun quietly brought over a low stool that had been sitting against the wall. He tapped Suho’s arm, wordless, guiding him down. Suho obeyed without a word, lowering himself slowly, his eyes still closed.

The spray now fell directly over his head, the warm water trickling down his hair and neck as Sieun poured a generous amount of vanilla-coconut–scented shampoo into his palms.
The gentle, creamy fragrance mixed instantly with the lingering blueberry sweetness in the steam, wrapping the whole bathroom in something soft and warm, like a hug.

He worked the shampoo into Suho’s hair slowly, fingertips massaging deep into his scalp. Every motion was careful, patient, as if washing away every bit of fatigue from the day.
The scent clung to Suho, warm and sweet, and with each slow circle of Sieun’s hands, Suho felt lighter — like he could melt right there on the stool, eyes closed, face tipped into the spray.

The foam slid down in soft streams.
Sieun guided him a little forward, letting the shower rinse away the lather.
And when the suds began to trail down Suho’s temples, Sieun used his palm to sweep them away — a gentle press, brushing over Suho’s cheek, across his brow, so that no soapy water stung his eyes.

The touch lingered for just a moment longer than necessary.

And that was when Suho opened his eyes.

Through the drizzle of water and the sting of heat, he looked up — blinking against the droplets — and saw Sieun.

Really saw him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his soaked shirt, close enough to see the water dripping down his jaw, close enough that the rest of the world seemed to narrow into this tiny, misted space where only the two of them existed.

Suho’s hair clung to his forehead, water still running down his cheeks, over his lashes, but he didn’t move. He only looked at him.

Sieun looked back.

And for a moment, nothing else mattered — not the noise waiting outside the door, not the ache in his shoulder, not even the reason he had come in here sulking.

Just this.

The water poured down, steady and soft, as their eyes locked.
And Suho thought, in a hazy, aching sort of way,
I could stay here forever.

When the last of the shampoo rinsed away, Sieun reached forward, tilting Suho’s chin slightly so the warm water could cascade over his face one last time. Then, as the spray softened, Sieun straightened and took a step back.

With one hand, he swiped the water from his own face, droplets rolling down his jaw. Then his fingers pushed his damp hair back, leaving it plastered softly against his forehead.

And in that moment — with water dripping from his eyelashes, sliding down his neck, soaking through the thin fabric clinging to his shoulders — Suho couldn’t look away.

He had been watching the entire time, even through the steam.
And now, sitting on the little stool beneath the shower, his gaze felt heavy, almost feverish.

He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, a deep thrum in his chest as he gulped, breath catching just slightly.

Every drop of water seemed louder now. Every blink of Sieun’s lashes slower.

Why… why did it feel like this?

Sieun’s eyes, steady and calm as ever, dropped to meet Suho’s. He held that gaze for a moment — a beat that felt longer than it was — then spoke, voice low, gentle:

“Call me once you’re done.”

And with that, Sieun turned, slow and careful, as if not to break something fragile. He stepped out, closing the glass door behind him.

Suho sat there for a moment, listening to the door click shut. Listening to his own uneven breathing.

Only when the sound of Sieun’s footsteps faded did he finally move, reaching for the towel that had been draped around his waist. With unsteady hands, he loosened it and let it drop, letting the spray wash over the rest of him.

His head tipped forward, hair dripping, as the water soaked his skin.

Inside, though, it wasn’t just the water. It was heat.

Heat from the way his heart still raced, from the way every memory of Sieun’s hands — steady and sure — felt imprinted on his skin.

And all he could think, over and over as he washed the last of the soap away, was:

How is he such a gentleman?
How does he always know exactly when to help… and exactly when to stop?

 

The steam still clung faintly to Suho’s skin as he stepped out of the bathroom, careful with every movement. His crutches clicked softly against the floor, echoing in the hallway.

He felt clean. He felt light. Almost boneless from how warm the water had been, and how tired he now was.

Just outside the door, folded neatly on a stool, there was a fresh towel.

Suho stopped. Blinking.

“…How many towels does this guy even own?” he murmured under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

And as he dried himself off, a faint, familiar scent clung to the fibers. Something soft. Something that smelled like Sieun.

It made him pause.

Did… did Sieun use this towel himself? Did he wipe his own hair with this before putting it here for me?

 

The thought came uninvited, silly, and yet it stuck.

Did those same soft fibers just a little while ago press against him? Against Sieun’s own skin, clinging to the damp heat of his freshly washed hair, sliding across the slope of his neck, soaking up droplets from that calm, pale face?

Suho blinked down at the folded towel in his hands, the fabric warm where his fingers gripped too tight.

No.
His rational mind tried to steady him.
There’s no way.

This was Sieun.
Sieun, who lined up his books by height, who refolded laundry twice just because the first time didn’t feel neat enough. Someone that precise wouldn’t ever hand over something that had been used.

He knew this.

And yet…

Another part of him — that softer, restless part that had been floating ever since the shower — wanted to believe it.

Wanted to believe that this towel had touched Sieun before him.

 

Sieun.

The scent was like a ghost of the person he’d just left behind in that golden room — quiet, steady, and unbearably gentle.

And something inside Suho stuttered.

 

For a long second, he just stood there, breathing it in.
Deep. Slow. As if the scent could wrap around him like another kind of warmth.

His ears burned. His neck burned. His chest curled inward.

Why did it feel like this?

He didn’t understand it. Didn’t have a word for it.

All he knew was that he liked it.

The closeness of it.
The intimacy of thinking something had touched Sieun first, before it touched him.

That thought — that quiet, small thought — made his heart feel like it might burst out of his chest.

He hugged the towel closer for a second longer, just holding it there like an idiot, before he finally dragged in a sharp breath, forcing himself to let go.

“God, I’m… I’m insane,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks hot, before quickly finishing wiping down.

Fast. Efficient.
Before he could get caught standing there thinking like a complete fool.

He took a deep breath. Hugged the towel a little closer for a second. Then quickly finished wiping down before he got caught thinking like a complete idiot.

Wrapped securely, he stepped out into the bedroom.

And froze.

The room was dimly lit — a soft, warm yellow glow spilling from the lamp. It made the entire space feel like a cocoon, cozy and private.

On the bed, Sieun sat with his eyes closed, his head tilted slightly back. Legs casually spread, hands resting loosely on his thighs.

And with the gentle lamp glow painting him gold, he looked… soft.
Almost unreal.

His hair had dried into fluffy, loose bangs that fell over his forehead. He was in full-sleeve night clothes, warm and comfortable, like he could fall asleep right there.

And for one wild, reckless moment, Suho just stood there at the door.

His hand tightened around the crutch so much his knuckles ached.
His body — still a little warm from the shower, hair damp, skin flushed — felt like it wasn’t even his own anymore. Like something else had taken over.

Because all he could think about was crossing that room.

Closing that small, ridiculous stretch of floor between them, letting the crutch drop, and just… folding.

Right there.

Into him.

Into that quiet, steady warmth that only Sieun seemed to carry with him wherever he sat.

The image came so vividly it stole the breath from his chest:

Him crawling forward, clumsy and awkward, dropping right into Sieun’s lap without a second thought. Those short, warm arms coming up in surprise first, then slowly, carefully, wrapping around him — not tight, not trapping, but close enough to hold all the scattered pieces of him together.

The thought alone made something in his chest ache.

He could imagine how Sieun’s hoodie would feel against his cheek — soft cotton, faintly smelling like detergent and that clean scent that was so him.
He could imagine tilting his face just enough to bury his nose against Sieun’s chest, breathing him in until the world quieted.

And the sound — god, the sound — of Sieun’s heartbeat right there beneath his ear.
Steady. Calm. Like everything Suho wasn’t, but everything he wanted to be near.

In that imagined space, his own breathing would slow.
His body, which had been tense for hours, maybe days, would finally loosen.

He would stop thinking.
Stop sulking.
Stop talking.

Just… be.

Wrapped up in someone else’s warmth for once in his life.

And maybe, maybe, in that imagined moment, his eyes would finally fall shut — heavy, unguarded — and he would fall asleep there, in the safest place he’d ever known.

Safe, because it was Sieun.

He stood there, staring, almost swaying forward like some invisible string was tugging him.

But all he did was clutch the crutch a little tighter, swallow hard, and stay where he was.

Because the wild part of him that wanted to cross the room… was still too afraid to try.

 

His heart beat so loudly that he almost forgot to move.

But he did. Slowly, carefully, step by step, until the sound of his crutches made Sieun’s eyes open.

That calm, steady gaze found him instantly.

Without a word, Sieun stood and came to him, taking the crutch from Suho’s hand and guiding him gently toward the bed.

“Sit,” he said, voice soft but certain.

Suho obeyed without a sound, sinking down.

On the bed in front of him were folded clothes — a pair of soft, warm pajamas, already laid out.

Suho stared at them, his throat tight.

“I’ll get you some water,” Sieun murmured.

And just like that, he left the room quietly, leaving Suho alone with the soft hum of the heater.

The room felt warmer than the rest of the apartment. Comfortable. Safe. He could almost imagine Sieun turning on the heater in advance, just so he wouldn’t feel the chill when he came out of the shower.

Such a small thing. But it made Suho’s chest feel so full it almost ached.

He looked down at the clothes again. But he didn’t move to put them on.
Not even when Sieun came back, glass of water in hand.

 

Sieun came back quietly, the faint sound of his socks brushing against the floor barely audible over the soft hum of the heater. He had a glass of water in one hand, his hair still slightly damp from his own earlier shower, dark bangs falling carelessly across his forehead. The dim, warm yellow-orange glow from the bedside lamp made the whole room look like something out of a dream.

The first thing he noticed:
Suho was sitting exactly where he had left him.

Not a single thing had changed.
The folded nightclothes — the ones Sieun had carefully laid out — were still untouched beside him.

Suho just sat there on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, arms loose by his sides, his damp hair sticking in soft tufts, bare skin still faintly flushed from the shower. His crutches leaned against the wall, forgotten.

For a long moment, Sieun didn’t say anything. He just stood in the doorway, looking at him.

Then, quietly, “You haven’t dressed yet.”

There was no accusation in his voice. No impatience. Just a statement, soft and even.

Suho, however, couldn’t meet his eyes. His fingers fidgeted in his lap, twisting into each other, the tips of his ears already pink. That tiny gesture was all the answer Sieun needed.
With a quiet exhale, Sieun crossed the room and set the glass of water on the bedside table.
Then, without a word, he lowered himself into a crouch in front of Suho.

From this close, Suho could see everything. The way a few strands of Sieun’s hair still clung damp to the side of his neck, leaving tiny dark trails on his skin. The faint, clean scent of soap clinging to him — warm cotton and something gentle, unmistakably Sieun. And that calm, unshakable stillness that always seemed to wrap around him like a second skin.

Sieun reached out, his movements quiet and methodical, pulling a small balm and a tube of cream from the nightstand. He set them neatly on the edge of the bed, his fingertips brushing over the fabric of the folded nightclothes laid out there.

He reached for the first piece of clothing. A soft, fresh pair of underwear and glanced up at Suho. His voice was calm, his expression perfectly neutral.

“Do you need help with this too?”

Suho’s head snapped up so fast, droplets of water flung from his bangs. “Y-yahhh—!” he blurted, wide-eyed, scandalized, his whole face turning red.

For a moment Sieun just looked at him like a blank wall.

And then—there. The tiniest flicker at the corner of his mouth. A straight-faced but undeniable, subtle curve.

“Fine,” he murmured, voice carrying the faintest trace of dry humor. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Suho gaped at him, speechless, his brain short-circuiting.

But when Sieun simply tapped lightly on Suho’s shin — a quiet, almost absent‑minded “foot” — Suho obeyed without a word, lifting it as if in a daze. One foot. Then the other.

Sieun crouched lower, gathering the fabric in his hands. His head dipped slightly as he began to pull it up, and this time Suho noticed—really noticed—that Sieun’s eyes were closed once again.

Not tight, but soft. As though he had decided, in that unspoken way of his, to shut the whole world out so Suho wouldn’t feel the weight of being watched in such a vulnerable moment.

He worked carefully, inch by inch, guiding the waistband upward with both hands. His knuckles brushed Suho’s calves, his fingers steady against his knees as he tugged the fabric higher, always bracing him so he wouldn’t lose his balance.

 

It wasn’t easy. Suho could see that plainly.

The close quarters, the awkward angle of crouching so low, the care it took not to jostle Suho’s bad leg—it all slowed the movements down. Every few seconds, Sieun paused, adjusting his grip, making sure Suho stayed steady.

But never once did his expression twitch with impatience.
Never once did he look like he wanted to rush through it.

Eyes closed, he just kept going, slow and deliberate, as if there was nothing else in the world that needed his attention more than this.

And then Suho had to lift himself just slightly.

The waistband finally reached Suho’s hips, snug and settled.

“Sit,” Sieun said softly, his voice quiet but certain.

Suho sat, heart pounding so loud he was sure Sieun could hear it, still embarrassed but… strangely warm inside. That warmth only deepened when Sieun reached for the pajama pants next. The same slow, careful hands. The same closed eyes. Every motion so deliberate, it made Suho’s throat tighten.

Even though it was time-consuming, even though Suho could tell it required effort, Sieun never hurried.

And that—that patient gentleness—was somehow worse than if he’d just said something comforting.
Because it wasn’t words.
It was action.
Quiet, deliberate action that wrapped around Suho like a blanket.

And Suho felt every single one of them.

Sieun sat beside him. Reached for the cream tube without a word. The faint, clean scent of medicine mixed with the warm air in the room as he uncapped it and squeezed a small amount onto his fingers.

“Arms up,” he murmured softly.

Suho hesitated, but Sieun’s hands were already moving, guiding his good arm up with quiet ease. He tugged at the towel just enough to bare Suho’s side — and there, beneath his arms, the angry red patches and fine scratches from the crutches were visible. The skin looked raw from hours of friction.

Sieun’s brows lowered slightly. His fingers were careful as he dabbed the cream against Suho’s skin, feather-light, as though even the air could hurt him.

The cool touch made Suho hiss softly, a sharp intake of breath he couldn’t stop.

Immediately, Sieun froze. His eyes lifted, locking on Suho’s face.
Then, without a word, he leaned in — close enough for Suho to feel his breath — and blew gently across the irritated skin.

Warm air ghosted over it, soothing, and Suho’s lips parted in silence.
His eyes half-closed, hooded with an expression he couldn’t hide — something soft and helplessly warm.

And then, the realization hit him like a wave.

How did Sieun even know? How could he know these were here, hidden under his shirt?

Suho stared at him, wide-eyed and confused, trying to find an answer in that calm face.

But Sieun, noticing the questioning look from the corner of his eyes, didn’t falter. He simply scooped a bit more cream, applying it gently, and said in a low voice,

“You walked a lot today,” he murmured. “So while you were showering… I just… noticed.”

No fuss. No judgment. Just a quiet statement, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to notice everything Suho tried to hide.

And Suho didn’t know what to say to that.
Didn’t know how to say anything at all.

So he just kept looking at him — at this boy in front of him, with his damp hair and tired shoulders, looking so soft, so warm, so unshakably gentle.

When he was done smoothing the cream there, Sieun carefully lowered Suho’s arm. And then, without saying a word, he reached for Suho’s hands.

One at a time.

He turned Suho’s palm over, examining the calluses, the faint scratches from the crutch handles, the stiffness in his fingers. His thumb pressed softly along each knuckle as if memorizing where the strain had settled.

A thin layer of cream.
Gentle fingertips working it in.
And then, slowly, Sieun began to massage each finger.

From the base to the tip, one finger at a time, his hands firm but careful, coaxing away the stiffness that Suho had grown so used to ignoring.

And Suho.
He just stared.

His eyes hooded, drinking in every tiny movement. The way Sieun’s short but cute fingers wrapped around his own like they were something precious. The way he handled him with a kind of patience no one else had ever given him.

It felt like he could stay like this forever.

He loved it.

He loved the way Sieun touched his hands like they mattered. Loved that someone noticed all the places that hurt. Loved that someone cared enough to fix them without being asked.

And he couldn’t say any of it.

He just looked at him. Quiet. Careful.

When the last finger was gently rubbed and loosened, Sieun lifted his gaze for a brief moment, as if to check if Suho was alright, before finally reaching for the shirt lying on the bed.

 

Sieun helped his good arm through first, then moved to his injured side, taking extra time so the sleeve wouldn’t pull against his shoulder. Every movement felt patient, deliberate, so ridiculously gentle that Suho thought he might just melt into the mattress.

The soft cotton fell over Suho’s chest.
But when it came time to button it, Suho made no move at all. His hands just stayed resting in his lap.

Sieun paused, looking at him.
Their eyes met for the first time since he’d entered.

That was all it took.

That one quiet look.

And Sieun understood.

Without a word, he began buttoning the shirt himself.

One button at a time.
The brush of his fingers against Suho’s chest with each pass made Suho’s breath slow down and quicken all at once. The sound of each button sliding through the hole seemed impossibly loud in the hush of the room.

By the time he reached the top, the space between them had disappeared entirely.

Close enough for Suho to see the single droplet of water still clinging stubbornly to the tip of Sieun’s bangs.
Close enough to smell the faint, comforting scent of soap and fabric softener on his nightclothes.
Close enough that Suho forgot to breathe.

Sieun glanced up from that last button and found Suho’s gaze already fixed on him.

And for some reason, Suho’s chest felt so heavy.
Before he even realized what he was doing, his head tilted forward… just a little… and came to rest lightly against Sieun.

Not on his shoulder.
On his temple.

Their heads touched gently, almost like a secret.

It was the softest contact — a feather-light press of skin to skin — but it sent something loud through Suho’s entire body.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Suho closed his eyes, feeling the warmth radiating from Sieun’s skin, hearing the faint evenness of his breathing this close.

And Sieun… froze for just a fraction of a second. Then he let out a quiet, slow exhale, and stayed right where he was. Not pulling away. Not saying anything.

The heater hummed softly in the background.
The room smelled faintly of clean clothes and warm air.

And in that tiny, fragile moment, everything felt still.

The room had fallen into a silence so deep that even the faint ticking of the wall clock felt far away.
It was the kind of silence that pressed close, warm and private, as though the entire world outside had been pushed back, leaving just the two of them in this little space.

Suho stood there, so close to Sieun that their shadows blurred together on the floor.
The softest brush of skin—temple to temple, forehead barely grazing forehead—sent a slow, dizzying wave through him.

His own breathing was uneven, light and shaky.
In contrast, Sieun’s was calm. Steady. That quiet, unchanging rhythm that always seemed to anchor Suho when everything else felt unsteady.
And right now, Suho needed that steadiness more than he realized.

The faint hum of the heater filled the room, a low whispering warmth that wrapped around them. Suho didn’t have to look to know why it was so warm.
Sieun must have turned it on for him, even before he came out of the shower.
Of course he did.

Outside, the night was cold enough to make the windows fog at the corners. But in here, under this soft yellow-orange glow of the bedside lamp, it felt like another world entirely.
A safe one.
A quiet one.

For a moment, Suho just breathed it in.
The faint clean scent of the room. The subtle trace of shampoo from Sieun’s hair. The heat from the space between their bodies.

Slowly, as if in a daze, Suho let his head tilt just a little more, letting the smooth warmth of Sieun’s forehead rest more solidly against his own.
The tiniest contact, and yet it felt like the earth shifted under him.

His lashes lowered.
And he thought—how could something as small as this feel so big?
Why did this feel like standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name?

Even with his eyes closed, Suho could feel Sieun’s gaze.
He didn’t need to see it.
He could feel it like a quiet weight—steady, unshakable, patient.

Suho didn’t pull away.
Didn’t deflect with a grin or a joke.
He just… stayed.
Pressed against that stillness.
Like if he stood there long enough, maybe everything he had no words for would somehow pass across that small, warm space between them.

As he stayed there, breathing in the faint warmth between them, a thought flickered across Suho’s mind — uninvited and impossible to shake.

Would there ever be anyone else who could take care of him like this?

Halmoni would, of course.
She always had.
Her care was familiar and deep, rooted in years of love, but it came with a quiet sadness — an old ache she never spoke about.

And the gang?
They’d do anything for him too. He knew that.
But they did it in their way. Loud, messy, reckless. Their care was all noise and energy — arms slung around shoulders, food shoved in hands, laughter so big it left no room for the quiet.
It wasn’t this.

This… was different.

This was Sieun.

Who moved like the world could fall apart if he was careless with Suho.
Who noticed the tiny things.

Like the way Suho’s shoulder sagged after too much strain, or how his hand gripped the crutch just a little tighter when he was tired, or how he squinted against the light when his head hurt.
Who had warmed the room before he even walked out of the bathroom.

Who said nothing now. Just stayed.

And yet, the silence said everything.

Would anyone else ever know how to do this?
To care so quietly, so fully, without asking for anything in return?

Suho didn’t think so.

And that realization hit him like a soft punch in the chest.

His own chest tightened.
The lump in his throat burned.

And what did Suho do?
The same thing he always did when faced with things he couldn’t handle.

He sulked.
He pouted.
He ignored.

That was Suho’s answer to everything. Every messy, complicated feeling inside him.

But even he knew this … this right here … wasn’t something he could ignore forever.

 

The longer they stayed like that, the heavier Suho’s chest felt.
All that warmth sitting inside him had nowhere to go.
It pressed at his ribs, his throat, until finally… something slipped out.

“…thank you.”

It was so soft, it almost wasn’t there.

His eyes were still closed, lashes trembling, his breath brushing faintly against Sieun’s cheek as he whispered again, this time a little clearer.

“Thank you… for everything.”

There was a pause, like the whole room exhaled with him.
And then, almost before he could stop himself:

“... and …”

 

“ … Sorry…”

 

It broke out of him like a quiet sigh.
Sorry for being annoying. Sorry for pouting.
Sorry for ignoring him. Sorry for being a headache.

 

Sorry for making things hard.

“Sorry… for everything,” he said again, his voice low, almost a murmur.

There was no reply.
Not a word from Sieun.

But Suho could feel it.
He could feel that he’d been heard.

And maybe that was enough.

Another stretch of silence.
And this time, it was harder to breathe, because what came next was heavier.

 

“…please,” he whispered, barely there.
“Please don’t …”

“ … Don't get tired of me …”

 

“… EVER …”

 

It was so faint, so fragile, that even Suho didn’t know if he wanted it heard.
But he felt, more than saw, the way Sieun’s breath caught for a split second.

That was all the answer he needed.

So he stayed like that.
Forehead touching.
Eyes closed.
Letting the words hang between them, warm and trembling.

Like a promise he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Time slowed.

Suho stayed there, leaning lightly into that small touch, but inside he felt like he was unraveling.
The warmth of Sieun’s skin against his temple was spreading everywhere — to his ears, to his neck, deep into his chest — until he almost couldn’t tell where he ended and where that warmth began.

And then… a thought.
A reckless, dangerous thought whispered to him:

What if I just move?

What if he tilted his head … just a little?
Closed this tiny space between them?

What would happen?

The question made his throat tight.

His lips parted unconsciously, breath coming out shallow.
His fingers curled into the fabric of his own pants, holding on like he might lose control otherwise.

His lashes lifted slowly, hesitantly.

And the moment his eyes opened, he found himself staring straight into Sieun’s.

Those brown eyes … soft, deep, unflinching.
Like honey under light.
Like they were holding him there, steady, even while everything else in him felt like it was tilting off balance.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Suho couldn’t look away.
He studied every detail like he’d never seen it before. The faint crease between Sieun’s brows, the way those eyes seemed so still and so searching at the same time.
How close they were.

And it hit him then, almost painfully, just how pretty those eyes were.
How alive.
How much he wanted to drown in them.

His own eyes began to blur at the edges, hazy, heavy.
Like he was being pulled forward by something he couldn’t name.

And he wanted.
He wanted something he couldn’t even put words to.
Something that sat heavy and sweet at the back of his throat, leaving him thirsty.

His breath hitched, rougher now, and he swallowed hard, trying to steady himself.
But Sieun only stayed there, eyes fixed on him, unreadable. Eyebrows drawn slightly together, as if trying to figure him out.

Like even Sieun didn’t know what was happening to Suho right now.

And maybe Suho didn’t either.

All he knew was that being this close … close enough to feel Sieun’s breath against his lips felt… too good.

For a few long heartbeats, it felt like time itself had stopped.

Only the sound of Suho’s breathing, quick and uneven. Only the steady, quiet rhythm of Sieun’s.
And the way their temples touched, warm against warm, like they were standing inside the same circle of air.

Then, out of nowhere, something cool fell on Suho’s skin.

A single drop of water.
It slid from the tips of his still-damp hair, tracing down his forehead and stopping right at the bridge of his nose.

Suho blinked, startled.
Sieun blinked at the same time, eyes focusing on that droplet like it was an intruder in a place where only the two of them existed.

And before Suho could even react, another droplet fell, rolling over his cheekbone.

Suho opened his mouth … maybe to laugh, maybe to scold, maybe to just say something … but the spell was broken.

He felt Sieun’s presence shift.
Slowly, quietly, Sieun leaned back, just enough to reach for the towel that had been resting on the side.

And Suho… wanted to complain.
Wanted to grab him and say stay here.
But he didn’t move.

Because then, gently, the towel was being pressed over his hair.

Not rough. Not rushed. Just soft.
Sieun’s hands moving carefully, blotting away the droplets that had fallen, the towel sliding warm across his scalp.

The feeling made Suho’s eyes close almost instantly.
It was so… simple.
But so comforting that he felt his heart twist painfully in his chest.

“You’ll catch a cold,” Sieun murmured softly.

The words came so casually, but to Suho they sounded like something more like a scolding, like a lullaby.

When the towel was no longer enough, Sieun stood up, went to the side, and returned with the hair dryer.

The low hum of it filled the room.

“Sit still,” Sieun said.

And Suho did.

Eyes closed again, he felt the warm air spread over his damp hair, over the back of his neck.
And then Sieun’s fingers slipping into his hair, combing through it as he dried each section.

Strong, steady fingers massaging over his scalp, scratching lightly in circles.
The motion was hypnotic, tender in a way that made Suho’s whole body go loose.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But he stayed quiet.
Because right now, in this moment, with the hum of the dryer, Sieun’s hands in his hair, and the faint warmth of the room, it felt like nothing else in the world existed.

The dryer’s hum faded slowly, softer, softer, until Sieun clicked it off.

But his hands… they didn’t move away right away.
For a few lingering seconds, they stayed there, resting lightly on Suho’s head, fingers combing gently through the soft, warm strands as if to make sure they were dry.

Then, with one last careful swipe of his palm to smooth Suho’s bangs away from his forehead, Sieun finally lowered his hands.

“There,” he said simply.
Calm. Final.

The room seemed so quiet without the sound of the dryer.

Suho kept his eyes closed.
Partly because he didn’t want this feeling to end.
Partly because if he opened them now, he was sure Sieun would see how red they were.

He could feel the faint heat still clinging to his scalp.
The lingering pressure where Sieun’s fingers had been.
The smell of that soft blueberry wash, clean and sweet, mixed with the faint scent of Sieun that always seemed to linger close.

And for a second, all he could do was sit there.

What is this feeling?

This… warmth in his chest.
This ache in his throat.
This stupid, stupid flutter that made him want to just… tip over sideways and lean into him.

 

No one was like this.

No one like Sieun.

Who turned on the heater before Suho came out so he wouldn’t feel cold.
Who thought of towels, of pajamas, of a seat to sit on when his shoulder hurt.
Who dried his hair as if every strand mattered.

Suho lowered his head slightly, lips pressing together.
He hated that he sulked. Hated that he pouted. Hated that he got jealous over nothing.

But even so…

Please don’t get tired of me, he thought again, silently this time.

The thought was heavy enough to make his chest ache.

 

Sieun stepped back a little, picking up the dryer and towel, leaving space.
But Suho still didn’t open his eyes.

And Sieun, quiet as ever, just let him sit there … not saying a word.

For a moment, it was just the soft hum of the heater, the faint scent of blueberry wash in the air, and the steady, grounding presence of Sieun in the same room.

The kind of silence Suho had come to love.

 

Sieun didn’t say a single word when Suho just sat there, small and quiet on the edge of the bed, eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
Instead, he simply came around, silent as a shadow, and placed both hands gently on Suho’s shoulders.

At first, it was just the weight of those warm palms.
Firm but gentle.
And then his thumbs pressed in, slow and deliberate, right at the knots along Suho’s neck and shoulders.

A startled gasp left Suho before he could stop it … sharp at first and then spilling into a low, drawn-out sigh.
The sound made the corner of Sieun’s brow twitch just slightly, but he didn’t say anything.
Instead, he leaned in a little, focusing, his hands beginning to move with slow precision.

 

The press and roll of his thumbs sent waves down Suho’s spine.
It wasn’t just a massage; it was like Sieun was untying every knot that had been building inside him for months.
The muscles that had been locked from hours of crutches and imbalance began to loosen under that steady pressure.

Each press was perfectly measured.
Not too hard. Not too soft.
And his fingers moved like they knew exactly where it hurt the most, where to linger, where to push a little deeper.

Suho’s good hand, the one gripping the bed, began to relax, fingers curling and uncurling with each slow motion on his shoulders.

Another quiet, helpless sound slipped out of his throat … something between a sigh and a moan … and he bit it back instantly, mortified.

But Sieun didn’t stop. Didn’t tease. Didn’t even look at him.
He just kept going, like it was the most natural thing in the world to take care of him this way.

 

The room was warm, dimly lit by that soft yellow-orange glow, and with each passing second, Suho felt himself sinking deeper into that comfort.
It wasn’t just his muscles that loosened. His heart felt like it was melting, too.

Sieun’s hands moved lower, over the tops of his arms, kneading the tightness there, then back up to the base of his neck.
Slow, patient, steady.

Suho closed his eyes. His breathing slowed.

The faint sound of crickets outside the window, the gentle hum of the heater, and the rhythmic pressure of Sieun’s hands.
All of it blurred together into something that felt dangerously close to peace.

He let his head tip forward, hair falling over his eyes like a curtain, hiding everything,
The flush on his cheeks, the way his lashes trembled.
And he just… stayed like that.

Letting himself be handled.

In this moment, he didn’t feel like he had to hold himself up.
Didn’t feel like he had to pretend.
He just let go, letting those slow, steady hands on his shoulders hold the weight for him.

 

At some point, his body naturally leaned back, pulled by the quiet gravity behind him.
Until he felt it … the warmth of Sieun’s chest against his back, the solid support of someone steady and unshaken.

It wasn’t a hug. Not exactly.
But it felt like one.

His temple brushed faintly against the side of Sieun’s shoulder as he relaxed into that space.

 

Sieun’s thumbs pressed gently into the knots at the top of his shoulders, slow, careful, working through the stiffness in patient circles. Every time a tight spot gave way, Suho’s body slackened a little more. His breathing slowed.

The weight of the day, the rehab, the bus ride, the sulking — all of it melted away until only this remained:
That steady chest behind him, those calm hands, the low sound of someone else’s breathing close enough to feel against the back of his neck.

Even Sieun’s movements began to slow.
The pressure of his thumbs softened, his palms resting a little more firmly against Suho’s back, like he was holding him there as much as he was massaging him.

For a moment, Suho thought Sieun might be as close to sleep as he was.

 

When Sieun finally pulled his hands back, the contact broke like a thread snapping.
And Suho, half-dreaming, made a sound before he could stop it … a soft, unguarded whine, just a breath really, but enough to betray how badly he hadn’t wanted that moment to end.

It slipped out on instinct, before pride could stop him.

Sieun’s hands hovered for a second, still close to his shoulders, as if he’d heard every single thing that little whine meant.

But Sieun was already there again, his presence close and grounding.

“Lie down,” he murmured, the words soft but leaving no room for argument.

With one hand at Suho’s shoulder and the other steadying the side of his ribs, Sieun guided him backward with slow, unhurried pressure, careful not to jostle his healing leg.

Suho went willingly, his body moving more out of instinct than thought, trusting those hands completely. The mattress dipped beneath him as he sank into it, his crutches leaning forgotten against the bedframe.

For a moment, he stayed propped halfway up, just… looking at Sieun, dazed and pliant. And then Sieun’s palm, warm and sure, pressed gently at his sternum, coaxing him all the way down until his back met the sheets.

His lashes fluttered low, heavy with exhaustion, heart still thudding in his chest as he lay there staring up at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of Sieun’s hands lingering like warmth against his skin.

The bed dipped beside him.
He blinked.

Sieun had sat down right by his legs, quiet as always, a small glass jar of balm in his hand.

He unscrewed the lid and the sharp, minty scent spread faintly in the warm air.

Suho barely had time to process before cool fingers touched his knee.

 

The balm was cool against the heat of his skin, but Sieun’s hands were warm.
Fingers spreading it evenly, rubbing it in gentle, circular motions.

Suho’s breath caught again.
Every slow movement over his bad knee was careful, as if Sieun was afraid to hurt him — and it made Suho feel strange.
Hot.

He stared through heavy-lidded eyes at the boy bent over his leg, head tilted in deep focus, lips pressed together in concentration.

Every few seconds, Sieun’s thumb would press just slightly harder, and that pressure made Suho’s head tilt back, a quiet exhale escaping.

 

And then Suho noticed.
Noticed the line of Sieun’s jaw.
The way the light brushed over his cheek.
The way his lashes cast shadows on his skin.

And a thought crossed Suho’s mind.

What if his hands went just a little higher?
Just a little… closer…

 

The thought was like being set on fire.

He froze.

What the hell am I thinking right now?
This was Sieun.
His best friend.

Why would he even—

But no matter how much he told himself to stop, the thought stayed.
And worse, it didn’t feel wrong.

His chest was so tight he could barely breathe.

He should feel disgusted.
This was a guy.
This was his best friend.

But instead of disgust, there was heat.

And it terrified him.

 

He forced his gaze away, only for it to slide back again on its own.

Those hands.
That focus.

And those eyes.

At some point, Sieun lifted his gaze.
And when those dove-soft eyes landed on him, Suho forgot everything.

 

Everything around him went silent.

All he could see was the steady, unreadable look in those brown eyes.
The same eyes everyone used to mock back in school.
The same eyes that had been indifferent to the whole world — to everyone.

Except now.
They were on him.

Head tilted slightly, Sieun just studied him.
And Suho couldn’t look away.

Heat rose up his neck.
His pulse was wild.

What are you thinking, Sieun?
Suho wanted to ask.
What do you see when you look at me like that?

But his lips wouldn’t move.

He just stared, chest rising and falling unevenly as those hands moved gently on his knee, and those dove eyes kept him pinned in place.

 

Sieun’s hands left Suho’s knee with that same quiet patience, that same steady care, and for a moment Suho almost let out a sound — a faint, needy little whine caught at the back of his throat — but he swallowed it back as he watched Sieun stand.

“You should sleep,” Sieun murmured, voice low and even, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“You must be tired.”

Suho opened his mouth, ready to argue, ready to say he wasn’t tired at all.
That he wanted to stay here.
That he wanted to keep talking.
That he wanted those hands to stay where they were.

But he knew Sieun.
Once he’d decided something, words alone couldn’t move him.

So instead, what came out was, “Where are you going?”

Sieun glanced over at the door.
“To see what those monkeys are doing,” he said, calm as ever. “I don’t want the kitchen on fire.”

That answer, deadpan and perfectly timed, broke something tight inside Suho, and a laugh slipped out before he could stop it.
A real one.
Soft. Quick. It came with a little crinkle of his eyes, a shake of his shoulders.

And Sieun, halfway to the door, paused.

For just a second, his head turned slightly, his gaze falling on Suho’s face like he was memorizing it. That small, unguarded smile. That warm laugh.

“And then you’ll sleep, right?” Suho asked quickly, his voice lighter now, still carrying the curve of his smile. “So I’ll wait for you. Come back quickly.”

But instead of answering, Sieun just looked at him for a long moment — that unreadable, dove-eyed stare that always made Suho feel like the rest of the world was very, very far away.

Finally, he said, “No. You just go to sleep. I’m going to study for a while.”

And just like that, the little smile on Suho’s lips dropped into a pout.
A small frown formed between his brows.

Because even though Sieun’s voice was steady, Suho could see it — could see past all that control and composure.
He was tired.
Exhausted.

He’d been carrying Suho all day.
Not just physically, but in every single way.
He hadn’t had a second to rest.
And even now, even now, he would force himself to sit at that desk and study until his body gave out.

And later, when everyone else was asleep, Suho knew how this story went:
Sieun, still at the desk, head down, falling asleep without a blanket, on a chair or on the floor.

The thought alone made something twist painfully in Suho’s chest.

As Sieun turned to go, he reached for the blanket draped across the foot of the bed and shook it out once, folding it halfway. He stepped close to Suho, leaned down, and draped it over him with gentle precision, tucking it just enough so it wouldn’t slip.

“Sleep,” he said again, almost an order this time, and then he reached for the bedside lamp.

And that’s when Suho moved.

He didn’t think.
He didn’t plan it.

His hand shot out, fingers curling around Sieun’s wrist, and as soon as the lamp clicked off, plunging the room into a warm, dim amber glow, he tugged.

Sieun, caught completely off guard, stumbled forward with a muted gasp.
The next thing he knew, his back hit the mattress with a soft thump, the blanket shifting beneath them.

The sound of his sharp inhale … low and startled … was the best thing Suho had heard all day.

For a moment, everything stilled.

Sieun blinked up at him, eyes a little wide, his hair slightly falling over his forehead.

And Suho, still holding onto his wrist, just stared down at him. His voice, when it came, was quiet, almost shy.

“…It feels nice, right?”

There was a pause.
Sieun’s lips parted, like he was going to argue. “I should check on them—” he started.

But the rest of the words never came.

Because as he exhaled, long and slow, his eyes closed. Just for a second.
And Suho, watching him, smiled. Soft. Secret.

“Just for a moment,” Suho whispered under his breath.

The room seemed to still.
The air felt warmer.

 

Suho didn’t take his eyes off him.

 

The room was so quiet that Suho could hear the faint hum of the heater in the corner, the occasional tick of the wall clock. Outside, the cold night brushed against the windows, but here—wrapped in the faint golden glow of the lamp—it felt warm, soft, almost unreal.

Sieun was lying flat on his back, one arm bent at the elbow, palm resting over his stomach, the other hand loose on the blanket beside him. His dark hair had dried into soft waves after his shower, but a few strands still clung damply to the side of his neck, catching the light. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on the ceiling, quiet as if the whole day hadn’t been chaos.
There was a kind of stillness around him, a calm weight that always seemed to slow everything down.

Suho lay next to him, turned on his side, close enough to hear every slow breath that left him. His crutches rested against the wall a few steps away, forgotten. He had told himself he would close his eyes, that he would rest… but the truth was, he couldn’t stop staring.

He just… couldn’t.

Every time Sieun’s chest rose like he was about to sit up, Suho panicked and blurted something—anything—to stop him.
“Did you drink water today?”
“You think Gotak set the pan on fire?”
“Tomorrow… you think it’ll be cold?”

Each question was more ridiculous than the last.

Sieun didn’t even look at him most of the time. He just answered in that quiet, steady way that made Suho want to scream into the pillow.
“Mm.”
“No idea.”
“Probably colder.”

But there was a flicker at the corner of his mouth every now and then—a tiny twitch like he knew exactly what Suho was doing, but wasn’t calling him out for it.

So Suho kept trying.
Anything to keep him there.

For a while, it was just that—their voices soft in the room, the low hum of the heater, the muted noise of the gang somewhere in the background.

And then Sieun’s voice broke the quiet, sudden and thoughtful, like he was talking to the ceiling rather than Suho.

 

“…We should stick stars up there.”

Suho blinked. “Stars?”

“Yeah.” Sieun’s voice was low, almost dreamy. “Stars. And a moon. Maybe rockets. The kind that glows in the dark.”

Suho stared at him. “…Glow-in-the-dark stars?”

“Mhm.” His tone didn’t even change—completely serious.

Suho’s lips parted. “Where did that come from?”

Instead of answering, Sieun moved lazily, reaching into the pocket of his soft pajama pants. He pulled out his phone, unlocked it with a swipe, tapped a few times, and then held it out to Suho without even looking over.

Suho frowned but took it.

And froze.

On the screen was a photo.

A wide night sky, deep blue and black, scattered with so many stars it looked endless. Clear and bright, the kind of sky you could stare at forever.

Suho blinked. “This is…”

“I took it earlier,” Sieun said, still looking up at the blank ceiling. “When I was waiting for Juntae to come down. We were about to go buy food.”

“…Why?”

“I thought you’d like it,” Sieun said simply. “You weren’t there. So I wanted to show it to you later.”

Suho’s lips parted slightly. He stared at the picture, the glow of the screen painting faint light over his face.

“You… thought of me?”

Sieun finally turned his head, just a little, and their eyes met. “I always do.”

It was so simple. No hesitation, no teasing. Just those three words, plain and true.

Something in Suho’s chest tightened until it hurt. He quickly shoved the phone back at him, trying to hide his face in the blanket, heat climbing up the back of his neck.

But Sieun wasn’t done. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, his gaze lingering on Suho’s expression.

“…Now what?” he asked quietly.

Suho blinked from behind the blanket. “What?”

“That face,” Sieun said. “What made you unhappy?”

“I’m not—”

“Suhoya,” Sieun interrupted softly. The nickname—so rare and so gentle—made Suho’s heart skip a beat.

“I won’t know,” Sieun continued, still looking at him, “if you don’t tell me what made you unhappy.”

Suho stared back, caught, lips parted but no words coming out.

“And I…” Sieun’s voice dropped a little, “I absolutely don’t like it… when it’s me … who makes you feel that way.”

The words sank deep, making Suho’s throat tighten.

How could he think that? How could Sieun think he could ever be the reason Suho was unhappy?

If anything, Suho was terrified of the opposite.
He was the one who caused Sieun trouble. He was the one who sulked and pouted and made things hard.

He wanted to say something—anything—but nothing came out.

So instead, after a long pause, he whispered, barely audible:

“…Let’s buy those stars.”

Sieun blinked. “Stars?”

“And the moon,” Suho added, his voice steadier this time, “and rockets. We’ll stick them up there.”

“Do you really want that?”

Suho nodded, eyes flicking up to the blank ceiling like he was already imagining it glowing in the dark. “Yeah. Then… when we turn off the lights, it won’t be boring.”

Sieun studied him for a moment longer, then let out a low hum and turned his gaze back up. “…Alright.”

Suho smiled.

It wasn’t big, it wasn’t loud. Just a small, warm curve of his lips that made his chest feel lighter.

And for a moment, as he lay there on his side, watching Sieun in the soft glow of the room, he thought:

Maybe he didn’t need the stars at all.
Not when Sieun was here.

But he didn’t say that out loud.
He just stayed quiet, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of Sieun’s breathing beside him, his own heartbeat loud in his ears.

 

“...Thank you,” Suho murmured suddenly, voice so quiet it almost blended with the faint hum of the heater.

Next to him, Sieun’s eyes shifted lazily toward him, just a flicker of movement. “For what?” he asked, his voice soft, flat but not unkind.

Suho swallowed. “...For today.”
His lips curved, a small, private smile. “I had… a lot of fun.”

For a moment, Sieun simply looked at him. No teasing, no expression. Just looked.
And then, without turning his head, his gaze drifted back to the ceiling.

“…I’m glad,” he said quietly.

The words were simple. Plain. But in that calm tone, they felt like the gentlest thing Suho had heard all day.

After that, neither of them spoke for a while.

The room fell into that kind of silence that wasn’t awkward at all—just still. Warm. The kind of silence Suho only ever felt around him.

Suho stayed on his side, watching. The soft golden light from the bedside lamp painted Sieun’s features in quiet strokes: the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the sharp but soft line of his nose, the fall of dark hair brushing over his temple.

It didn’t take long for Suho to notice it.

The way Sieun’s blinks grew slower.
Longer.

Each time his eyelids closed, they seemed to take just a little longer to lift again. As if they were heavy. Too heavy. And when they finally opened, there was that faint dazed look in his brown eyes, like it was taking effort to pull himself back to the present.

And Suho just lay there, his chest tightening.

He was tired. He must have been so tired.

No matter how much Sieun hid it behind his usual calm, the truth was written all over him now.

That made Suho’s throat ache.

So he pulled out one of his tricks again.

“...Sieun,” he whispered.

A soft hum. Not quite a reply. Half-asleep.

“Do you think… if I practice every day, I’ll be able to run again soon?”

“Of course,” Sieun murmured, eyes closed.

“And… do you think, next time, we could go somewhere near the river?”

“…Mm.”

“What about those glow-in-the-dark stars? Should we buy the big ones? Or the small ones?”

“Small,” came the faint, barely-there reply.

Suho bit back a grin. It was working.

So he kept going. Quietly. Gently.

Question after question. Talking softly like a lullaby. Letting the rhythm of his voice weave around them.

And just like that, Sieun’s eyelids finally gave up. Closed fully. Stayed closed. His breathing evened out, slow and deep.

He’d fallen asleep.

Suho blinked at him, his words fading mid-sentence.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

He fell asleep… just like that?
From this petty little trick of mine?

That alone showed how exhausted he really was.

And still, he had been planning to stay up. To study. To watch over Suho instead of sleeping for himself.

Suho stayed there, lying on his side, his eyes fixed on him.

In sleep, Sieun looked… different.
Not the same sharp, steady boy who carried the whole world in his silence.

Now, he just looked soft.
Vulnerable.

His bangs had fallen slightly over his closed eyes, lashes resting on pale skin. The slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his soft nightshirt. His lips parted just slightly, breath quiet and warm.

And something about that sight made Suho’s heart stutter painfully.

God, he looked… huggable.

So warm. So close. So soft that Suho could almost imagine reaching out, brushing the hair out of his face, and just—pulling him close.

If he had even a drop more courage, he would.
He would close that little gap between them. Press himself against Sieun’s side. Let his nose press into that clean scent of soap and warmth that clung to him and just… breathe. Listen to that slow heartbeat through the night until he fell asleep too.

But Suho wasn’t that brave.

So he just stayed there.

Watching.

And thinking, very quietly to himself:

How does someone get to look like that?
Like a sleeping beauty?
Like a pretty princess that fell asleep right here, next to me?

It was ridiculous.
And Suho knew it.

But his chest still ached. And no matter how much he told himself to close his eyes, he couldn’t look away.

Not from him.

Not tonight.

For a long, quiet moment, Suho didn’t move.
He just stayed there on his side, watching the gentle rise and fall of Sieun’s chest.

The room was so still it felt as though the world outside no longer existed. The heater hummed softly in the corner, wrapping everything in a cocoon of warmth, while the faint yellow light from the bedside lamp spilled across the bed, painting Sieun’s features in soft gold.

His bangs had fallen over his eyes, his lips faintly parted in sleep. Every so often, his lashes fluttered just slightly, but he didn’t wake.

And Suho… just stared.
His own chest rising and falling slower now, almost in rhythm with Sieun’s.

The air outside might’ve been cold, but here, next to him, everything felt safe.

His fingers curled loosely in the blanket over his stomach. He thought of all the times, earlier in the day, he had sulked and pouted and acted up, even when Sieun had been nothing but patient with him. And yet here he was. Sleeping so close that Suho could hear the faint sound of his breaths.

He bit his lip and glanced toward the door.

That’s when he noticed it.

The gang had come in quietly.

Baku and Gotak were tiptoeing like two oversized children, carrying rolled-up comforters, pillows, and making a heroic effort to be silent. Juntae, trailing behind them, was quiet as a shadow, but there was a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he caught Suho’s wide-eyed stare.

Immediately, Suho shot up on his elbow, panic flaring through the fog of drowsiness. “Shhh!” he whispered sharply, frantically pressing a finger to his lips. “Are you insane? He just fell asleep!”

They all froze like deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, half bent over as if they’d been caught breaking into forbidden territory.

Baku mouthed a silent “sorry!” before crouching down and beginning to lay a thick mattress on the floor, exaggeratedly slow.

Suho narrowed his eyes, whispering furiously, “...What are you doing?”

“Setting a mattress,” Baku whispered back, blinking as if the question was ridiculous.

“I can see that,” Suho hissed, leaning closer. “But why here?”

Gotak, already unpacking pillows, whispered, “To sleep, obviously.”

“I know that, idiot, but why here—”

This time it was Juntae who answered, his voice low but calm, “Because you two are here.”

Suho blinked at him, taken aback.

The three of them just smiled innocently, like they hadn’t done anything wrong.

For a moment, Suho stared, completely at a loss. Then, with a long sigh, he sat back. There was no use.

“Fine,” he murmured reluctantly. “But be quiet. Don’t wake him up.”

Three solemn nods came in unison.

Baku and Gotak began arranging their comforters on one side of the room, stacking blankets into a kind of nest. Juntae quietly laid his mat a little apart from them, close to the door.

Before lying down, Juntae crossed to the bed with careful steps. He picked up a folded blanket lying at the foot and, with surprising gentleness, draped it over Suho and Sieun, tucking it in at the sides like a parent putting children to bed.

His gaze lingered on Sieun. “He must be so tired,” he whispered softly. “Fell asleep here?”

Suho nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered back.

Juntae smiled faintly. “Then sleep. You need it too. Good night.”

And with that, he went back to his mat.

The room fell quiet again, the only sounds the faint whisper of blankets shifting and the heater’s low hum.

But Suho… Suho didn’t sleep.

Instead, his eyes wandered back to Sieun.

As if in answer, Sieun stirred slightly in his sleep. His arm stretched out over the bed — palm open, fingers relaxed — like an unconscious invitation.

And that small, almost insignificant motion made Suho’s heart squeeze so hard it hurt.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

That same thought from earlier returned, stronger this time:
The moment he’d walked out of the shower and seen Sieun lying there in the dim light, looking warm and so incredibly soft… how badly he’d wanted to crawl into that quiet space.

How badly he’d wanted to be held.

Back then, he hadn’t been brave enough.

But now… now, with that arm stretched out in his sleep, Suho felt a pull he couldn’t resist.

Slowly, silently, holding his breath, he moved.

He lifted his head off the pillow and inched closer, the mattress dipping softly under his weight.

Closer.

Closer.

Until finally, he was right there, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

With the kind of hesitation that made his chest ache, Suho gently lowered his head onto that open arm.

Warmth.

Real, bone-deep warmth seeped into him at once.

He shifted a little more, letting his temple rest against Sieun’s chest. The steady beat of Sieun’s heart was soft but clear, muffled through the loose cotton shirt. His fingers curled, almost instinctively, into the front of that shirt, clutching the fabric like an anchor.

Everything about it — the scent, the warmth, the safety — wrapped around him like a second blanket.

For a few seconds, Suho just breathed.

Then he let himself go.

Eyes sliding shut, his breathing evened out, slow and quiet.

And like that, with his temple pressed against Sieun’s chest and his fist curled in his shirt, Suho drifted off, falling asleep wrapped in that warmth he’d been aching for all day.

The room was calm now, bathed in the warm golden hue of the small night-lamp.

Sieun lay on his back, one arm unconsciously stretched out, and Suho had curled into it like it belonged to him, his temple pressed against Sieun’s chest, fingers curled in the loose fabric of his shirt.

Both of them looked… soft. As if every ounce of tension from the day had melted away.

Juntae, lying on his mat, had been quietly watching them. His glasses were off, folded neatly by his pillow, but he could still make out the way Suho’s face had smoothed out completely — the sharp, restless lines always there in his expression replaced by something that looked almost childlike. Peaceful.

He smiled to himself. When was the last time Suho looked this at ease?

A whisper broke through the quiet.
“Are they asleep?” Gotak whispered from the other side, trying to peek without making too much noise.

Juntae nodded slowly, a finger to his lips. “Out cold,” he murmured.

Baku, sprawled out beside Gotak, rolled onto his side and just… stared for a while. The sight of Suho pressed so close to Sieun, holding onto him like an anchor, had left him unusually thoughtful. After a long stretch of silence, he said — very softly:
“…Do you think something’s wrong with Suho?”

Gotak turned his head toward him. “What do you mean?”

Baku hesitated, then frowned. “Don’t you think… lately… he’s been more and more… frustrated? Like, he gets angry over the smallest things. Always sulking. Always looking… like he’s mad at something.”
Gotak blinked at him, thinking, but didn’t reply right away. Juntae, however, shifted on his mat, propping his head on his elbow to look at Baku properly.

“And?” Gotak finally asked. “What are you trying to say?”

Baku’s voice dropped a little more. “…Do you think maybe… he’s getting tired of Sieun?”

The question made both Gotak and Juntae freeze for a moment. Gotak looked at him, confused. “…Tired of Sieun? Why would you even—”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t like him!” Baku whispered quickly, panicked at even implying something like that. “I mean like… do you think Suho’s scared that Sieun won’t… take proper care of him anymore? Or something like that?”

This time, it was Juntae who answered. His voice was calm but firm.

“No,” he said quietly, “it’s the opposite.”

Baku and Gotak turned their heads toward him, confused.

Juntae glanced at them once, then let his gaze drift back to the two sleeping boys on the bed. His voice stayed low, but there was a weight in it.

“It’s not that Suho’s tired of Sieun,” he said softly. “It’s that Sieun takes such good care of him… that it makes him frustrated.”

Baku and Gotak blinked, still not getting it.

“…What do you mean?” Gotak whispered.

Juntae shifted again, resting his chin on his folded arms, eyes never leaving the two figures on the bed.
“Think about it,” he murmured. “Before… Suho was always the one protecting Sieun. Always standing in front, taking the hits, making sure nothing touched him. He was strong, you know? Doing part-time jobs, never stopping, never letting himself look tired. And Sieun… Sieun was his everything. So it was like… he did everything for his everything.”

The two boys stayed silent, listening.

“But now?” Juntae’s voice grew quieter. “Now he’s the one who needs help just to stand. Just to walk. Sieun takes care of everything. Everything. He never lets Suho lift a finger. And that’s good, of course it is… but it also means Suho has to sit there… watching other people do things for him… when all his life, he’s only ever been the one doing things for others.”

His eyes softened.

“I see how he looks at Sieun sometimes,” he whispered. “When Sieun is helping him up. Or holding things for him. That look…” Juntae sighed quietly. “Imagine how hard it must be. To need help even to stand. To feel like you can’t do anything by yourself. To feel like you’re a burden.”

 

The word hung there, heavy.

Baku swallowed, frowning. “…But that’s not true,” he whispered back, sounding almost upset. “Suho’s not a burden. He’s— Sieun would be so pissed if he even heard someone say that.”
Gotak nodded, brows furrowed. “Yeah. He’d kill us.”

Juntae smiled faintly, shaking his head.

“You think Sieun doesn’t know?” he murmured. “You think he hasn’t already figured it out?”

Their eyes widened slightly at that. But Juntae just lay back down on his mat, exhaling softly. His voice was low, thoughtful.

“He knows. That’s why he’s so careful with Suho. Why he never gets angry when Suho sulks. Why he stays so patient with him. It’s because he knows exactly how much Suho hates feeling this way.”
The room fell quiet again, the only sound the soft, even breathing of the two on the bed.

For a moment, all three of them just… looked at them. Suho curled against Sieun like the world couldn’t touch him there, and Sieun — even in sleep — unconsciously holding him close.
Baku let out a long, quiet sigh, almost a whisper. “…Then we just have to make sure he never forgets, right? That he’s not a burden?”

Gotak nodded, firm. “Yeah.”

Juntae smiled faintly again, looking once more at his best friend and the boy who, without even realizing, had become Suho’s safe place.

“Exactly,” he said softly. “We’ll remind him as many times as it takes.”

And with that, the gang slowly settled down, the room falling into a peaceful hush — while on the bed, Suho clung a little tighter to Sieun’s shirt, as if even in sleep, he could feel it all.
For a long moment after Juntae’s quiet words about reminding Suho, none of them said anything. The small living room felt heavier now — like the air itself had stilled.

Baku shifted under his blanket, Gotak was staring at the ceiling, and Juntae just lay there, turned slightly toward the bed where Suho and Sieun slept.

Finally, Juntae whispered again, voice low and thoughtful:
“…I just hope,” he murmured, barely moving his lips, “this situation won’t hurt either of them.”

The words hung there, soft but weighty.
Baku glanced at him, frowning. Gotak turned his head slowly, his brows furrowed.

Juntae’s gaze never left the two boys on the bed — Suho curled in close to Sieun’s arm, Sieun’s shirt gripped tight in his hand, like he needed it even while asleep.

“Because I think…” Juntae’s voice was almost a breath now, “…Sieunah… he still blames himself.”

Baku blinked. “…For wha—” he began, whispering — but the moment the sentence started to leave his lips, he stopped.

The realization hit him halfway through, and his voice just… died.

Gotak closed his eyes. “…Yeah,” he whispered, finishing the unspoken thought in his head. “For that.”

For a long moment, none of them breathed too loudly. That shadow — the one they all knew hovered in the back of Sieun’s mind — crept quietly between them.

Gotak shifted uncomfortably, wrapping his blanket tighter around himself. “Suddenly,” he whispered, almost to himself, “I’m feeling so cold. Like… something bad’s gonna happen.”

Baku turned his head sharply to glare at him. “Why do you have to say that? Stop jinxing things.”

“I’m not jinxing!” Gotak hissed back, indignant but still quiet, like a whispering argument in the middle of the night. “I’m just saying what I feel!”

 

“Well, keep it to yourself,” Baku whispered, annoyed. “You’ll give me nightmares.”

“You already have nightmares,” Gotak muttered under his breath, but softer this time.
The bickering dwindled into a mumble. Both of them went quiet again.

But even as they fell silent, Juntae didn’t speak.
He lay there with his eyes open, watching Suho’s fingers still curled into Sieun’s shirt. And deep down, though he hadn’t said it out loud, he felt the same way Gotak had admitted.
That cold feeling, sitting low in his stomach.

That strange, gnawing sense that something fragile was being balanced here — something that could crack if either of them fell too hard.
And with that heavy thought lingering, the three of them slowly closed their eyes, the quiet breaths of Suho and Sieun on the bed the only sound in the room.
The first thing Suho noticed when he woke was the quiet.

No clattering, no voices, no chaos — just the low hum of morning silence.

He didn’t open his eyes right away. He felt… good. Rested. His body felt loose in a way it hadn’t in months.

He shifted a little under the blanket, burying himself deeper in that faint, lingering warmth. And that’s when he realized — there was a steady heat pressed against the side of his face. Not the pillow. Not the blanket.

Warm. Alive.

He wrinkled his brows slightly, still half-asleep, and nudged his head just a little, trying to figure it out. And then—
thump. thump. thump.

A slow, steady rhythm brushed against his ear.
…Heartbeat.

Suho froze.

That wasn’t a dream sound. That was real. The steady pulse, right there under his temple. His lashes fluttered, still glued shut, and he stayed perfectly still for a moment, just listening.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound that had been under him all night.

The sound that felt so safe.

It took a second for it to register — where he was. How he’d fallen asleep.

And the memory hit: crawling closer in the middle of the night, resting his head on that arm, curling into the warmth without even thinking.

His throat felt tight.

…Was he dreaming still?

Because there was no way Sieun had let him stay this close. Right?

Right?

He risked the tiniest shift forward, brushing just a bit closer, and there it was again — the heartbeat, firm and steady beneath his temple. He could even feel the slow rise and fall of a chest with every breath.
Suho’s own breath stuttered.
Sieun.

He almost didn’t dare open his eyes. Part of him was terrified this would disappear the second he did. That it was just some beautiful, cruel dream.

But he had to know.
Slowly — so slowly — his eyes cracked open.
And there it was.

That broad shoulder just in front of him, wrapped in soft fabric. The relaxed line of Sieun’s jaw, visible even from this close. His bangs had fallen forward, casting gentle shadows over his face. And between them, the faintest breath moved, slow and even — he was still asleep.
Suho’s eyes lowered, almost without his permission.

That hand. That warm, steady hand resting lightly over his waist. Not gripping. Not holding tight. Just there — enough to keep him close, as if unconsciously saying: don’t go anywhere.

Suho didn’t even realize he was smiling.
Because this? This right here — waking up to Sieun, to his warmth, to his heartbeat — it felt like the safest thing he’d ever known.

He shut his eyes again, just for a second, and let himself sink back into that warmth. A selfish little thought whispered in his head, soft and unguarded:
If I could… I’d like to wake up like this every morning. Like this. With him.

And for a while, Suho let himself believe that maybe… just for a few more minutes, he could.

The room was still soft with early light when Suho felt the shift.

It was tiny — barely there at first. A slow, steady inhale, the faintest stretch of the arm around his waist. The kind of movement someone makes when they’re waking up, when sleep loosens its hold but hasn’t fully let go yet.

Suho’s eyes snapped open for a heartbeat.

And panic set in immediately.
Shit. He’s waking up.

His entire body froze, then clamped down like a guilty child caught stealing cookies. Without thinking, he squeezed his eyes shut again, forcing his breathing to slow, quick panicked thoughts darting everywhere.

I can’t move. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. If he knows I’m awake he’ll pull away. No. No, no, no.

So he stayed still, limp as a doll, his head still resting where it had been all night — right over Sieun’s heartbeat.
He could feel it though: the slow blink, the faint awareness of Sieun as he woke.
And that steady, careful gaze on him.

For a long moment, nothing else happened. Just that quiet watchfulness.
Then, gently — so gently — Sieun tried to move.

The arm at Suho’s waist shifted, sliding back carefully, testing, trying not to wake him as he attempted to free himself.
And Suho, very much awake, reacted on instinct.

His hand curled tight in the fabric of Sieun’s shirt.

A tiny, stubborn grip. Barely there — but it said everything.

Sieun stopped.

There was a pause, the kind of pause where you just know someone is looking at you. A faint sigh, quiet, like a whisper of exasperation but too soft to be real annoyance. And then the weight of that hand returned to Suho’s side, still and steady.

It worked.

Suho could have grinned into the shirt if he wasn’t trying so hard to keep his face neutral.

And that was the exact moment the room’s peace shattered.

“Yah,” a voice whispered — loudly — from across the room.

“Are they… are they still asleep like that?” Gotak’s whisper was so bad that it was basically normal volume.

“Looks like it,” Baku whispered back, which was somehow even louder. “Seriously, look at them. If you told me they were glued together, I’d believe it.”

Juntae, from the floor on his mattress, quietly muttered, “You two are idiots. Keep your voices down.”

But it was too late.

The whispers became giggles.

And the giggles became muffled laughter.
Suho, mortified, clung harder to Sieun’s shirt.

“Do you think,” Gotak hissed, “that Suho’s pretending to be asleep right now?”

“I’m telling you he is,” Baku whispered back. “Look at his ears. They’re red.”

“They’re always red!”

“No, no. That’s different. That’s panic red.”
Suho wanted to sink into the bed and never come out. He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to move, not even a twitch.

But then—
“Awww… Suho likes cuddles~”

That was it.
His grip on Sieun’s shirt tightened so hard he was surprised it didn’t tear.

And then came the worst part.
Sieun moved.

Not to get up this time. But just enough to shift, and Suho felt that calm voice rumble low near the top of his head. Barely above a murmur.
“Stop talking.”

That was all.
Two words.

But from Sieun, it was like an ice bucket of authority.
The room fell silent instantly. Baku, Gotak, Juntae — all three froze. Even Suho’s breath hitched.

Then, unbelievably, Gotak dared to whisper, “Yes, dad.”
And then they all started laughing again, muffling it in their pillows.

Through it all, Suho felt Sieun trying, just once more, to slip away carefully. Probably to spare him the teasing. But Suho wasn’t having it. Without opening his eyes, he shifted just a little closer. His grip refused to loosen.

A beat.

And then — quietly, like giving up on something he already knew was hopeless — Sieun settled back down.

Didn’t try again.
Just let him stay there.
Suho could feel his own cheeks burn, but at the same time, a wave of warmth filled his chest.

No words. No movement. Just that silent acceptance.

The gang’s muffled chuckles faded into the background, until all Suho could hear again was that heartbeat.

And right there, with a tiny smile pressed into the fabric of Sieun’s shirt, Suho thought:
Maybe mornings like this… aren’t so bad.
The room had grown warm and dim, a soft bubble of peace — except for Baku and Gotak, who apparently hadn’t learned the concept of “quiet.”

From across the room, they kept whispering, their voices full of mischief.

“Look at him,” Baku hissed. “Clinging like a little koala.”

Gotak snickered. “More like a baby! Can’t even sleep without—”

“Shut up,” Juntae whispered sharply, though his lips were twitching, betraying how hard he was trying not to laugh. He pulled his blanket up over his head, like that would somehow block the view — or their stupidity.

But the teasing continued anyway, their whispers growing bolder, just on the edge of being too loud.
Suho heard every word. Felt every giggle.
And he didn’t care.
Not a single bit.

Because right now, he was warm.
Pressed against Sieun, listening to that steady heartbeat like it was the only sound in the world.

Let them tease. Let them laugh.
He could take it.

As long as it meant he got to stay right here.

But the whispering didn’t stop.
If anything, it got worse.
Gotak murmured, “Do you think he’s drooling on him?”

And Baku answered, “For sure. Look at that face. Totally drooling.”

Juntae buried his face in his pillow and shook silently, shoulders trembling with the effort of not laughing.

Suho’s cheeks burned, but he still didn’t move. Not even a twitch.
He thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.

“Should we take a picture?”
“I’ll frame it!”
That’s when it happened.

“Hey.”
Just one word.
Quiet. Calm.
But the kind of calm that made the air in the room drop by a few degrees.

“Do you want to get kicked out?”

Sieun’s voice.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just… cold enough that every single person froze instantly.

Even Suho flinched.

Silence fell so fast it was almost comical.
The only sound was the faint hum of the heater and Suho’s own heartbeat racing in his ears.

For a moment, Suho wondered if Sieun had misunderstood — if maybe he thought Suho was having a nightmare from all the noise.

Because then — out of nowhere — that warm, steady hand started moving against his back.
Slow. Gentle.

Like he was soothing him.

The teasing stopped completely.
Baku and Gotak muttered something that might have been an apology, their voices tiny. And then they shut their eyes tight, pretending to be asleep.

Juntae just exhaled softly, turning to face the wall, a faint smile on his lips.

The hand on Suho’s back stilled after a while.

But Suho could feel Sieun shift, could feel the faint brush of something — a phone, maybe — as Sieun picked it up in his free hand. He heard the soft buzz of a notification, the faint tap of fingers on a screen.

And Suho… missed it.
The hand.
That soft, soothing touch.
So, still half-asleep and more instinct than thought, he shifted.

A small, unhappy wiggle, closer to Sieun’s chest, like he was wordlessly saying: Hey. Come back.

Sieun froze for a second, looking down at him.

And then, without a word, that hand was back, rubbing slow, steady circles against his back.

The relief was instant.
Suho’s body melted, settling like he belonged there, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips.

His eyelids drooped, heavy now.
The teasing, the whispers, the chaos, all of it faded until there was nothing left but that soft warmth.

And just like that, held by that hand and that steady heartbeat, Suho drifted off again.

Notes:

I hope now you won’t be as mad at baby Suho as before 😅 I know his sulking is really getting out of hand lately, but honestly… I can’t completely blame him for feeling frustrated. It’s not fair to Sieun either...poor boy just wants to take care of Suho.
But it’s not easy for Suho either. He needs time to adjust and to feel better about himself. 🥺

Author’s ramble:
So… I think I’m gonna start working on another story very soon! I’m planning to drop a sort of “teaser/preview chapter” 😭 just to see the response and decide if it’s worth writing more of it. It’s going to be quite angsty, actually! The overall vibe will still have fluff, cuteness, and hilarious bits, but most of it will be leaning towards angst. Not sure yet, but let’s see how it goes.

Also, your comments make me SO happy. 💌 Thank you for those long a$$ paragraphs! I know it takes a lot of effort and time to write them, and I truly appreciate every single one of you who takes the time to comment. It gives me so much motivation to keep writing. 💖

Oh, and yes jealous Sieun is coming! Maybe in the very next chapter? 👀

Next update will probably be around next Saturday or Sunday (most likely Sunday).

Till then, take care! Bye-bye~ ✨

Chapter 42: The Warmth I Can’t Lose

Summary:

What was supposed to be a simple movie day turns heavy for Suho, when his thoughts spiral out of control and leave him crying in Sieun’s arms.

Notes:

Hey everyone! I hope you’re all doing fine. ✨ I can’t believe it’s already been two weeks since I updated this story. So I won’t say much — I just hope you’ll enjoy this chapter.

Suho was happy.

A lot of happy.

Because of him.

 

Everything… because of him.

 

These days, his laughter came easily — the real kind, that bubbled out of him before he could think about stopping it.

He talked more. Smiled more. His days didn’t feel quiet and heavy anymore. He wasn’t lonely like before, sitting in silence, wondering if anyone cared enough to check in.

 

Now… he had people. Friends. A place to belong. He was looked after so well that sometimes it startled him. Meals were there before he thought to ask, his bag was taken from his hands before he could protest, and someone was always keeping an eye on him.

Not in a suffocating way. NEVER.

But in a warm, steady way that made him feel safe.

And the biggest reason behind all of it… was Sieun.

Yeon Sieun.

 

Whenever Suho video-called his Halmoni these days, she never looked tired or worried like she used to. Her eyes always crinkled with that soft smile, and more often than not, she’d start the call already talking to Sieun — not Suho — asking about his health before Suho could even greet her.

“Is he eating well?” she’d ask Sieun.
“Has he been resting enough? Don’t let him skip meals.”

Suho would immediately put on his best offended face. “Halmoni! I’m literally right here!”

They never took the bait.
If anything, they’d both ignore him and keep talking like he wasn’t even in the room.

It was the worst.
…And yet, deep inside, it was the best.

Because watching them get along so naturally made something warm unfurl in his chest. Seeing Halmoni so relaxed, so reassured, made Suho feel lighter than he could explain.

And then, as if to make it worse, the two of them would eventually remember Suho was there — only to gang up on him. Teasing him about how fussy he could be. Laughing about the way he pouted. Sharing stories at his expense until Suho had to hide his smile behind his hand because he was supposed to be mad… but he wasn’t. Not even a little.

So yeah.
Suho was happy.

A lot of happy.
Well taken care of.
Warm, loved, and safe.

 

Because of him.

 

All because of him.

 

His best friend.

 

His Sieun.

 

Sometimes, Suho would catch himself wondering when exactly this shift happened.
When did the world stop feeling so heavy on his shoulders?
When did the silence in his chest get filled with this steady, quiet warmth?

Maybe it was gradual — little things building up over time. The way Sieun would wait for him without saying he was waiting. The way he’d remember Suho’s favorite snacks without being told. The way his voice always softened when he asked, “Are you tired?” as if he was ready to drop everything if the answer was yes.

Suho didn’t know when it happened.
But he knew what it felt like.

It felt like coming home after a long, cold walk and finding the lights on, the heater running, and someone waiting inside. It felt like being seen without having to explain yourself. It felt like safety — the kind you didn’t have to earn, the kind you didn’t have to fear losing.

And maybe… it felt like care.
The kind of care Suho had never dared to believe he could have.

Because when Sieun was around, Suho didn’t feel like he was just existing.
He was living.

Laughing until his ribs ached. Talking about things that didn’t matter and things that mattered too much. Waking up without that familiar weight pressing on his chest.

It was all so simple.
And yet, for Suho, it was everything.

 

Every time he saw Sieun standing there, listening to Halmoni with that calm, patient expression… every time Sieun handed him something before he could even ask… every time their eyes met across a room and the corner of Sieun’s mouth twitched just slightly — like he knew exactly what Suho was thinking — Suho felt it again.

 

That warmth.
That quiet certainty.

 

This was home.
Not a place, not a building.
Him.

And Suho knew — even if he never said it out loud — that as long as Sieun was here, he’d never be lonely again.

This place wasn’t just walls and a roof anymore.
It was theirs.
It was his.

 

When Suho first moved into Sieun’s apartment, it still felt like Sieun’s apartment.

It smelled faintly of Sieun’s laundry soap. The bookshelves were perfectly neat, the couch cushions exactly aligned, the whole place quietly organized in a way that screamed this is Sieun. Suho felt like a guest in someone else’s world.

But then… little by little… it started to change.

A jacket tossed over the arm of the couch because Suho got too warm halfway through a movie.
A mug with a tiny chip at the rim that Suho refused to throw away because “it still works fine.”
A blanket Sieun had once draped over him that now permanently lived on the back of the sofa.

It became less about the neatness and more about them.

 

The kitchen table still had two chairs, but somehow, Suho’s chair always had something draped over it — his scarf, his bag, a folded shirt he never put away.
The corner near the balcony had his sneakers, slightly muddy from their last late-night walk.

The bedroom had a mix now — Sieun’s clean, folded shirts on one side, and Suho’s slightly messy pile on the other.

And the living room…

God, the living room.

This was where they’d spend entire evenings sprawled out.

Suho talking too much, Sieun listening quietly but with that little flicker in his eyes that showed he was paying attention to every word.

 

It wasn’t about owning the place.
It was about the way it held them.

 

Suho realized, at some point, that the quiet here didn’t feel empty.

It felt full.

Full of late-night murmurs, quiet laughter, the sound of Sieun flipping through a book while Suho scrolled aimlessly on his phone.

Full of small, gentle moments that no one else in the world would ever see.

And one night — just like now — lying there with the steady rhythm of Sieun’s breathing close enough to feel, Suho thought:

This is my home.

Not because it’s my name on the lease.

Not because my things are here.

 

But because he is here.

 

And where Sieun is… is where I belong.

 

It wasn’t just Sieun.

 

It was also… them.

 

Their friends didn’t knock anymore.
Not really. They’d yell from the hallway or text “we’re coming in” like they owned the place, and Suho didn’t mind.
Because honestly… it felt nice.

Baku would crash on the couch like he paid rent there. Sometimes he brought snacks, sometimes he “forgot,” but somehow he always ended up eating the most.

Gotak had this habit of moving things around in the kitchen — “for better organization,” he claimed — only for Sieun to quietly put them back later.

And Juntae… he didn’t say much, but Suho swore the guy had a key to the apartment’s mood. If things ever got tense or too quiet, he’d drop some one-liner or pull out a board game, and suddenly the room would feel lighter.

This wasn’t just Sieun’s apartment anymore.

It was a place where their friends sprawled out on the floor with extra blankets.

Where someone would be making ramen at 1 a.m. while another person dozed off on the couch.

Where shoes piled up by the door because no one bothered keeping them lined neatly anymore.

It was noisy sometimes.
Chaotic.
Too many people talking at once, too much laughter bouncing off the walls.

 

But that’s what made it home.

 

Because before… Suho didn’t have this.
Didn’t have people who dropped by just to hang out.
Didn’t have a place where his absence would be noticed, where someone would text “you’re late” if he didn’t come home on time.

 

And it hit him one night — sitting on the couch, wedged between Baku complaining about losing at a game and Gotak insisting on a rematch, while Sieun sat on the floor leaning back against the couch, his head tilted just enough that Suho could see the curve of his jaw in the soft lamplight —

 

This was his world now.
This messy, loud, warm apartment.
These ridiculous friends.
And him.

It wasn’t perfect.
It didn’t need to be.
Because it was home.

 

It happened so quietly, Suho almost missed it.

 

Everyone was talking over each other again — Baku and Gotak arguing over who cheated in the last round of cards, Juntae trying to referee but laughing too much to be taken seriously. Suho was only half-listening, resting with his crutches propped against the couch, idly running his thumb over the smooth fabric of the blanket over his lap.

 

Then Sieun’s voice cut through, calm and even as always.

 

“Did you eat enough?”

 

It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.

But the way Sieun said it… without looking up from shuffling the cards, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear Suho say it anyway, like it was the most natural thing in the world to care — it made Suho pause mid-motion.

 

He mumbled something like, “Yeah… I did.”

And Sieun just nodded slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that way that made his expression almost soft.

Almost.

Suho felt that same strange warmth in his chest again.

The same one he felt when Halmoni smiled at the camera and said, “Sieun takes such good care of you.”

The same one when he noticed his water glass always seemed refilled without him asking.

The same one when he looked around this apartment — Sieun’s apartment — and realized how much it felt like… home. His home.

He didn’t know what to call it.

Was it normal to feel… lighter… just because someone remembered if you’d eaten?

Was it normal to notice the exact way someone’s voice sounded when they said your name?

Was it normal to… not want to be anywhere else but here?

 

Suho frowned slightly to himself, pretending to study the cards Baku was waving at him.

This was just… friendship.

 

Right?

 

A really, really good friendship.

 

But then Sieun glanced up from the floor — just for a second — meeting Suho’s eyes.
And that weird thump in his chest came back so suddenly that Suho almost forgot to breathe.

He quickly looked away, telling himself it was nothing.

 

Absolutely nothing.

 

.
.
.

 

The first thing Suho registered was a voice.
Low. Smooth. Still heavy with sleep.

 

“Suho… wake up.”

 

It came from somewhere above him, warm and steady, like it had weight. He didn’t want to open his eyes — not yet — so he just lay there, floating in the haze between sleep and waking.

The mattress dipped near his legs. A familiar scent drifted in — the clean, faintly sweet smell that clung to Sieun’s hoodies after laundry day. Suho cracked one eye open.

Oh.

Sieun was leaning over him, close enough that Suho could make out the texture of the pale pink oversized hoodie he was wearing — soft, like it had been washed a hundred times until it was almost cloud-like. The sleeves hung past his hands, the hem pooling slightly at his hips. His bangs had fallen across his forehead, framing those doe-like eyes, still slightly drowsy but impossibly clear. The pink made his lips look even fuller, softer.

And Suho’s sleepy brain — unfiltered, slow, and dangerous — thought, pull him closer.

His lips mumbled something that didn’t even make sense to him.

Sieun tilted his head slightly, the faintest hum slipping out. “Hmm?”

And then, without thinking, Suho reached up, fingers curling into the side of that hoodie, and tugged.

Sieun’s balance tipped forward, and before he could even react, Suho had pulled him down until he was right against him. The warmth that spread through Suho’s chest made him sigh without realizing.

 

One arm looped around Sieun’s back, the other curling so he could hold him tighter. His nose found the crook of Sieun’s neck — warm skin, faint soap, and that clean hoodie smell — and for some reason it felt safe.

Sieun froze. Completely still. But he didn’t push away. His heartbeat quickened under the layers between them, and his fingers twitched slightly at his sides.

 

Suho, though, was still drifting in that half-asleep world where his body moved on instinct and his mind barely kept up. He didn’t register anything wrong.

 

Then—

 

“Ohhh… my… god.”

 

The voice was full of glee.
It was Baku.

 

Suho didn’t react. Not even a flinch.

 

Baku’s jaw had dropped, eyes widening as if he had just spotted a celebrity in the wild. His shock quickly melted into wicked delight as he scrambled for his phone. “No way. This is GOLD.”

 

“Gold? What gold?” Gotak’s voice came from behind him, casual — until he peeked in and saw. His eyebrows shot up, his mouth opening into a grin. “Hyungggg. Oh, this is good.”

 

“Better than coffee,” Juntae’s voice joined, and Suho vaguely heard footsteps approaching the bed.

 

And then the teasing began.

“Ohhh, Suho-sshi, when were you going to tell us?” Gotak teased.

“Look at this form,” Baku narrated, phone recording like a sports commentator.

“Textbook back embrace. Note the positioning of the nose.”

 

Juntae smirked. “I’m just impressed you managed this.”

 

Sieun still hadn’t moved. His face gave nothing away — calm as ever — but the tips of his ears were noticeably pink.

 

Then his voice broke through.
“Suho.”

 

It wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t soft either — just enough to snap Suho’s brain into awareness.

 

His eyes opened fully.
Oh.
OH.

Sieun was right there. Inches away. Their position — his arms wrapped around him, their faces close, the gang watching and filming —

His brain short-circuited.
He panicked.
And, in pure Suho fashion, he shoved Sieun away like the bed was on fire.

Sieun gasped as he landed back on the mattress beside him, hood shifting over his head.

“I— That— I wasn’t—!” Suho sputtered, trying to push himself up, but his balance betrayed him and he flopped back onto the pillows. His face went nuclear red, ears burning so much he could feel it.

The gang?
Destroyed.
They were holding their stomachs, some on the floor, unable to breathe from laughing.

“I swear— it wasn’t—!”
“Sure, hyung.” Gotak was still grinning like an idiot.
“Best… morning… ever,” Baku wheezed, tears streaming down his face.
“I’m framing this in my mind forever,” Juntae added, looking way too entertained.

 

Suho groaned, covering his face with both hands, the heat refusing to leave his cheeks. His heart was still pounding — part embarrassment, part the ghost of Sieun’s warmth still lingering on him.

Even as the teasing kept going, even as he swore up and down it meant nothing…
He couldn’t ignore one fact.

Waking up to Sieun like that had felt… really, really nice.

 

The laughter followed Suho all the way to the kitchen.

Not that he walked there — more like shuffled with his crutches, muttering under his breath and doing his best to ignore the smirks trailing behind him.

Baku was first to start again. “So… Hyung.” His tone was casual, but his grin said otherwise.

“Did you sleep well?”

Gotak, already digging through the fridge for juice, didn’t even turn around before adding, “Better question — did you sleep well, Sieun-hyung?”

 

Sieun, sitting at the table, didn’t look up from his phone. “Fine.”

 

Juntae, sipping tea like this was a morning drama, chimed in, “Oh, more than fine, I think. Considering the… circumstances.”

 

Suho slammed his crutch tip down on the floor. “You’re all idiots.”

“Idiots who have evidence,” Baku countered, waving his phone like a trophy.

 

Suho groaned, dragging himself into the chair next to Sieun — which, unfortunately, only made the teasing worse.

“Ohhh, can’t even sit far away,” Gotak grinned.

“Afraid you’ll miss his heartbeat?” Baku asked, straight-faced but with eyes sparkling.

 

Suho’s face was already burning, and he opened his mouth to snap back — but before he could, Sieun set his phone down with a soft tap.

 

“Enough.” His voice wasn’t loud, but the weight in it was enough to make everyone pause.

 

The gang quieted, half because of the tone… and half because of what he said next.

“If he slept well, I’m glad. That’s all that matters.”

 

It was said so simply, so matter-of-fact, that for a moment, nobody knew what to say.

 

Suho froze, his chest giving an odd, tight flutter. He glanced sideways at Sieun, who had already gone back to buttering toast like nothing happened.

 

Baku leaned back, blinking. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

Sieun didn’t even look up. “Why not?”

Gotak mumbled something about it sounding like a confession.

Juntae just smiled knowingly over his tea.

 

Suho… stayed quiet. Not because he didn’t have a comeback, but because he didn’t trust his voice not to betray the way his heart was still racing.

And maybe… just maybe… because he didn’t mind starting his day like this.

 

…

 

That night, the plates from dinner were still stacked neatly in the sink, a faint sheen of steam rising from the last rinsed mug Sieun had set aside to dry. The smell of grilled meat still lingered faintly in the air, softened by the gentle herbal notes of the tea Sieun had brewed for Suho after the meal — a habit he’d picked up without being asked, claiming it was “good for your recovery.”

 

The living room lights were warm, throwing a golden hue across the walls and catching on the edges of the blanket Suho had draped over himself. He was curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked slightly to the side, the other stretched out carefully under the blanket. His crutches were propped against the armrest — always within reach, even though he almost never needed them in here.

 

The gang had taken over the rest of the living room like they always did after dinner.

 

Baku sat cross-legged on the floor, his back resting against the couch, bouncing his leg in restless energy. Gotak had claimed the armchair and was balancing a bottle cap on the armrest, flicking it up with his thumb and catching it over and over.

Juntae sat neatly on the carpet, legs folded properly, posture almost perfect — the kind of stillness that made him look like he could sit there for hours without shifting.

 

The television murmured in the background — some late-night variety show Suho wasn’t really following — when Baku suddenly clapped his hands once, loud enough to make Suho’s eyes lift from his phone.

 

“Alright,” Baku announced, grinning like he’d just thought of the greatest idea in the world. “Tomorrow after school — basketball. The loser buys snacks.”

 

Gotak immediately grinned back. “I’m in.”

 

Juntae gave a small, polite nod. “I’ll play.”

 

Then, as if on cue, the three of them turned toward the kitchen sink, where Sieun was calmly rinsing out a cup.

“You coming?” Baku asked, already sounding sure the answer would be yes.

 

“No,” Sieun replied without even looking up. His voice was casual, too casual — the kind of flat tone that didn’t leave room for argument.

 

All three of them reacted instantly.

 

“What do you mean no?” Gotak frowned, leaning forward in his chair.

“You always come,” Juntae said, genuinely confused.

Baku narrowed his eyes in mock accusation. “Don’t you dare bail on us.”

 

Suho’s gaze flicked up again from his phone, just briefly, but the small pang in his chest surprised him. If Sieun went out with them, the apartment would be… too quiet. And not the comfortable kind of quiet. The kind where you keep glancing at the door, waiting for someone to come back.

 

Sieun finally spoke again, his voice steady. “I’m not going to school tomorrow.”

 

That earned an immediate, synchronized pause.

 

Gotak’s brows furrowed. “…Wait. Did you just say you’re skipping?”

Baku’s jaw dropped. “You? Skipping? Is the sky collapsing tomorrow or something?”

 

Sieun dried his hands on a towel and walked toward the dining table. “I’m taking Suho out for a movie.”

The world seemed to hiccup in Suho’s mind. His phone went still in his lap.
…A movie? With him?

He blinked, expecting Sieun to at least glance his way — maybe smirk and clarify it wasn’t anything serious — but Sieun didn’t. He just set his hoodie on the back of a chair, as calm as if he’d said he was going to the convenience store.

Baku nearly toppled sideways on the floor, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “HEY. How dare you take him on a date without us.”

 

“It’s not a date,” Sieun said evenly, not even looking up.

 

“It’s absolutely a date,” Gotak shot back instantly, leaning forward in his seat like he was ready to cross-examine him. “A movie date. You didn’t even invite us.”

 

Even Juntae, soft-spoken as ever, tilted his head and said quietly, “You could’ve mentioned it…”

 

Finally, Sieun looked up, leaning back slightly against the edge of the counter. “It’s a Thai movie … the Thai adaptation of that Taiwanese film Suho liked. I thought I’d take him to see it.”

 

Suho’s voice slipped out before he could stop himself. “…Marry My Dead Body?”

 

For the briefest second, Sieun’s gaze met his — steady and unreadable. He gave a small nod. “Yeah. The Thai version’s coming out soon. I liked the trailer.”

 

Suho’s heart gave an odd, uneven beat. “The Thai version… That’s The Red Envelope, right? I saw the trailer too. I loved it.”

 

Sieun’s voice stayed calm, but there was a faint shift in tone — something softer. “I didn’t think you guys would like it. The ending’s… bittersweet. I don’t want to be sitting next to you while you’re crying like fools. I’d rather not embarrass myself.”

The silence that followed was thick with offense.

Baku’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Gotak stared at him like he’d been slapped. Juntae murmured quietly, “…I cry quietly.”

 

But Suho barely registered them anymore. All he could think about was that Sieun remembered. Months had passed since that conversation, yet Sieun had remembered enough to notice a remake, watch the trailer, and plan to take him

Just him.

 

Baku jabbed a finger toward Sieun. “No. We. Are. Coming. Too. You’re not getting away with a solo date.”

“It’s not a date,” Sieun repeated, still perfectly calm.

“I’m going to ruin your date on purpose,” Gotak grinned.

“I want to see it too,” Juntae added with surprising firmness.

 

Sieun blinked once at Juntae’s sudden determination, then slowly shifted his gaze toward Baku — who was already grinning like a man plotting a coup.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sieun asked.

Baku didn’t even flinch. “Because we’re coming. All of us. End of story.”

Gotak was already pulling his phone from his pocket. “Yeah, no point arguing. I’m checking the movie slots right now.”

“…What?” Sieun straightened from the counter.

“Yes,” Gotak said without looking up. “There’s a showing tomorrow at eleven. I’m booking it.”

“You’re not booking—” Sieun began, but his voice was drowned out by the cheer that erupted from both Baku and Juntae.

“Done deal!” Baku laughed, slapping Gotak on the shoulder. “First the movie, then… picnic.”

Sieun froze. “…What?”

Gotak’s grin widened. “Yeah. Good idea. Last time only you two went.” His tone carried a dangerous mix of mock outrage and mischief. “Like the audacity, man. We’re your friends too.”

Juntae, who had been quietly sipping water, hesitated. “…Guys…” he began.

 

Baku turned sharply. “What?”

 

Juntae flinched under the weight of their attention, lowering his gaze. “Nothing.”

 

Suho, still on the couch with the blanket over his legs, felt like he was watching a tornado form right there in the living room. He didn’t know how the conversation had jumped from a quiet movie outing to a group picnic, but strangely… he didn’t mind. Not even a little.

 

Because every few seconds, his mind would rewind — back to that moment when Baku and Gotak had called it a date.
A date.
A date with Sieun.

The words kept echoing, warm and dizzy in his chest.

Sieun was still staring at the group like they’d collectively lost their minds. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and said, “…Fine.”

The cheer that followed was loud enough to make Suho’s blanket shift from the sudden air movement.

“But—” Sieun’s voice cut through their noise. “You’re making lunch.”

“Yes, Master,” Baku and Gotak said in eerie unison.

“And carrying all the stuff.”

“Yes, Master,” they echoed again.

Sieun shook his head, muttering, “…Unbelievable.”

 

But that didn’t stop the others from scattering — Baku already listing what snacks to bring, Gotak arguing over drinks, Juntae quietly noting down essentials like a responsible parent.

 

In the middle of it all, Sieun’s voice reached Suho, softer now.

 

“…Want to rest at home instead?”

Suho blinked, lifting his head to find Sieun watching him from a few feet away. The rest of the noise faded for a moment. His eyes traced the sharp but familiar lines of Sieun’s face — the faint shadow of his bangs brushing over his brow, the quiet steadiness in his gaze, the subtle angle of his jaw under the warm light. His eyes drifted lower — the edge of his hoodie collar revealing the base of his throat, the casual posture that somehow always carried a quiet protectiveness.

 

Suho’s lips curved, just faintly. “I want to go.”

 

Sieun studied him for a second longer, as if checking for even the smallest hesitation. When he found none, he gave a short nod. “…Let’s go then.”

 

Suho’s heart thudded once, solid and warm, before the noise of the gang rushed back in. But the thought stayed — tomorrow, they were going out. Together.

And no matter how much the others tried to “ruin” it… in Suho’s mind, it was still a date.

 

…

 

Suho was buzzing inside, the kind of restless warmth that made it impossible to stay still. His head was already playing out tomorrow — or maybe the day after — in little flashes. Movie tickets, sunlight spilling through trees at the picnic spot, the quiet in-between moments where Sieun might lean in to ask him something only he could hear. Sure, the guys would be there too, but that didn’t matter. Sieun’s presence had a way of turning any day into something worth keeping.

While Suho was drifting in that daydream, Sieun excused himself to the kitchen to fetch Suho’s medication. The apartment settled into that familiar low hum — distant clinking of glassware, soft shuffle of socks against the floor. That’s when Suho caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision.

Baku was creeping toward the door like a cartoon burglar, each step exaggeratedly slow, eyes darting toward the kitchen every other second. Gotak was right behind him, hunched low like the two of them were on some top-secret mission. Their shoes weren’t even on — which made the whole thing look even more ridiculous — but their expressions screamed escape before we get roped into something.

Juntae lingered a few steps back, frozen between loyalty to his friends and fear of Sieun’s inevitable wrath. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his sweatshirt, and his gaze kept bouncing from the kitchen doorway to Baku’s hand on the doorknob.

They’d almost made it — the door cracked open just enough for the faint hallway draft to slip in — when the voice came. Calm. Low. The kind of quiet that made every muscle lock up.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Even Suho stiffened. His head turned toward the kitchen at the exact moment Baku did, and there was Sieun — holding Suho’s meds in one hand, his expression flat but sharp enough to pin them in place.

Baku straightened instantly, posture snapping upright. “Uh—this door… wow, it’s… uh… really smooth. Like—perfect hinges!”

Gotak, scrambling to back him up, nodded so fast it looked painful. “Yeah! We were just… checking craftsmanship. You know. For… safety.”

Sieun didn’t even blink. “I know your tricks,” he said, his voice as level as if he were reading out weather updates. He stepped into the room, handed the pills to Suho, and then, without looking at the two wannabe escapees, added, “If you want a picnic, you help make lunch. No disappearing.”

 

Suho’s lips twitched, the laugh bubbling up before he could stop it. Oh, so that was the plan — ditch kitchen duty and show up when the food was magically ready. Even Juntae had to press a fist to his mouth, his shoulders shaking with the effort to stay quiet.

 

Baku made a helpless noise. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong—”
Gotak cut in, “We were just—”
“Shut up and sleep,” Sieun said, turning away like the conversation was already over.

Helping Suho to the bedroom, he didn’t break stride. The door closed behind them, cutting off Baku’s sputtering excuses. Inside, Sieun fell into their usual routine — arranging Suho’s pillows, checking the position of his injured leg, rubbing balm gently into the skin around the cast. The small, efficient motions made Suho feel something he didn’t dare name out loud.

By the time Baku, Gotak, and Juntae shuffled in with their futons, the mood had shifted entirely. The would-be fugitives looked like they’d just been grounded, moving with the defeated slump of people who knew there’d be no escape tonight. Sieun didn’t even waste breath scolding them again — just set his phone on the low table, turned off the main light, and settled into his spot.

The room was dim, the air little cool, the quiet punctuated only by the soft rustle of blankets and the faint sounds of the city outside. It was messy, loud in its own way, but Suho found himself sinking into it — this strange, chaotic, domestic thing they’d all stumbled into.

And as he lay there, his eyes closing, he realized: Sieun’s apartment didn’t feel like visiting anymore. It felt like coming home.

 

Suho lay sprawled on the lone bed like some pampered king, the soft blanket pooling lazily around his waist, his crutches propped neatly within arm’s reach. The mattress was warm beneath him, but his eyes kept wandering elsewhere — to the futon laid out on the floor just a few feet away.

Sieun’s bedding was neat as always, the kind of simple setup that somehow looked almost elegant in the silvery spill of moonlight from the balcony. He was already dressed for the night in soft, loose clothes that made him look less like the guarded, sharp-minded person everyone knew and more like someone… warm. The fabric bunched slightly where his hands rested over his stomach, fingers relaxed, unmoving. He lay on his back, head turned just a little toward Suho, as though even in sleep he was instinctively keeping him in his line of sight.

Juntae was curled beside him, small frame almost swallowed by his blanket, glasses neatly folded on the floor nearby. Across the room, Baku and Gotak were still very much awake, their laughter bouncing around the walls in quiet bursts that carried a strange comfort instead of disturbance. They spoke in low voices about tomorrow’s picnic plan, throwing out exaggerated ideas about snacks, games, and who would carry what.

“Do we even have a basket?” Gotak murmured.
“I’ll just steal one from the convenience store,” Baku whispered back, earning a muffled laugh.
“Ask Sieun to pack the food. He’s scary when he’s in charge,” Gotak teased.
From his futon, Sieun’s voice came quiet but steady. “I’m not packing for you two if you’re going to eat half of it before we get there.”
“That’s not true,” Baku shot back instantly. “We’d eat all of it.”

The soft back-and-forth faded into the hum of the night, the only steady glow coming from the balcony, painting the wooden floor in gentle silver streaks. The air was cool but not cold, carrying the faint scent of the outside world — a world Suho barely touched these days unless Sieun was with him.

His gaze drifted back to Sieun, whose breathing had evened out, lashes low, almost asleep. Suho knew the signs; Sieun must be exhausted. He’d spent the entire day at Suho’s side — helping him with the smallest things without making it feel like pity, keeping his company when the silence stretched too far, making sure he had everything he needed before even thinking about himself.

And somewhere in that quiet moment, Suho’s chest tightened. He didn’t know if what he was feeling was normal — this constant pull toward Sieun, this strange warmth that crept into his bones when he was near. All he knew was that this place, Sieun’s apartment, had stopped feeling like Sieun’s a long time ago. Somewhere between the late-night talks, the shared meals, and the way the others fit into it like they belonged here too… it had become home. His home.

Baku’s voice broke through Suho’s warm, drifting thoughts, pitched with the kind of restless excitement that always came right before chaos.

“So… where should we go for the picnic?” he asked, his tone carrying the energy of a kid planning a grand heist. “That riverside park? Or the hill with the big tree?”

Gotak, never one to be left out of scheming, leaned in from his futon with bright eyes.
“The hill’s nice, yeah, but… what about that place near the lake? You know, the one with the food stalls. We could eat there too. What do you say, Sieun-ah?”

The room was otherwise peaceful — the low hum of the night air, the muted creak of the balcony curtain swaying gently. But at Gotak’s sudden question, Sieun’s eyes, which had been closed in slow surrender to sleep, blinked open. He flinched ever so slightly, the kind of small, involuntary twitch that told Suho he’d been just about to slip under.

Suho’s jaw tightened. Seriously? He wanted to snap at them — why can’t these idiots just let him sleep? — but he bit it back, watching instead.

Sieun slowly turned his head toward their corner, voice calm and measured when he finally spoke.
“The hill,” he said simply, his tone carrying enough quiet weight to end any argument before it started. “It’s quieter. Less crowded. Suho will like it.”

The words landed softly but with a strange, unshakable certainty, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to build plans around Suho’s comfort. Suho felt a flutter in his chest at that — embarrassed, yes, but also warmed in a way he didn’t quite have words for.

Gotak, still unwilling to let it go, piped up again.
“Then… should we go in the morning or the afternoon?”

“After the movie,” Sieun replied without even pausing to think. “Morning’s too cold this time of year. And…” His gaze flicked to Suho for just a heartbeat before returning to the ceiling. “…he doesn’t like waking up early unless he has to.”

Suho smiled faintly into the dimness, hiding the way his ears burned. There was something about being known like that — not in the loud, obvious ways, but in the quiet details.

The conversation started to fade until Sieun, out of nowhere, added in that same calm voice:
“But … the moment Suho feels tired… we’re coming back home.”

 

Baku made a sound of mock offense. “Huh? Is this a picnic for all of us or just a royal trip for your majesty here?”

 

Sieun didn’t even blink. “It’s for all of us. But I’m not carrying any of you home if you get too tired to walk.”

 

That earned a round of laughter, and eventually, Gotak shuffled toward the lamp and switched it off, letting the moon take full control of the room. The silver glow spilled across the floorboards, turning every shadow soft.

 

Sieun lay back again, his fingers loosely laced over his stomach, head angled slightly toward Suho. The quiet returned, filled only by the muffled breathing of the boys and the distant hum of the night outside.

 

A cool breeze slipped in through the half-open balcony door, brushing over Suho’s skin and making him shiver. Almost instantly, Sieun’s brow furrowed. He sat up without a word, padded silently to the balcony, and slid the door shut with deliberate care.

 

“Omoni… how would we survive without you…” Baku drawled dramatically from his futon.

 

Sieun didn’t bother with a glare — just rolled his eyes. On his way back, Baku reached out to grab his ankle, only to get a swift, precise kick that made him yelp and clutch his shin. Gotak and Juntae burst into laughter, and even Suho let out a quiet chuckle.

 

But instead of heading straight back to his futon, Sieun stopped at Suho’s bed. Without saying anything, he tugged the blanket higher until it sat snug over Suho’s shoulders. His hand brushed across Suho’s forehead, lingering just long enough to check for warmth.
“Sleep,” he murmured — soft, but with that certain tone that left no room for arguing.

Suho’s eyes closed almost reflexively, a small nod giving him away.

Sieun returned to his futon, settling in with the same still, composed posture. “Go to sleep. You need to wake up early.”

 

Baku and Gotak groaned in unison. “Why? Why early?”

 

Sieun’s voice didn’t even shift from its calmness. “Because you two need to make lunch. Did you forget?”

 

Both of them froze, glancing at each other like guilty schoolboys. “Ah…”

Suho snorted softly into his pillow.

“Sleep,” Sieun repeated.

“Yes, Omma!” the three of them chorused in perfect, exaggerated unison.

Sieun’s face twisted like they’d just served him something sour. “Disgusting,” he muttered.

 

Suho couldn’t help it — he giggled.

 

He sank deeper into the mattress, chest swelling with that warm, syrupy contentment he only seemed to get here, like this.

Then shifted onto his side. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the night air, and from here, the moonlight caught Sieun just right — a soft halo around him, tracing the line of his jaw and the delicate curve of his closed lashes. The shadows fell gently over the dip of his collarbone, and Suho found himself staring at the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. Every exhale seemed to carry away the weight Sieun had been holding all day.

There was something magnetic about watching him like this — peaceful, unguarded. Suho loved the stillness that came once everyone else had gone quiet. It was their secret time, even if Sieun didn’t know it. He could trace the shape of his face with his eyes, notice the tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers as he slept, and no one would interrupt or question it.

His mind wandered to the mornings he’d been lucky enough to wake with Sieun beside him. Those rare, perfect moments where the first thing he saw was Sieun’s face softened by sleep, hair falling messily over his forehead. The comfort of a shared blanket, the faint thud of Sieun’s heartbeat under his ear — it had been so grounding, so right, that Suho had wanted to stay frozen in that feeling forever.

He wished it could be like that every night. If Sieun wouldn’t agree to share the bed, then maybe he’d just have to take matters into his own hands — slip quietly under the futon blanket, close enough that their knees brushed, and pretend it was the most natural thing in the world. One blanket, one shared warmth, until morning light spilled in. He could already imagine how much easier he’d drift off, how much deeper he’d sleep with Sieun right there.

His eyes softened as his chest ached with a quiet, tender thought: You’re the most precious thing in my life. Not because of grand gestures, but because of the quiet ways Sieun cared for him — checking his bandages without asking, handing him a drink without being told he was thirsty, slowing his own pace so Suho wouldn’t strain himself.

And then there was tomorrow’s picnic. Just thinking about it made something flutter in his chest. The image bloomed in his mind: Sieun in the daylight, sitting on a blanket under the shade of a tree, hair catching in the breeze. Maybe he’d tilt his head back to look at the sky, eyes half-lidded in contentment, or offer Suho a bite of whatever snack he’d brought along. The others might laugh and talk, but Suho’s attention would stay fixed on him, quietly memorizing another piece of this life they were building.

For now, though, the moonlight and the sound of Sieun’s breathing were enough.

 

He lay on his side, head cradled by his bent arm, the other hand tucked loosely against his chest. His eyes didn’t wander, didn’t even think to look anywhere else — they were fixed entirely on Sieun.

Sieun was sprawled out on the futon, his breathing slow and even, lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks. The moonlight slipped in through the curtains and caught on the edge of his hair, turning the strands into something softer, almost weightless. The pale light brushed across his nose, down the line of his jaw, and over the faint rise of his collarbone where the blanket had slipped.

Suho’s gaze roamed over these details with the same reverence he’d give to something fragile and irreplaceable. He drank in every tiny movement — the faint twitch of fingers as Sieun shifted, the subtle flutter of his lashes as if caught between dreams.

In his mind, that day at the botanic garden after rehab bloomed again. Sieun walking just a little slower so Suho wouldn’t have to push himself. The way he’d steered them toward the bench shaded by a flowering tree, claiming it had the “best view,” but Suho knew it was because it would keep him cool. The neatly packed snacks Sieun had brought “just because” — though Suho could tell each one had been chosen with his taste in mind.

He could already feel tomorrow shaping into something like that. A picnic that Sieun would pretend was casual but would be planned down to the smallest detail — the blanket positioned where the breeze would reach them, food arranged so Suho wouldn’t need to move much, a shaded spot that would make him forget he’d been sick at all.

Suho’s chest ached in a way that wasn’t pain. He thought about how much he wanted Sieun to sleep beside him every night, the way he had that one morning when Suho woke up warm and steady, Sieun’s heartbeat steady under his ear. That sound had been better than any lullaby, better than any dream.

Maybe tonight he should just… go to the futon. Just slip under the same blanket, close enough to hear that rhythm again. Close enough that sleep would come without trying.

But he stayed where he was, staring across the small gap between them, afraid to break the stillness. His eyes traced Sieun’s face one last time — the faint crease between his brows, the curve of his lips, the way the moonlight seemed to choose him over everything else in the room.

And somewhere between memorizing those lines and thinking about how precious Sieun was, Suho’s own breathing evened out. His lashes lowered, vision blurring. The last thing he saw was Sieun — quiet, steady, and entirely his — before sleep claimed him.

 

.
.
.

 

Suho stirred awake to the muffled sound of chaos somewhere outside the bedroom. Voices overlapped, loud and playful — Baku’s booming laugh, Gotak’s equally loud retort. Something thudded against a wall, followed by a chorus of shushing that clearly didn’t work.

Suho groaned softly, shifting under his blanket. His lashes fluttered, his first instinct not to the noise but to the empty futon just past the foot of his bed. His eyes blinked open properly — and yes, Sieun’s futon was neatly folded, already tidied up. Empty.

A strange pang tugged at Suho’s chest. The first thing he wanted to see when waking had been Sieun… and he wasn’t there.

Before that thought could sink too deep, footsteps padded softly down the hall. Suho turned his head toward the door just as it opened. And there he was. Sieun.

He stepped inside carrying calm with him, dressed in a fresh hoodie that looked so soft Suho wanted to touch it. His hair was still slightly damp, probably from washing up. When his eyes landed on Suho, something subtle in his face softened.

“You’re awake,” Sieun said gently, voice still low with morning.

Suho blinked at him sleepily, almost unable to believe how pretty someone could look just standing there.

Without a word, Sieun crossed the room and crouched at Suho’s side. His hand brushed over Suho’s forehead, checking his temperature. The touch was warm, steady, and Suho’s eyes fell shut on instinct, leaning into it like a cat soaking up sunlight. His body relaxed immediately, as though Sieun’s hand alone told him he was safe.

“Are we going to the movie,” Sieun asked quietly, “or do you need to rest?”

And just like that, Suho’s sleep-hazy brain sparked. The movie. The picnic. A whole day with Sieun. His heart gave a startled leap. He remembered.

Before he could think twice, his hands lifted from under the blanket — small, clumsy grabby hands reaching toward Sieun.

Sieun blinked, a little startled at the sight. But instead of pulling away, he leaned in, slipping his hand into Suho’s and gently tugging him up.

Suho moved without thinking — too quickly, still half-asleep — and suddenly he stumbled forward, collapsing into Sieun’s chest.

Warm. That was the only word for it. Warm hoodie, warm arms, warm heartbeat against his cheek. Suho froze, heat rushing through him, but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t.

At the doorway, someone cleared their throat.

Suho snapped his eyes open, only to see Baku leaning against the frame like he’d been watching forever, a bowl of popcorn in hand. He crunched down on a kernel and grinned.

“I love to spend my nights in this house just for moments like these,” Baku declared. “Suho romancing while half-asleep and then getting flustered when he realizes I caught him.”

 

Suho went scarlet on the spot, jerking back slightly — only to feel Sieun’s arm steady him before he lost his balance.

Gotak appeared behind Baku, peeking in with a dramatic whistle. “Oooh~ morning romance scene unlocked.”

 

“Y-yah!” Suho spluttered, face burning hot as he scrambled to cover his embarrassment. His hand fumbled for his crutch at the side of the bed. “I was just—I wasn’t—shut up!”

Both Baku and Gotak cracked up, whispering loudly to each other like gossiping aunties.

Suho’s heart was a storm. Too hot, too loud. And still, even through all the chaos, Sieun’s calm voice cut through.

“Take it easy,” Sieun murmured, not looking at the others at all. His hand stayed steady at Suho’s back until Suho was sitting upright properly. “Don’t rush.”

The simplicity of it nearly undid Suho.

By the time Suho was settled at the table, crutches leaned neatly against the chair, breakfast was already laid out. The sight hit him instantly: steaming bowls, perfectly balanced side dishes, soup still hot. And he knew, without asking, who had done it all.

 

Sieun.

 

While Suho sat there, Sieun was still quietly moving between stove and table, shoulders set in that calm determination. He worked like he always did — steady, careful, never asking for help. His hair fell into his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, and even with exhaustion written on him, he made it all look effortless.

Meanwhile…

Baku and Gotak were bickering over who got the last fried egg, swatting at each other like children. Rice was scattered across the table. Juntae was fluttering about with a broom, making more of a mess than fixing anything.

Suho’s lips jutted out into a pout. His chest heated — not just annoyed, but almost protective.

“YAH!” His voice cracked like a whip.

The boys froze mid-fight. Baku’s hand was still in Gotak’s face, Juntae’s broom frozen mid-swipe.

Suho slapped the table lightly with his palm. “What are you even doing? Look at this mess! You’re making things worse!”

They flinched, glancing guiltily at each other.

“You two,” he pointed sharply at Baku and Gotak, “were supposed to make lunch today, remember? That was the deal! And instead you’re fighting like five-year-olds!”

They hunched their shoulders, lips pushing into guilty pouts.

“And you—” Suho turned his glare on Juntae. Juntae squeaked softly. “Don’t just stand there pretending to clean. You’re spreading rice everywhere!”

Juntae nodded quickly, eyes wide.

 

Suho’s voice cracked across the room like thunder.
“LINE UP. NOW.”

Baku, Gotak, and Juntae froze, then shuffled forward, dragging their feet like guilty kids being marched into the principal’s office. They stood shoulder to shoulder, heads ducked, hands clasped behind their backs. Suho sat upright on the chair like a king holding trial, blanket pooled around his lap, lips pushed out in a perfect pout.

“You three were supposed to help with lunch. What do I see instead?” He jabbed a finger at the mess — rice scattered across the floor, sauce splattered on the counter, an overturned cup. “This!”

Baku cleared his throat nervously. “I was… testing if the pan was slippery. You know, safety check.”

“Safety check?!” Suho’s voice went up an octave. “By throwing eggs at Gotak’s head!?”

Gotak perked up defensively. “I was blocking! Protecting the food from flying objects!”

“You literally ATE the food while blocking,” Suho shot back.

Gotak’s lips folded into a pout. “…I was making sure it wasn’t poisoned.”

Juntae, caught in their crossfire, fiddled with his fingers. “I-I was cleaning…”

“Cleaning!?” Suho pointed at the broom, which still had rice stuck in the bristles. “You spread it everywhere! You made it WORSE!”

Juntae wilted instantly, looking like a scolded puppy.

Suho sighed through his nose, puffing his cheeks. “Do you realize how hard Sieun worked just now? He cooked, set the table, packed MY lunch. All by himself. And you three turned the kitchen into a war zone.”

The boys shuffled.

Baku tried again, mumbling, “We were… just trying to make him laugh.”

“By making him work harder?!” Suho shot back. “You call this helping?!”

They all went silent, heads lowering further.

“Look at him!” Suho snapped, pointing toward Sieun, who was still calmly arranging side dishes. “Tired out of his mind, and he’s STILL smiling while you three act like clowns. You should be ashamed.”

The gang exchanged glances, shoulders slumping further.

“Do you want him to collapse one day because you couldn’t handle basic kitchen work?” Suho pressed.

“No…” they muttered together.

“Then next time, if you say you’ll help, help. Don’t just dump it all on him.”

For a beat, there was silence. Then Suho huffed, cheeks puffed, crossing his arms. “Do I need to say more?”

The three shook their heads quickly, lips pushed out in identical pouts.

“Good. Now CLEAN. YOUR. MESS.”

They stumbled away like scolded schoolboys, tripping over each other in their rush to obey.

The kitchen slowly transformed from chaos into order. Baku grumbled as he scrubbed at the counter, Gotak muttered complaints while sweeping, and Juntae carefully stacked dishes in the sink.

And through it all, Sieun stayed quiet. He didn’t interfere, didn’t correct them, didn’t even sigh. He just kept moving at his steady rhythm — packing containers, wiping down the table, folding cloths neatly.

When Suho glanced at him, he almost lost his breath.

Sieun’s expression wasn’t irritated, not even tired. He was smiling — faint, barely-there, but real. A small curve at the corner of his lips that softened his whole face.

And Suho knew. He knew that smile wasn’t because of the mess being cleaned. It wasn’t because the boys were finally behaving. It was because of him. Because Suho had stood up for him.

Warmth spread in Suho’s chest, swelling until it felt like he might burst. I put that smile there, he thought, and pride mixed with something softer, sweeter.

He puffed his cheeks, crossing his arms tighter. Of course. Who else would take care of him if not me?

That was when Baku, still scrubbing, muttered under his breath. “I swear, I felt like I just got scolded by my dad.”

Gotak nodded solemnly, sweeping rice into the dustpan. “Yeah. Totally appa vibes.”

Juntae let out a little giggle, covering his mouth. “Then… doesn’t that make Sieun… omma?”

 

Suho froze.

 

His ears perked, heart skipping, eyes snapping toward them so fast he almost hurt his neck. The boys instantly flinched under his sharp stare.

He darted a look at Sieun — but thankfully, Sieun hadn’t heard. He was still calmly stacking side dishes, completely unaware.

Suho turned his glare back on the gang. “What… did you just say?”

Baku looked guilty for a split second, then smirked. “Nothing, appa.”

Gotak leaned closer, grin wicked. “Does it make you happy, appa?”

Suho tried to hide his smile, pressing his lips into a line, but his cheeks betrayed him — glowing red.

“Appa’s blushing,” Gotak sing-songed.

Baku gasped, clutching his chest in mock horror. “Appa, you LIKE omma Sieun!”

Suho’s entire face turned scarlet. His head whipped toward Sieun again — but Sieun was still focused on the food, oblivious. Relief and panic collided in Suho’s chest.

Suho’s cheeks burned hotter and hotter, the gang’s words bouncing in his head like sparks he couldn’t put out. Appa. Omma. Children.

At first, he wanted to deny it — to shove it away. But his imagination betrayed him.

Suddenly, the scene in front of him blurred into something different.

He pictured himself at the dining table, stern face on, scolding Baku and Gotak who were arguing like idiots over the last piece of meat. “Stop fighting and eat properly,” he’d say — like a real dad laying down the law.

And beside him… was Sieun. Calm, patient, ladling soup into bowls with that same quiet steadiness, soft but firm when he finally raised his voice. “Don’t talk with your mouths full. Wipe your hands.”

Omma.

The thought hit Suho square in the chest.

And just like that, the image grew sharper: Baku whining, “But ommaaa, he started it!” while Gotak clutched his shin and cried, “No, omma, he kicked me first!”

Juntae, their “quiet eldest,” sitting there like the model child, trying to keep order but still giggling behind his hand.

And Sieun — his Sieun — sighing in that long-suffering way, reaching over to wipe rice from the corner of Baku’s mouth, patting Gotak’s head as if he wasn’t the most troublesome child alive.

All the while, Suho sat at the head of the table, watching his “wife” keep everything together with a small, warm glow in his chest.

His lips twitched into a smile before he could stop it. His heart was racing, his stomach flipping — not from embarrassment now, but from how natural it all felt.

Like a family.

Like… they were already a family.

Then Baku’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Aabuji, why are you smiling like that?!”

Gotak leaned in with narrowed eyes. “Wait… are you imagining something?!”

Suho’s entire face went scarlet. He flailed. “I—I wasn’t—shut up!”

Baku and Gotak exchanged matching smirks, pouncing. “Appa’s thinking about ommaaa~”

“Aabuji dreaming of his wifeee~”

Suho wanted the floor to swallow him whole. His ears burned, his fists clenched, and he was two seconds away from exploding when he dared to glance at Sieun.

But Sieun was still busy with the food, completely oblivious. Calm. Unbothered. Beautiful.

And that only made Suho blush harder.

Baku was already halfway choking on his laughter when Sieun came over, wiping his hands on a dish towel. The moment he stepped closer, Baku threw his arm out dramatically, pointing like he’d just uncovered the biggest scandal of the century.

“Omma, look!” he shouted, voice cracking with delight. “Aappa is fantasizing about his wife!”

Gotak collapsed onto the table, pounding it with his palm as his laughter rang out, loud and shameless. Juntae, sweet Juntae, tried to hold it in but failed miserably — his shoulders shook, and soon he was clutching his stomach, wheezing.

Sieun blinked. Once. Twice. His doe eyes moved slowly from Baku… to Suho.

Suho’s entire face burned. He shook his head violently, words tangling in his throat. “Wh–what are you even saying?! I—I wasn’t—!”

Juntae, barely managing to get a word out through his giggles, piped up, “Y-you called Suho Aappa and Sieun Omma and then you said aabuji is fantasizing about his wife—” He hiccuped on a laugh, wiping at his eyes. “So… do you mean… Aappa Suho is fantasizing about Omma Sieun?”

That broke them all. Baku and Gotak fell sideways against each other, howling. Juntae laughed so hard he nearly toppled backward.

Suho wanted to die. Or disappear. Or possibly throw all three of them out the window. He buried his face in his hands, ears so red they could’ve lit the room without the lamp.

Sieun, meanwhile, just stood there. Silent. Staring at them with that blank, unreadable face that somehow made it worse.

Damn, he looks cute… Suho’s heart betrayed him again, thudding so hard he thought the others would hear it.

Then, finally, Sieun sighed. The soft, tired sound of someone who had already accepted the universe’s stupidity. He turned on his heel, muttering only:
“Get ready if you don’t want to be late.”

And he walked off, the picture of calm.

Suho peeked through his fingers at his retreating back, mortified and relieved all at once. The others were still dying of laughter, Juntae practically rolling now.

Baku leaned in close, still grinning like a devil. “Aabuji, your wife’s ignoring you.”
Gotak snorted. “You really should treat omoni better.”

Suho threw the blanket at them, face burning but lips tugging upward in a shy, helpless smile he couldn’t hold back.

 

.
.
.

 

The theater lights were dim, the glow of the giant screen washing everyone in flickering colors. Suho couldn’t stop crying. He’d tried — he’d pressed his lips tight, blinked hard, even turned his face slightly so Sieun wouldn’t notice — but the tears kept spilling over anyway. Hot, endless, embarrassing.

Every time Sieun offered his handkerchief, Suho stubbornly shook his head, muttering, “I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. The tears refused to listen.

Finally, with a sniff, Suho snatched the handkerchief, mumbling, “Just… I need to blow my nose, okay,” as if he had to justify it. Sieun only gave him that quiet, steady look — the kind that was more concerned than any words could be — before setting the oversized popcorn bucket in his lap again.

Beside them, Baku and Gotak were an entirely different picture. They were howling. Loud, ugly cries that made their shoulders shake, yet somehow their hands never stopped shoveling popcorn into their mouths. Crying, chewing, talking with mouths full — it was chaos. Sieun flinched twice at their sudden wails, the corners of his mouth twitching like he might sigh, but he didn’t say a word.

Juntae, on the other hand, was the silent type — tears streaming steadily, his face calm, his breathing even, as if crying were just another quiet activity.

Suho dabbed at his face, stealing a glance around the theater. People nearby were staring at them like they were a circus act. A polished, quiet boy like Sieun… soft-hearted Juntae… and then these three noisy messes. They must be wondering how those two got stuck with us, Suho thought bitterly, though a tiny laugh almost escaped him.

And then—on screen—the two male leads appeared in crisp white suits, standing side by side. The scene was drenched in light, almost dreamlike, like an altar. Marriage. Eternity.

Something twisted sharp in Suho’s chest.

His throat went dry as a thought struck him out of nowhere: Is this… their next life? Are they going to get married?

The words swirled in his head, stirring something he hadn’t dared face before. The idea of spending your whole life with the love of your life… waking to the same face every morning, falling asleep to the same heartbeat every night.

And suddenly, Suho found himself glancing sideways.

Sieun’s profile was bathed in silver from the screen, his expression fixed, intent, utterly unreadable. Was he thinking the same thing?

Suho’s chest tightened. His mind spun.

Why am I even thinking about this?
He never hated gay people. Never once. He always believed love was love — that everyone deserved the same respect, the same happiness. That people had no right to judge what hearts chose.

But that didn’t mean he wanted that life. Korea wasn’t kind. Life was harder for them here.

So why didn’t he feel disgusted? Why, when he imagined himself with Sieun, did his stomach fill with warmth instead of dread?

His eyes traced over Sieun’s side profile — the soft bangs brushing his forehead, the delicate slope of his nose, the lips that always looked unfairly soft.

His pulse jumped.
His heart raced.

And the strangest part? Instead of fear, it felt good. Too good.

 

The movie ended, and soon enough they were collecting their things from the locker room. Popcorn crumbs clung to Gotak’s hoodie, Baku was still blowing his nose like a trumpet, and Juntae quietly adjusted his bag straps as if herding toddlers.

Suho trailed behind in a daze. His legs moved, his crutches clicked steadily, but his head was somewhere else entirely. The question gnawed at him.

How come I don’t feel disgusted when I imagine myself with Sieun?

It should be weird. Wrong, even. Sieun was his best friend. That’s all. Wasn’t it?

The bus ride toward their picnic spot was noisy — Baku and Gotak were already elbowing each other over the half-finished popcorn bucket, their voices too loud for public transport. Juntae sat primly beside them, pretending not to know them, his ears faintly red from secondhand embarrassment.

Suho sat by the window, of course. Because Sieun had nudged him there without a word, sliding into the seat beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As the bus rocked gently forward, Suho decided to test something.

For an experiment, he looked at Baku — mouth full, eyes crinkled mischievously as he elbowed Gotak again. What if… Suho tried to imagine himself with Baku. With Baku’s sticky fingers and popcorn breath.

The thought made him want to gag. Nope.

He shifted his gaze to Gotak. Tall, broad, with a laugh loud enough to rattle windows. Suho pictured leaning into him, Gotak grinning down with that wide mouth. His stomach turned. Definitely not.

His eyes landed on Juntae. Sweet, innocent Juntae, who was currently staring determinedly out the opposite window, trying to ignore Baku and Gotak’s chaos. Suho couldn’t even bring himself to imagine anything there. It felt wrong — too much like trying to taint something pure.

And then his gaze slid back, almost against his will, to the boy beside him.

Sieun.

Sieun, who had given him the window seat. Who had planned this whole thing — the movie, the picnic — just because Suho would like it. Who had made him breakfast this morning, and lunch too, while the others clowned around uselessly.

Sieun, whose head had tilted back slightly against the seat now, his lashes lowering, already slipping toward sleep.

Suho swallowed hard.

When he imagined himself with Sieun, something bloomed in his chest. A rush of heat, a flutter that spread down to his stomach and made his palms damp. It wasn’t disgust. Not even close. It was… something else entirely.

His heart raced. His cheeks burned.

Is this normal? he asked himself, biting the inside of his cheek. Is it normal to think about your best friend like this?

He didn’t know.

But one thing was clear: lately, he couldn’t stop.

And as the bus swayed gently, Sieun’s shoulder brushed his, solid and warm. Suho froze. Then let it stay.

Because somehow… it felt right.

 

.
.
.

 

The grass was still damp with the memory of morning dew, cool beneath the wide checkered sheet Gotak had yanked open with exaggerated flair. It billowed in the air before falling lopsided on the hill, and Baku immediately started smoothing it out like he was preparing a throne for royalty.

The bag — that cursed bag — sat smugly on Baku’s back, straps digging into his shoulders. Suho’s glare had started back at the apartment the moment Sieun slung it over his own shoulder. The bag had looked heavy, stuffed full of containers and bottles, and Suho had wanted — needed — to carry it himself. But his crutches had betrayed him. His leg had betrayed him.

Before he could say anything, Baku had swooped in like some self-appointed knight. He tugged the bag off Sieun’s back with a grunt and swung it onto his own, standing tall with a ridiculous grin.
“Can’t trouble the princess,” he’d said, chin tilting toward Sieun as if he’d just made the cleverest joke in the world.

Suho had glared at Baku. Then at the bag. Then at Sieun, who only blinked at him calmly, unbothered. The heat in his chest had swelled until he’d puffed out a huff, turned on his crutches, and stomped toward the door with a stubborn clip of steps. The others had rushed after him, tripping over themselves with panicked, “Slow down, yah!” trailing in the air.

Now, though, the scene looked like something from a picture book. The food spread out neatly over the sheet: boxes of rice and banchan Sieun had cooked that morning, glossy fruit slices gleaming in the sunlight, a little box of pastries that Suho recognized as bribes from Juntae. And 0sitting proudly in the middle like a crown jewel — the pizza box Suho had begged for.

He picked up his chopsticks anyway, hovering over the box Sieun had packed just for him.

Healthy food. Balanced. Gentle on the stomach so his meds wouldn’t hit too hard.

No spice. Never spice.

Suho’s lips already pouted just thinking about it. He lived for spice. But of course Sieun wouldn’t allow it. He never compromised on Suho’s health. Not once.

And every time Suho sulked, every time he was denied, that stupid warm, giddy feeling came back, curling tight in his chest.

Earlier, in the kitchen, he’d even tried to argue — told Sieun they should just order pizza and be done with it. Told him nothing would happen if he ate greasy food for one day. Told him Sieun deserved to rest.

Sieun had blinked at him like he’d just sprouted horns. Then, in his steady voice, he’d said, “We can buy pizza too. But I want you to eat healthy. Otherwise the medicine will be too hard on your stomach.”

Suho had tilted his head, admiration bubbling despite himself.

And now, with all the food laid out, his chopsticks dug right into the rice and sides Sieun had cooked — not even touching the pizza yet.

Of course, Baku and Gotak weren’t about to let him eat in peace.

“Yah!” Suho snapped, jerking his lunchbox out of reach as Baku’s hand snuck forward. “This is mine!”

“But yours looks better,” Baku pouted dramatically.
Gotak leaned across, grinning like a fox. “Yeah, yours looks more tasty than us.”

Juntae muffled a small giggle behind his sleeve, while Baku clutched his chest with a groan.
“I never thought I’d see the day I’d fight over Sieun’s food.”
Gotak nodded solemnly, chopsticks already reaching again. “I never thought I’d want Sieun’s food.”

They both laughed so loudly the nearby picnickers turned their heads.

Suho swatted at them with his chopsticks, cheeks puffing. “Then eat your own food! This is mine. Mine!”

Sieun, unfazed, rolled his eyes and poured water into paper cups like this was normal.

The laughter was already bubbling between them, spilling out in loud bursts that echoed across the hill. Baku was rolling on his side, clutching his stomach, while Gotak smacked the grass like it was a drum. Even Juntae, usually so quiet, was giggling behind his hand, eyes crinkled.

“Yah,” Juntae managed between soft laughs, “you guys really… really look like parents with their kids.”

Suho froze, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
“What?”

“You two.” Juntae tilted his head toward him and Sieun, his voice unusually cheeky. “Suho’s the stressed appa. And Sieun… Sieun’s the calm omma who lets their children off the hook even when they’re too much.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Baku and Gotak exploded — howling so loud nearby couples on their own picnics glanced over with irritation.

Suho blinked, ears going red, and then his entire face followed — his skin practically burning. “W-what are you even talking about!” he sputtered, but that only made the laughter worse.

Gotak, wiping tears from his eyes, pointed directly at Sieun. “Look—omma’s smiling!”

 

And he was. That dreamy smile Suho knew too well — the one that looked soft, unguarded, almost too precious to exist. The same smile Suho had seen in the hospital years ago, when Sieun had shown up with steaming ox-bone soup after his surgery. The same smile that had lit up the darkest corners of Suho’s life since then, every time it appeared.

His heart gave a traitorous lurch. Even now, after seeing that smile more times than he could count, it still knocked the breath right out of him.

He couldn’t stop himself. He stared, then slowly started smiling too — small at first, then fuller, until he was laughing with the rest of them.

“You guys are idiots,” Sieun said at last, shaking his head with that same smile still lingering at the corners of his lips. “I’m raising very naughty children of litter.”

“Omma!” Baku and Gotak chorused dramatically, crawling closer on the blanket like sulky kids. “Omma, don’t scold us, omma~”

Sieun’s eyes went wide, laughter caught in his throat, as his gaze darted nervously around to check if people were watching. And they were. Couples, families, even a group of college students sitting under the nearby tree — all sneaking glances at this loud group of boys calling their friend “omma” at the top of their lungs.

“Yaaah, keep it down!” Sieun hissed, still smiling, cheeks faintly pink.

Which of course only made everyone laugh harder.

Suho pressed his lips together, giggling into his fist, and let himself just… look at him. Look at his Sieun. And in that moment, with his heart thudding and no trace of disgust in his chest, Suho thought, Yeah. This doesn’t feel wrong at all.

 

The food had been demolished in their usual messy fashion. Sieun’s carefully packed lunchbox — portioned neatly with vegetables, rice, and grilled chicken — was scraped clean. The pastries Juntae had brought were gone too, their crinkled wrappers fluttering at the edge of the picnic sheet. The pizza Suho had begged for still had a few slices left, but even half-eaten and cooling, it sat like a little trophy on the blanket.

And Suho — full, drowsy from the sun and food — was made to take his meds right on time. Of course. Like hell Sieun would ever leave the house without the little pouch of pill bottles and neatly folded slips of instructions. Suho had caught him double-checking it twice before they left, zipping and unzipping the pouch with that same calm focus, like it was second nature. Even now, as Suho gulped down the last pill with a sip of water, he couldn’t help thinking: of course. Of course Sieun wouldn’t forget. Of course Sieun would never let him go even a single day without it.

The thought made his chest tight in that fluttery, strange way.

Afterward, the chaos stilled. The five of them lounged on the blanket, the soft grass beneath them, the wide sky stretching overhead. Even Baku and Gotak — usually unable to sit still for more than two seconds — were quiet, lying on their backs, eyes tracing clouds that drifted lazily across the blue. Juntae sat with his knees tucked up, picking at the hem of his sleeve as he hummed faintly under his breath.

 

Suho let out a slow breath, leaning back on his hands. The sun was warm on his skin, the breeze cool enough to make it perfect. He turned his head just slightly — and then his gaze snagged.

Not far away, under the shade of the great tree that towered at the edge of the park, two boys sat shoulder to shoulder. Their heads bent close. And then… their lips touched.

Suho froze.

Heat rushed to his face as he immediately looked away, ears burning. It didn’t feel disgusting — no, not at all. But it felt wrong to look. Like peeking into something that wasn’t meant for anyone else to see. Their moment. Their private world.

But the magnet of curiosity tugged at his gaze, pulling him back before he could stop himself.

The kiss was soft at first. Slow. Shy smiles against lips. A little hesitant, almost testing. But as moments passed, it deepened — slow shifting into urgency. Hungry, desperate, as though they had been waiting for this forever. Days, months, maybe years of wanting, and now they couldn’t stop. Hands clutched at clothes, at arms, pulling closer and closer.

Beside him, Suho realized Baku had also gone silent, his usual loud energy gone. When he glanced, he caught the same wide-eyed look on Baku’s face, like even he didn’t know how to react.

Suho quickly looked away again. But something had already shifted inside him.

The movie scene from earlier replayed in his mind — two men in white suits, standing before the altar, faces glowing like they were the only two people in the world. Ready to vow themselves for life.

How nice it must be, Suho thought, chest pulling tight, to spend your whole life with the one you love.

But the next thought struck harder, sharper. Then why is it that when I imagine that life, it’s always… with Sieun?

His hand curled in the fabric of the blanket, knuckles pale.

Because when he tried to put someone else there — Baku, Gotak, even sweet Juntae — the thought made him cringe, made his stomach turn. He couldn’t even picture it. But Sieun…

Sieun, who had packed his meds pouch. Sieun, who had carried their bag until Baku snatched it away. Sieun, who sat only a few feet from him now, quiet, steady, completely unaware.

When Suho thought of Sieun in that place — beside him, for life — there wasn’t a hint of disgust.

Only warmth. Fluttering.

And his chest ached with the question he still didn’t know how to answer:

Is it normal to think about your best friend like this?

 

At first, Suho’s thoughts were light. Almost ordinary. Sitting there on the picnic blanket, the taste of food still lingering, his meds pouch safely tucked away because of course—of course—Sieun would never leave the apartment without it, he let his mind wander.

Would the person he fell in love with move in here? Into Sieun’s apartment… into their home? Or would he have to move into theirs?

Would they like Sieun’s cooking? Would they complain and insist Suho eat outside food with them instead every night? Would they get annoyed when Suho refused because Sieun always made sure his meals were balanced with his meds?

And sleep… Suho’s chest tightened. Would they be fine with other people in the room at night? Because Suho wasn’t. He couldn’t sleep without Sieun nearby, without hearing the faint rhythm of his breathing, without feeling the comfort of Sieun’s presence in the dark. Could they handle that? Could they handle that Suho needed Sieun every night just to fall asleep?

The questions tumbled, one after another.

But then—something harsher struck him. A thought that dug too deep.

It didn’t even matter if that person could adjust to Sieun. Because if they couldn’t… Sieun wouldn’t make them.

No. Sieun would remove himself.

Suho’s eyes widened faintly at the realization, the air suddenly sharper in his lungs.

Sieun wouldn’t argue. He wouldn’t cling. He wouldn’t think of himself at all. He’d think only of Suho, like he always did. Suho will get hurt if I stay… so I should go.

And just like that, Suho saw it—too vividly. Sieun quietly packing his things, stepping out of this … HIS apartment that was their safe place, their home, leaving Suho behind with someone else.

The thought hit like a punch to the chest.

But his mind didn’t stop. It kept spinning, crueler, painting pictures he didn’t want.

Sieun cooking meals… for someone else.
Sieun kneeling on the floor, balm in his hand, carefully applying it to their legs.
Sieun massaging their fingers one by one with that same gentle focus.
Sieun tucking them into bed at night, brushing hair out of their face, checking their forehead for fever.
Sieun bearing their sulking and tantrums with that maddening patience he always gave Suho.
Sieun smiling softly at them.

Suho’s heart was already racing, but then the images twisted further.

Sieun leaning close, whispering another’s name against their lips.
Sieun kissing someone else slowly, deeply, with that steadiness that always grounded Suho.
Sieun touching them, undressing them, holding them down with careful strength.
Sieun moaning for them. Giving himself away to them piece by piece, like he had always given everything to Suho—but no longer for him.

Suho’s vision blurred with the sting in his eyes. His chest felt like it might cave in.

And the worst thought of all—Sieun moving in with this person.
Sieun choosing them.
Sieun leaving him.

The pounding of his heart was so violent he thought he might choke on it.

“No…” The word never left his mouth, but it thundered in his head.

Because no matter what—no matter who came or went, who Suho might fall for, or who Sieun might fall for—one thing was unshakable:

Sieun couldn’t leave him.

Suho wouldn’t let him.

Because if Sieun left—if Sieun wasn’t there—

…then Suho wasn’t sure he could survive it.

Suho would die.

SUHO WOULD LITERALLY DIE.

 

The thought wasn’t just a whisper anymore — it was a scream inside his head, pounding against his ribs as though it wanted to claw out. His pulse thundered in his ears, so loud it almost drowned out the world around him. His lungs dragged in air too fast, too shallow, every breath burning like fire.

If Sieun left him… if Sieun walked away, lived with someone else, gave his care, his cooking, his soft hands and steady voice to another person—

Suho wouldn’t survive it.

Not just pain, not just loneliness. He would cease to exist.

The spiral took him whole.

 

He barely noticed the way his hands trembled in his lap, or how his vision swam. He didn’t notice the way the air felt heavier, or how the laughter from families nearby had blurred into meaningless noise.

He couldn't breathe.

 

He didn’t even hear the first time Sieun called his name.

“Suho.”

The second time, it was closer. But Suho was too far gone, still tumbling down that endless hole in his chest.

“Suho.”

The third time was sharper, almost urgent. But the panic in his chest swallowed it whole.

And then—coolness.

A gentle, damp press against his forehead. Soft but firm. The kind of grounding touch that tethered him, dragged him out of the abyss inch by inch.

Suho blinked, dazed, lashes wet. And there was Sieun, crouched close in front of him, holding a neatly folded handkerchief damp with cold water. His mouth was set in a straight, thin line, his brows drawn tightly together — and those usually calm, unreadable eyes were wide and raw with something Suho usually saw these days.

 

Worry.

 

Real, bone-deep worry.

 

“You okay?” Sieun’s voice was so soft, almost like he was afraid to push too hard.

Suho couldn’t answer. His throat closed, breath still ragged, sweat slicking his hairline.

Sieun didn’t scold him. Didn’t press. He just kept wiping, carefully, methodically, cooling Suho’s overheated skin with every gentle sweep of the cloth.

Suho’s blurred gaze darted sideways — and landed on Baku.

And what he saw there made his stomach twist harder.

 

Baku wasn’t laughing. His usual grin was nowhere to be seen. His lips were pressed into a tight line, brows knitted low. His eyes — bright, mischievous Baku’s eyes — held something heavy. Concern, yes. But also understanding. Like he knew. Like somehow he had looked into Suho’s chest and seen the chaos gnawing at him, the storm Suho couldn’t control.

 

Why? How?

 

The thought barely formed before Suho’s vision blurred again — this time with tears. One slipped down his cheek, unbidden. Then another.

The moment it fell, the air changed. The world stilled. Even the rustle of the trees seemed to quiet.

 

“Suho…”

 

Sieun’s whisper was raw, almost breaking. His hands left the handkerchief to cup Suho’s face directly, warm palms framing his cheeks, thumbs brushing at the wet trails his tears carved. “What’s wrong?”

Suho hiccuped, choking on his own breath, unable to form words. His body shook faintly, the tears coming harder no matter how he tried to stop them.

“Should we—should we take him to a doctor?” Juntae’s nervous voice broke the silence, soft but urgent.
“Yeah! We have to! Look at him—he’s crying—” Gotak’s panic spiked sharp, his words almost cracking.

“Calm down.”

It was Baku. His voice was low, steadier than it had any right to be. It cut through the panic like a clean blade.

Gotak whipped around, desperate. “Calm down? Calm down? Does this look like the time to calm down? He’s crying—he’s—”

But Baku didn’t budge. He didn’t even look at Gotak. His eyes stayed locked on Suho, voice lowering, softer but firm, weighted with something that made everyone else fall quiet.

“He’ll be okay. As long as we’re here with him.”

 

And though he didn’t say it, though the words never left his lips—everyone felt the truth he didn’t name.

 

As long as Sieun is here with him.

 

Suho’s tears wouldn’t stop. His vision blurred, his chest heaved. It felt like the more he tried to hold them back, the harder they fell. They ran hot down his cheeks, dripping onto Sieun’s fingers where they cupped his face.

 

“Does it hurt anywhere?” Sieun’s voice was quiet, steady, almost a whisper — as though raising it might shatter Suho further. His thumb brushed slow over Suho’s temple, grounding him.

 

Suho shook his head, shoulders trembling. His lips parted like he wanted to answer, but no sound came. Only a shaky breath.

 

“Should we go home?” Sieun asked again, still calm, but the faintest strain threaded his tone.

 

Gotak panicked immediately, springing to his feet. “Yes! Let’s go. Let’s pack everything, hurry—” His hands were already on the picnic sheet, crumpling corners together.

 

Juntae followed him, nerves written all over his face, voice uncertain. “We… we should hurry, right?”

 

But before they could scramble further, Baku’s hand shot out, gripping Gotak’s wrist firmly. His usual grin was gone, replaced with a rare hardness in his eyes. “Calm. Down.”

Gotak glared at him, voice rising. “Why do you keep saying that? Look at him! He’s—he’s crying like that!”

But Baku didn’t let go. His grip was firm, steady.

Meanwhile, Sieun hadn’t moved an inch from Suho. “Do we need a doctor?” he asked again, eyes never leaving Suho’s face. His hand smoothed over Suho’s clammy forehead, checking for heat.

Suho shook his head again, faster this time.

“Then… should we at least go home?”

Another shake. His hair clung damply to his temples, and the refusal made his throat catch with a hiccup.

Sieun exhaled softly. He studied Suho for a long heartbeat, his gaze steady, almost searching — then he nodded once. “Okay. Let's stay here. You don't have to talk. Not until you’re ready.”

 

That single sentence tore something wide open inside Suho.

 

Because Sieun wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t telling Suho to “be strong” or “pull himself together.” He was just there. Just with him. And that hurt more than anything else. His chest squeezed painfully, his breaths ragged, and more tears spilled hot and fast.

 

He wanted more. Needed more. Needed Sieun’s warmth pressed into him, surrounding him, chasing out the cold and chaos clawing through his mind. Needed him like air.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop — the horrible visions of Sieun living with someone else, caring for someone else, touching someone else — and Suho’s body trembled harder. His breathing grew sharp, uneven, and the world tilted.

 

“Suho…” Juntae’s soft voice trembled, helpless.

 

Gotak hovered uselessly, hands twitching like he wanted to do something, anything, but didn’t know what.

And Baku — for once — was silent. His brows pressed tight together, his jaw locked. He kept Gotak’s wrist in a firm hold, grounding him too, even as his eyes flicked between Suho and Sieun with a weight of knowing.

But Suho only saw Sieun.

Sieun’s hands were steady, thumbs brushing away tears no matter how many kept falling. His mouth was set in a straight line, his brows drawn together in quiet worry. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t let Suho’s breakdown chase him away.

And Suho broke.

With a desperate sound, he lurched forward and buried his face against Sieun’s neck. His body shook, shoulders hitching as he pressed closer, tighter, like he could disappear into him.

Everything froze. He felt it — the stiff pause in Sieun’s chest, the way the others fell utterly silent.

But Suho didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He couldn’t survive if Sieun pulled away.

Then warmth.

Slow, steady, overwhelming warmth. Sieun’s arms wrapped around him, folding him in, holding him close.

Suho’s sobs cracked open fully then, spilling out raw and loud, shaking his whole body. His face pressed deeper into the curve of Sieun’s neck, hot tears soaking into his collar. But the arms never loosened.

A hand rubbed slow circles across his back. A palm pressed firm and grounding between his shoulders. And Sieun’s voice — low, soft, steady — reached his ears.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Suho trembled violently, but the words slipped into him like anchors.

“That’s it. Deep breaths. In… and out.”

 

And somehow, his body listened. His lungs dragged shaky air in, then out. Not clean, not easy, but steadier than before.

He wanted to hold Sieun too, to cling, but their position was clumsy. His arms stayed trapped between them, fists curling into Sieun’s shirt. So instead he pressed closer, burying himself deeper into the crook of his neck, hiding.

 

Because here — here in Sieun’s arms — was safety. The safest place in the world. The only place the chaos couldn’t reach him. The only place he could finally breathe.

 

Sieun didn’t let go. He stayed there, solid and unmoving, one palm resting firm against Suho’s cheek, thumb brushing rhythmically to wipe away the endless stream of tears. His other hand held the damp handkerchief, dabbing gently at Suho’s temple and hairline, the coolness chasing away the heat of panic.

The words he whispered weren’t dramatic reassurances. They were simple, steady truths, spoken in that quiet, grounded way only Sieun had.
“You’re safe here.”
“It’s okay to cry.”
“I’ve got you.”
Each one landed in Suho’s chest like an anchor, pulling him back from the spiral he hadn’t even realized he was sinking into.

Sieun ignored the others entirely, gaze steady only on Suho. His palm stayed pressed between Suho’s shoulder blades, firm and grounding.
“We really don’t need a doctor?”

Suho’s answer came instantly — a harsh, violent shake of his head, wet hair sticking to his forehead.

Sieun’s hand tightened slightly, thumb rubbing a small circle. “…Then home?”

Another shake. Stubborn, desperate.

Sieun studied him for a beat, then asked again, quieter this time. “Doctor?”

Suho’s wet lashes fluttered, his whole body trembling as he shook his head once more.

“Home?” Sieun tried again, softer, coaxing.

The same refusal.

“Doctor.”

Head shake.

“Home.”

Head shake.

“Doctor.”

Head shake.

“Home.”

Head shake.

“Home”

Head shake.

“Home.”

Head shake.

“Home.”

Head shake.

“Doctor.”

Head shake.

“Home.”

Head shake.

 

By the end of it, Suho let out a sudden giggle — sharp, wet, childlike. It slipped out of him before he could stop it, bubbling up between hiccups.

Because it was ridiculous. The whole thing.

From the side, Baku smiled faintly and muttered, “Told you.”

The others managed worried smiles, relief softening their expressions. But the repetition wasn’t irritation — it was insistence wrapped in patience, Sieun giving Suho every chance to change his mind, every chance to let someone else decide for him. And every time Suho refused, Sieun simply accepted it.

Suho shifted closer, pressing into him, and Sieun tightened his hold without hesitation.

Then, in that same steady voice, Sieun murmured, “We can just go home you know… wrap you in the blanket… like a cocoon … And maybe watch another movie … a happy one this time. And… I can make you something warm.”

Suho tilted his head just enough to look up at him. “Something warm?”

“Sieun repeated, "Something warm.”

Suho asked,“Something warm but sweet?”

Sieun nodded. “Something warm but sweet.”

Suho’s voice cracked as he whispered, “Like?”

Sieun thought for a long moment, eyes searching Suho’s face. “…Maybe hot chocolate?”

Suho blinked. “…Hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate,” Sieun confirmed with mock firmness, like he was declaring a fact of life.

Suho huffed through his nose, almost a laugh. “Then make something you’ve never made before.”

Sieun blinked at him, surprised. “…But what if my recipe fails?”

“I’ll still finish it,” Suho whispered, lips curving weakly.

Sieun blinked once more, then, instead of answering, tugged his oversized sleeve down over his hand. Gently, carefully, he wiped the damp streaks from Suho’s cheeks with the soft fabric. The touch made Suho’s eyes fall closed at once.

Then Sieun leaned back slightly, studying him. “Blow your nose.”

Suho’s eyes shot open, startled. “In your shirt?”

Sieun’s mouth twitched. “I’ll survive. Or…” He fished in the bag, pulling out yet another handkerchief — one of the endless supply he always carried — and held it up.

Suho pouted faintly but did what Sieun said, blowing his nose with a little honk that made Juntae giggle quietly. Sieun, unbothered, folded the cloth neatly aside like it was nothing new.

And then, without thinking, Suho buried himself back into the crook of Sieun’s neck, mumbling against his skin, “I don’t want to move right now.”

“…Okay,” Sieun said, immediate and sure. No sigh. No frustration. Just quiet, unshakable acceptance — the kind that wrapped around Suho tighter than any blanket. The kind that settled deep in his chest and ached because it was so warm, so rare, so unlike anything else he’d ever known.

 

His tears slowed, not because he stopped hurting, but because the storm had less air to feed on. Suho’s forehead leaned into Sieun’s palm, the warmth grounding him more than anything. The hand that slid into his hair moved in slow circles, tugging lightly at his roots, coaxing his breathing to even out.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sieun murmured eventually, voice so soft it barely reached Suho’s ears.

Suho only shook his head, eyes squeezed shut like the thought of explaining might break him all over again.

“Okay,” Sieun said at once, no hesitation, no push. Just quiet acceptance.

That broke something else in Suho’s chest — not panic this time, but a tender ache. His throat closed and he burrowed deeper, pressing his damp face into the crook of Sieun’s neck. His nose brushed skin, and the faint scent of detergent mixed with the warmth of Sieun’s body soothed something raw inside him.

Around them, the others had gone utterly silent. Suho could feel their eyes, their worry, thick in the air. It made his chest tighten again — guilt gnawing that he had made them see him like this.

Reluctantly, he pulled back a fraction, though his hand still clung stubbornly to Sieun’s sleeve. His eyes were red, lashes wet. He lifted his head just enough to say, hoarse and shaky, “I’m okay.”

Gotak immediately leaned forward, eyes wide, words spilling out. “Are you sure? You’re pale—do you need a doctor? We should go, we should—”

Juntae’s soft voice overlapped, “We can just go home, it’s fine, don’t push yourself—”

Embarrassment rushed to Suho’s ears. He hated this. Hated that they were fussing over him. But then his gaze slid to Baku.

Baku wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t grinning like usual. Instead, he watched Suho carefully, lips pressed but curved faintly at the edges. It was a small smile, gentle, strangely understanding. His eyes told a story Suho couldn’t place — concern, yes, but also a quiet I know. Like he had seen storms like this before, maybe in his own chest.

Suho’s heart squeezed, confusion tangling with gratitude. How does he know?

Then Sieun shifted beside him, pulling away slightly as if to stand. Panic slammed into Suho again, raw and instinctive. His hand shot out, grabbing Sieun’s wrist with surprising force. “Where are you going?” His voice cracked, desperation naked in his eyes.

Sieun blinked, gaze dropping to where Suho’s fingers dug into him. “…To get you water. I’ll be right back.”

But Suho shook his head quickly, grip tightening. “No. Don’t go.”

Their eyes met — Sieun’s calm and searching, Suho’s glassy and pleading. His throat trembled, fresh tears threatening.

Before the silence could crush him, Baku stood abruptly. “I’ll go.”

All eyes flicked to him.
He clapped a hand on Gotak’s shoulder, tugging him up. “Come on.”

Gotak looked offended. “What? Why me? Go alone!”

Baku only grinned — but it wasn’t his usual sharp grin. It was softer, masking something else underneath. “What if I get lost, huh?” He nudged Gotak harder.

“You’re not a kid—” Gotak scowled, grumbling even as he let himself be pulled up.

Suho’s gaze lingered. Beneath Baku’s grin, he saw it again — that flicker of something buried. Like he understood too well what Suho had just gone through, but chose to cover it up with laughter.

And then Sieun’s voice cut quietly through the air. “Bring something sweet for Suho, too.”
Suho’s lashes fluttered. He’d heard it. Like Sieun was saying it just so Suho would know that he hadn’t stopped thinking about him for even a second.
Baku glanced back at Sieun, his grin softening, and gave a small nod before dragging Gotak along.
“Hey, Juntae,” Baku added lightly, “you come too. Help me carry.”
Juntae startled, then scrambled to his feet. “O-okay.”
The three of them moved off together, leaving the blanket quieter, more still.

Sieun pressed the wet cloth gently to Suho’s temple, wiping away the sweat that still clung there. Suho’s eyes fluttered shut, leaning into the touch, sighing through his nose. It’s fine. Everything’s fine, he told himself.

But it wasn’t the water, or the cool cloth, or even the silence that soothed him most.
It was that small sentence, still echoing in his head.
Bring something sweet for Suho.

Like a tether. Like proof that even when Suho was falling apart, Sieun was still holding on to him.

Before leaving, Juntae had leaned in just a little, his voice quiet and hesitant. “You’re fine, right?”

 

Sieun pressed the wet cloth to Suho’s temple again, wiping away the sweat that still clung there. Suho’s eyes fluttered shut, leaning unconsciously into the touch, sighing through his nose. It’s fine. Everything’s fine, he told himself.

 

“I’m okay,” Suho said softly, the words steadier this time. “Everything’s okay. I’m okay.”

 

Sieun glanced back at him, unreadable, but the faint curve at the corner of his lips betrayed him.

 

And for the first time since the spiral had started, Suho believed his own words.

 

Baku came back first, a bottle of water in hand, Gotak trailing behind him grumbling about how “he’s not a babysitter.” But Suho didn’t even look at them. His fingers were still tangled in Sieun’s shirt, refusing to let go.

Without a word, Sieun twisted the cap open and pressed the bottle to Suho’s lips. He didn’t try to force him upright, didn’t move him away — he simply held the water steady, tipping it with care like he’d done this a hundred times before. It was ridiculous, Suho thought hazily, being bottle-fed like a child. He almost expected the gang to burst out laughing, to howl with “appa–omma” jokes, to point and tease.

But no one said a thing.

Gotak had already torn open the sweet pastry Juntae brought back, stuffing half into his mouth. Baku was sharing the other half with Juntae, who accepted it politely. Sieun shook his head at them but didn’t scold, his focus fixed on Suho alone.

“You hungry?” Sieun asked quietly once Suho had drunk enough.

Suho shook his head against him, the tiniest movement. His throat was still tight, his eyes still swollen.

“Alright,” Sieun murmured, settling.

The silence that followed was… strange. The gang, loud as ever, were all subdued, chewing quietly, eyes flicking between Suho and Sieun but never commenting. The air felt too heavy, too careful. Suho hated it. He shifted slightly, uncomfortable — not because of the warmth holding him, but because the angle hurt, his body half twisted against Sieun. But he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to lose the safety of Sieun’s arms.

And maybe Sieun noticed, because his hand paused briefly against Suho’s back before he leaned down. “Why don’t you lie down properly?”

Suho blinked up at him, uncertain.

Sieun’s eyes softened, patient, encouraging. Doe eyes that always made it impossible for Suho to say no.

So, slowly, reluctantly, Suho shifted. And instead of lying on the blanket, his head tilted — landing right in Sieun’s lap.

Sieun froze. His whole body went still, lips parting slightly in shock. He blinked down at Suho like he hadn’t expected this, not at all.

But Suho didn’t move away. Instead, with clumsy boldness, he took Sieun’s hand and brought it to rest on his own hair. His lashes lowered, his chest rising and falling too fast.

For a long second, no one breathed. Suho braced for the gang’s teasing, for Baku’s howl or Gotak’s whistle. But… nothing. No comments. No laughter. They simply let the moment pass.

Eventually, Sieun exhaled quietly. And, without a word, his hand began to move — fingers brushing through Suho’s hair, rubbing slowly against his scalp. Comforting. Soothing.

Sieun picked up the book he’d brought with his free hand, flipping it open on his knee, his touch never leaving Suho’s head.

Suho’s eyes fluttered shut at once. The tension seeped out of him with every lazy circle of Sieun’s fingers. But when he opened his eyes again, it wasn’t the book or the sky he saw first — it was Sieun’s profile above him, sharp lines softened in the afternoon light.

He looked away quickly, heart racing, fixing his gaze on the wide expanse of sky. Blue, open, endless.

And then, in the corner of his eye, he caught them. The couple under the tree. Still there. Still lost in each other. Only now their posture had changed — one boy sitting upright, the other lying down with his head in his lap.

Just like him and Sieun.

Except… the boy sitting wasn’t reading a book. He was kissing the temple of the one lying down. Whispering something against his skin. Then he bent lower, kissing his hand, tender and deliberate.

Suho froze. His chest clenched. His throat went dry.

Around him, even the gang had fallen quiet, their usual chaos silenced by the intimacy across the field.

And then, inevitably, Gotak muttered under his breath, “Whatever those guys are doing, they need to get a room…”

Suho’s whole body stiffened. His pulse roared in his ears. Slowly, almost against his will, his eyes dragged upward — toward Sieun.

And Sieun was already looking at him.

Suho’s eyes locked with Sieun’s. For a second, everything else blurred away — the rustling leaves, the distant chatter, even the couple under the tree. It was just Sieun’s gaze, steady and unreadable, meeting his own. Suho blinked rapidly, heat prickling his ears.

The silence broke with a soft voice — Juntae’s. “M-maybe… we shouldn’t look,” he murmured, almost embarrassed on behalf of the couple. His tone was shy, his cheeks pink, and he kept his gaze fixed stubbornly on his lap.

But before Suho could even breathe, Baku’s voice cut across the quiet. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was calm — too calm, almost flat. “Do you hate that?”

The air snapped tight.

Everyone stilled, their attention snapping to Baku. Even Gotak stopped chewing midway, pastry forgotten in his hand.

Baku didn’t look at Suho, didn’t look at the couple. He stared straight ahead, voice calm but carrying a weight that pressed into Suho’s chest. “Do they disgust you?”

Suho’s breath faltered. His heart hammered, panicked, convinced for a split second that Baku was talking to him. That the spotlight was on him, demanding an answer he wasn’t ready to give. His throat tightened.

But then Gotak, wide-eyed and flustered, suddenly blurted, “No!” His voice cracked with urgency, as if denying before anyone could accuse him.

Baku’s gaze shifted, landing squarely on Gotak. Silent. Unblinking.

Gotak squirmed under the stare, his face heating. “Come on, in this age and day, why would I—” He cut himself off, fumbling, his words tumbling clumsily over each other. “It’s just—okay, I just think it’s a public place, alright? There are… kids. Look, those kids keep staring at them—” He gestured helplessly toward the family nearby. “And I—I’m just embarrassed for them. What if their parents… you know, cause a scene?”

Suho’s gaze followed, and sure enough, the parents were watching — not with curiosity, but with sharp-edged glares. Their children kept tugging on their sleeves, whispering questions, pointing. The tension hung in the air, a quiet warning, one wrong move away from snapping.

Suho’s stomach twisted. His chest clenched with something complicated — shame? Fear? Sympathy? He didn’t know.

Sieun had noticed too. Suho saw his eyes flick toward the parents, saw the way his jaw tightened just slightly, the faint crease between his brows. But, true to Sieun, he said nothing. His silence was louder than words, heavy with thoughts Suho couldn’t guess.

Juntae spoke again, voice softer but firmer this time. “I think… no one has the right to judge. Who our heart chooses, it’s… it’s not for others to decide.” His hands twisted together in his lap, nervous but steady.

Gotak nodded slowly, like the words untangled something inside him. “Yeah… yeah, that’s true.” He folded his arms across his chest, leaning back, quieter now.

Suho’s heart ached. His gaze slid upward — to Sieun again. What do you think? he wondered desperately. What’s in your head right now? Are you disgusted? Are you… okay with this?

And then, Baku’s voice cut through again. Calm. Flat. Direct.

“What about you?”

Suho’s stomach dropped. His throat went dry. He braced himself, heart pounding, sure that Baku was finally looking at him. That he would have to answer, that all the chaos in his chest would be dragged out into the open.

But when he turned — when his wide eyes flicked toward Baku — he realized.

Baku wasn’t looking at him.

The question wasn’t for Suho.

It was for Sieun.

 

Suho’s eyes widened as the weight of Baku’s words sank in. His breath stuttered, shallow and uneven. Beside him, he felt Juntae shift quickly, reaching to help him sit upright when he tried to push himself up. Suho needed to see — needed to watch Sieun’s face properly.

Sieun slowly turned his head toward Baku, expression unreadable. Baku’s stare didn’t waver. It wasn’t his usual grin, or his loud teasing. His eyes were serious, sharp, but almost vulnerable beneath.

Baku repeated, his tone flat but insistent. “What do you think about it?”

Sieun’s brows drew together slightly. “…Think about what?”

“About men liking men,” Baku said, steady.

The words landed like a heavy stone in Suho’s stomach. His chest tightened as if the air around them had shifted.

Sieun didn’t answer right away. He simply stared at Baku, his silence stretching the space between them until Suho couldn’t take it anymore. He found himself holding his breath, waiting, terrified of what Sieun would say.

Finally, Sieun said, quiet, almost too simple: “Never thought about it.”

The answer was so blunt, so bare, that the others nearly choked. Gotak made a strangled sound, Juntae blinked rapidly, even Baku’s brow ticked in disbelief.

But Suho… Suho believed him.

Because Sieun was honest. Always. He never dressed his words to please anyone, never softened his opinions for approval. He simply said what he believed. And if he said he had never thought about it, then that was the truth.

Pride swelled unexpectedly in Suho’s chest. That was Sieun — unshaken, fearless in his honesty.

Maybe Baku believed him too, because his next words came out firmer. “Then think about it now. Look at them.” His chin tilted toward the couple still under the tree, still lost in their own quiet world. “What do you think?”

But Sieun didn’t turn. His eyes stayed fixed on Baku, calm but unwavering. “I don’t want to.”

Baku’s stare sharpened.

“They’re not close to me,” Sieun continued evenly. “Why would I care?”

The silence that followed was deafening. The gang — usually so loud, so chaotic — didn’t say a word. The tension pressed heavy on all of them.

Suho’s chest squeezed. Fear rippled through him, unexplainable, like he was bracing for something awful. He didn’t understand why he was so scared, only that every muscle in him was strung tight.

Then Baku’s voice broke through again. Low. Controlled. “Then think about me.”

Suho’s head snapped toward him.

Baku’s gaze didn’t flicker. “What if I tell you… I like men. Then what?”

The world stopped.

Sieun’s face didn’t shift, no emotion flickering through, just steady focus.

Suho’s breath stuttered hard. His pulse roared in his ears.

Baku pressed on, his tone the same but the weight heavier. “What if I tell you I’m gay? That I like men. Then what?”

Suho’s fingers curled tight into the blanket. His throat closed, suffocating. He didn’t understand why Baku was saying this, why now, why like this — but his chest was collapsing under the weight of it.

Sieun only studied him. Calm. Unmoving. Then his voice came, quiet but carrying, every word deliberate.

“Does you liking men… change anything?” His gaze didn’t waver.

 

“Does it make you a bad person?”

 

The questions hit like steady blows, not sharp, but grounding.

 

“Is it going to make you stop protecting Eunjang?”

 

Baku’s lips parted slightly, his breath shaky.

 

“Does being gay change the fact that you’re a good person?”

 

For a long time, Baku just stared at him. And for once, his grin, his armor, his bravado — all of it was gone.

Suho’s chest ached. He didn’t understand why Baku was asking, where this courage came from, or why it mattered so much. But he could feel it — this moment wasn’t a joke. It was raw, unflinching.

 

Baku’s voice returned, quieter this time but stripped of all his usual grin. “So… you wouldn’t think anything if I suddenly started dating a guy?”

Sieun’s eyes narrowed just slightly, his tone even. “What I think doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Baku pushed, voice tightening with a rare seriousness.

“No, it doesn’t,” Sieun said again, steady, unbending.

Baku leaned forward, no hesitation. “If I’m saying it does, then it does.”

Sieun finally looked at him. Their eyes locked, steady against steady.

And then Baku spoke with a gravity none of them were used to hearing. “You’re my friend. One of my closest people. I know I’m never serious, and I always make fun of you…” He faltered just slightly before continuing, “But I take your opinions very seriously.”

Sieun blinked, but didn’t interrupt.

Gotak stayed unusually quiet, his usual snark gone, while Juntae sat still, his gaze lowered, as if every word Baku spoke belonged to all of them. And Suho — Suho felt it in his chest too. He agreed. What Sieun thought mattered. It mattered more than anyone else’s.

But he didn’t understand why this was happening now. This picnic… it was supposed to be simple. A movie, good food, fresh air. Something light. Not… this. Not a conversation that pressed down on them with so much weight.

And yet, Suho didn’t want it to stop either. For some reason, it felt important. Like, they were talking honestly. Peeling themselves open in ways they never had before.

Still, the tension made Suho’s palms sweat, made his throat tighten. He looked at Sieun, who was still watching Baku, still thinking.

Then Sieun finally spoke, voice calm but firm. “It’s not about me…It’s supposed to be about you…”

“It’s your heart. Your love. So what I think shouldn’t matter.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost oppressive. Even the breeze felt like it held its breath.

Then Baku’s next words slipped out, low, almost vulnerable. “So it wouldn’t matter who my partner is?”

 

Sieun’s answer came without pause. “I never said that.”

 

And Suho’s heart dropped.

It dropped so hard he felt dizzy, his stomach twisting. He didn’t know why it hurt so much, but it did. Why the idea of Sieun’s words not fully protecting Baku, not fully embracing, burned in his chest like rejection. Why it terrified him to think Sieun might not… accept.

But all he knew was that it did. And the fear lodged deep, refusing to let go.

 

Sieun’s earlier answer “I never said that” rattled in Suho’s chest like a sharp echo. It scared him more than he wanted to admit.
So Sieun would be affected. He would judge. Maybe he would even be disgusted.

Something ugly twisted inside Suho, an ache that crawled through his ribs and clamped around his heart. He almost couldn’t breathe.

And then, Sieun’s voice cut through — quiet, deliberate.
“The person you date… or more like, the person you fall in love with…”

Suho blinked, caught, staring.

“They should be a nice person,” Sieun said evenly.

Gotak’s eyes widened slightly, his head tilting.

“They should care about you,” Sieun added, as if stating a fact of nature.

Suho’s heart stuttered.

“They should…” Sieun paused, brows furrowing for just a moment, “…love you.”

Juntae’s hand flew to his mouth with a soft gasp. Gotak blinked again, stunned. Suho’s eyes went wide, as if Sieun had just confessed something impossible.

But Sieun wasn’t finished. His tone sharpened, quiet but firm:
“That person should be… no, needs to be… deserving of you.”

Suho’s pulse went wild. Did Sieun really just say that? Did he mean—could he mean—?

Sieun’s gaze dropped back to his book, his words still flowing calmly.
“So that person will never hurt you. And I would never have to take things into my hands.”

The silence that followed was thick, everyone frozen, their brains catching up.

And then Baku exploded, voice full of chaotic energy, “YAAH, Yeon Sieun! Are you saying you’re gonna beat up my partner if they hurt me!?”

Sieun didn’t look up. Just flipped a page.

Baku leaned forward dramatically, almost in his lap. “Hey! Answer me!”

Gotak’s eyes lit up with mischief, suddenly excited, while Juntae’s giggle bubbled up despite the tension.

“Tell me, you psycho,” Baku pressed, grinning now.

Without lifting his eyes, Sieun muttered, “No comments.”

The whole gang screamed — laughter bursting like a dam, the tension shattering in an instant. Even Suho, though still shaken, felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward at the absurdity.

Baku clutched his chest like he’d been betrayed. “What if it’s a girl then, huh? What if a girl hurts me?”

Sieun finally glanced at him, completely deadpan. “…No comments.”

The group lost it.

Gotak slapped his knee, howling, “Equality! Sieun believes in equality — he won’t forgive a girl either!”

Juntae doubled over, giggling behind his hand.

And Suho… Suho watched Sieun’s lips twitch — the tiniest curve breaking through his mask of indifference. Everyone noticed it, even Suho. Especially Suho. His chest went hot, his heart stumbling at that small, rare smile.

“Yaaah!” Baku shouted, pointing at him, “You are my true friend!”

Sieun just turned a page, pretending he didn’t hear, while the others kept laughing around him.

Suho, though, couldn’t laugh. Not fully. He was still reeling, still spinning, but one thing was undeniable — Sieun’s words had carved themselves deep inside him.

Suho sat there in the grass, the laughter of his friends buzzing faintly around him, but his heart wasn’t paying attention to any of it. It was still wrapped around Sieun’s words.

They should… love you.

It replayed in his mind, over and over, like a melody stuck in his head. A melody that didn’t grow annoying, though. No — this one was warm, soft, sweet. It made his chest flutter every time it echoed back.

Suho’s gaze slid toward Sieun, who was back to pretending to read his book, one hand still resting absently on Suho’s hair. His profile in the light was sharp but calm, beautiful in a way that made Suho feel proud. Proud that this was Sieun — his Sieun.

How could someone like him… someone who had been bullied for years, who had parents who never really cared, who had grown up so alone — still be like this? Still so steady, so compassionate, so damn kind?

Suho felt his throat tighten. His admiration for Sieun swelled so hard it almost hurt.

And then the words came back again, exactly as Sieun had said them. They should love you.

It was different hearing them from him. The way Sieun’s voice wrapped around those two words — love you — it didn’t sound like normal speech. It sounded like a melody. Like something Suho could listen to for hours, for days, for weeks, for years — maybe even for the rest of his life.

His heart tripped. His thoughts scattered.

How nice would it be… if those words were directed at me?

The idea bloomed in his head before he could stop it. Sieun looking at him — only him — and saying it. Saying love you. Just for Suho.

And for a split second, his whole body felt light. His chest tightened but in the sweetest way, like the world had shifted and he finally understood something he had been waiting to hear.

But then —

Suho froze.

The fuck did he just think?

His blood ran cold. His eyes widened slightly. His own mind startled him more than anything the gang could have said.

Why the hell would I think that? Why would I… why would I want that?

He swallowed hard, blinking fast.

No. No, it’s… it’s just because we’re friends. Yeah. That’s all it is. Friends say things like that all the time.

He repeated it like a chant in his head, desperate to smother the heat in his chest.

That must be it.

And yet, even as he said it, he couldn’t shake the way Sieun’s voice had sounded. That soft timbre. That melody. And how, deep down, some part of him wanted to hear it again.

The air had shifted back to its usual messy rhythm — laughter and bickering rising like they hadn’t just been sitting in heavy silence a few minutes ago. The tension had cracked open, replaced by their familiar, chaotic temperature.

Gotak, ever the blunt one, leaned sideways on the sheet, squinting at Baku.
“Hey. Baku. Are you gay?”

Suho almost choked on his own breath, eyes snapping wide.

Baku didn’t flinch. He hummed like Gotak had asked him the weather. “Hmm? I don’t really know.”

Gotak’s gasp was so loud a few birds scattered from the nearby branches. “What? Then where did all that even come from?”

Baku only smiled, toothy and lazy, like he’d been waiting for the question. He paused for a moment, tapping his finger against the empty pastry box, then tilted his head toward Suho and the others.
“We saw two men standing on the altar in the movie…”

His finger shifted, pointing openly across the park. “…then these two Romeo-Juliet over here.”

Everyone’s eyes followed. The couple under the tree — still lost in their world, still oblivious to the stares. Their posture soft, their faces bright with something untouchable.

Baku shrugged, leaning back on his hands. “I just thought… what if it’s me.”

The words hit heavier than his tone. Not said with shame. Not said with pride either. Just… honest.

Suho’s throat tightened. He stared at Baku, at his careless grin, and felt something twist inside. Baku was brave. Brave enough to lay his thoughts out in the open, bare and unpolished.

And Suho thought about himself.

What had he done?

He’d spiraled. Cried until his chest caved in. Made Sieun worry, made all of them worry. He’d turned the storm inward, tearing himself apart in silence until he broke.

He admired Baku in that moment — not for being loud, not for always teasing, but for this. For being able to say what Suho couldn’t even whisper to himself.

 

Juntae, cheeks pink, covered his mouth with a laugh. “I thought Baku was really confessing something…”

Gotak groaned, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, right. This jerk—”

But Baku wasn’t done. He leaned back, eyes narrowing in thought, then tilted his head toward Gotak. “But I don’t… dislike the idea of it.”

Gotak blinked. “Of what?”

Baku hesitated for only a heartbeat before locking eyes with him, voice suddenly serious. “Like… we’ve been friends for years. Together for years. And when I thought about it — about spending my entire life with you…” His grin curved, lopsided but strangely sincere. “…maybe even marry you… it didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

The words dropped like a stone into still water.

Gotak’s eyes went wide, blinking rapidly like his brain had short-circuited. Juntae, poor Juntae, flushed crimson all the way to his ears, trying to stifle his giggles behind his hands.

Even Sieun’s gaze had lifted from his book, sharp focus fixed back on Baku.

And Suho — Suho’s chest flipped over. He blurted before he could stop himself, “Baku… did you just come out?”

Baku blinked innocently. “Is this called coming out?”

Juntae, still red but giggling, whispered, “I don’t know…”

Then Gotak finally found his voice. His elbow jabbed hard into Baku’s side. “You jerk! Why would I even marry you? Why would I marry a jerk like you?”

“Ah, ow, ow—!” Baku yelped dramatically, clutching his side.

Juntae was practically in stitches, giggling helplessly. Suho cracked too, laughter bubbling despite himself, cheeks aching.

And then he saw it — Sieun. Even Sieun was smiling, the faintest curve of lips, his eyes softened as he watched the chaos unfold. That smile made Suho’s heart race all over again.

Gotak wasn’t letting up, still jabbing at Baku. “I would never marry you! A jerk like you! You’re just going to marry another jerk like you!”

Everyone burst into laughter. The air lightened, the earlier weight scattering into pieces.

But then — Baku’s hand shot out, catching Gotak’s elbow mid-swing. His grip firm, his grin gone. His eyes, wide and serious, locked on Gotak’s.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “I never said I imagined anyone else. I said… the idea of spending my life with YOU doesn’t feel bad. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

Gotak froze. His lips parted, words stuck in his throat. His face went redder by the second, too flustered to even pull his arm back.

Juntae’s blush deepened, his giggles cutting off into stunned silence.

And Suho — Suho’s chest clenched. He had never seen Baku look so open, so vulnerable.

Even Sieun’s expression had shifted — his smile gone, replaced by something sharper, more thoughtful, as his eyes lingered on Baku.

The moment hung heavy between them.

And then it all came crashing back.

Why he had spiraled.
Why his chest had clenched so painfully earlier.
Why his mind had unraveled until he thought he couldn’t breathe.

It was all because of Sieun.

Every time Suho imagined what it meant to have a “partner,” every time he tried to picture that mysterious someone he might someday fall in love with, Sieun was already there.

Not as an afterthought.
Not as a side character.
But as the constant center of it all.

He thought of sleeping — how his body never relaxed unless Sieun was nearby. Unless he could hear Sieun’s breathing in the same room. The thought of a partner asking him to “sleep alone” or to “choose” between them and Sieun made Suho’s stomach twist. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Even if it made that partner uncomfortable, Suho didn’t care. Sieun was non-negotiable.

He thought of eating — how no restaurant in the world could ever replace the warmth in Sieun’s cooking. Even the blandest meal Sieun prepared was better than the fanciest dinner outside. If a partner wanted Suho to give that up, to stop eating at home with Sieun, the answer would be no. Always no.

He thought of Sieun’s hands. Those careful, quiet hands that pressed balm into his aching muscles, rubbed circles into his temples when headaches throbbed, steadied him with a touch when he faltered. The idea of those hands belonging to someone else — of Sieun massaging another’s shoulders, soothing another’s pain — made Suho’s throat close tight with something hot and violent.

And then came the darker images.
Sieun smiling for someone else.
Kissing someone else.
Letting someone else press into the crook of his neck, hearing his sleepy breaths in the dark.

The thought burned. It destroyed.

It wasn’t jealousy in some soft, quiet way. It was sharp and consuming — a storm that told Suho, in no uncertain terms:
No one else gets that.
No one else can have him.

Because it couldn’t be anyone else.
It had to be Suho.
Only Suho.

And with that realization clawing through him, Suho finally saw it for what it was.

Why his chest always squeezed when Sieun smiled.
Why his heart raced whenever Sieun looked at him too long.
Why he had wanted Sieun’s “love you” to belong to him alone.

It wasn’t safety.
It wasn’t just comfort.

It was longing.
It was need.

 

And realizing it shook him so badly he thought his ribs might crack. His hands trembled, his breath stuttered, his pulse beat so loud it drowned out the world.

But one thought rose above the chaos:

If Sieun ever leaves me, I’ll die.

 

Suho heard Baku’s voice, softer this time, almost trembling around the edges.
“I thought about my life with you… not with others. Just with you. And it felt nice.”

Everyone froze.

Gotak went red instantly, ears, cheeks, even the back of his neck blazing. He yanked his elbow, sputtering, “What’s wrong with you!? Let me go!” His movements were frantic, clumsy, but Baku only laughed, holding on tighter, his grin wide, shameless.

And then, with that same grin, Baku added, “And yeah… when I saw those characters on the altar, I didn’t feel disgust. I wasn’t disgusted at all.”

Suho blinked, his chest giving a sharp twist. He could relate. God, he could relate. He hadn’t felt disgust either. He’d felt… curious. Hopeful. His heart had raced the same way it always did when Sieun was near. Maybe—just maybe—this was what it meant.

Maybe Suho really did like—

But before he could finish the thought, a quiet voice cut through the laughter.

“…Maybe,” Sieun said, calm, steady, as though he had been thinking deeply.

Everyone turned.

“Maybe even I don’t dislike the idea either.”

The world stopped.

Suho froze, air trapped in his lungs, every nerve in his body electrified. His eyes snapped to Sieun, wide, unblinking.

“…Because,” Sieun continued, gaze lowered as though it were the simplest thing, “I wasn’t disgusted either.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Suho’s heart slammed against his ribs, wild and uncontrollable. It was beating so fast it hurt. Like it was going to burst right out of his chest. His fingers curled against the blanket beneath him. Did Sieun really just say that? Did he mean it?

Gotak broke first, jerking upright with a shout. “Yaah, Sieun-ah! If it’s you, I’ll gladly marry you!” He spun toward Baku, glaring. “But I’m never gonna marry this jerk! Never! Ever!”

The tension cracked instantly. Everyone burst out laughing, the sound rolling like thunder across the grass. Juntae giggled behind his hand, Baku whined dramatically, and even Gotak was half-smiling through his glare.

And Sieun—

Sieun was smiling too. That soft, warm smile. The one Suho had seen in the hospital, the one he’d fallen for over and over again without even realizing it.

Suho stared, helpless. His heart squeezed, stretched, and then gave up resisting altogether. He was gone. Completely, utterly gone.

Maybe it was true.
Maybe Suho do like Yeon Sieun.

Notes:

When I was rearranging this chapter, I honestly laughed at myself because of all the “omma–appa” cringe moments. 😅 I actually considered cutting them out… but then I thought, if they don’t do the cringe things, then who will? So I kept them in, as they are.

Also, when Suho said Baku was “brave enough,” he was unintentionally comparing himself. That doesn’t mean Suho is less brave than Baku. Everyone has their own insecurities. Right now, Suho is in a very vulnerable place — he needs crutches to walk, he needs help with the simplest things like wearing a t-shirt. He’s dependent, mostly on Sieun. Both physically and mentally, he feels weak, and his thoughts are colored by those insecurities. But that doesn’t mean Suho isn’t brave.

Oh, and remember how I said the flashback would end in two chapters? 😅 Well… I feel like it might actually need two more. I’ll try to wrap it up in one, but if it gets too long, I’ll break it into two. Honestly, I kind of miss them in the present, so we’ll see what happens.

Did you also notice how many times Suho kept calling “home”? 🏠

This chapter was actually influenced by The Red Envelope. I watched that film and found a scene so heartwarming that it lessened my heartbreak a little — and then this idea popped up in my head.

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and that I was able to do justice to the emotional weight of the last part. Don’t forget to share your thoughts with me — I love reading them. 💌 Let’s meet again soon. Until then, bye bye, take care! 💖

Chapter 43: Until the Day You Don’t Need Me

Summary:

Suho breaks down, leaving Sieun and the gang deeply worried. Only later do they realise what these breakdowns truly are.

Notes:

Hey guys, the new chapter is here! And yep… it’s another 193-page document. Honestly, at this point I don’t even know what I’m doing. For a regular novel, this would probably be enough to cover half the plot. Still, here we are with all the detail. Just a quick note: this chapter touches on themes of self-worth and death. Please bear with me, and as always, happy reading!” 🌧️📖

⚠️ This chapter touches on heavy themes — including self-worth struggles and moments of suicidal thinking.

 

Suho was walking.
At least… he thought he was.

The ground beneath his feet felt strange — not solid earth, not tiles, something in between. Every step echoed faintly, swallowed almost immediately by the heavy dark pressing in from every side. It wasn’t just dark, it was thick, like black fog wrapping around his ankles, smothering the air in his lungs.

He lifted his arms slowly, stretching them out ahead of him, palms open. His fingers groped uselessly at the air, searching for walls, for a doorway, for anything. Nothing. Just endless black.

But there were voices.
He wasn’t alone.

At first, they were faint. Distant, like whispers carried by the wind. But as Suho stood there straining to hear, they grew clearer.

Screams.
Laughter.
Cheering.

Different tones overlapping each other — fear laced with glee, despair tangled with mockery. It made his skin crawl.

He turned his head left. Then right. But the voices bounced everywhere, impossible to place. Like the walls themselves were laughing, screaming.

So he made a choice.
He moved toward them.

One slow step. Then another. His shoes scraped the invisible ground, each sound swallowed instantly. His heart pounded. He spread his arms wider, afraid he’d slam into something unseen.

But the voices kept growing. Louder. Sharper. And with them, a glow began to seep into the dark — pale, cold light ahead of him.

His pace quickened. Faster, faster, his breaths ragged now.

The light swelled.
The screams tore louder.
The laughter bit deeper.

And then he stopped.

Students.
Of his age.
Dozens of them.

They stood in a loose crowd, shoulders brushing, their bodies bathed in the white light spilling from somewhere ahead. Their neat school uniforms gleamed in the glow, but their faces — their faces were shrouded in shadow, features blurred and unknowable.

Suho’s throat tightened. He tried to walk closer, craning his neck to see past them.

“What… what are you looking at?” he asked.

No one turned.

He frowned, stepped closer, tried again, louder this time. “What’s happening?”

Still no response.

He reached out — touched one boy’s sleeve. The fabric was solid, cool. But the boy didn’t even flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t see him.

His heart skipped. Can they not see me?

He waved his hand right in front of the boy’s face. Nothing. Panic swelled in his chest.

 

Another scream ripped the air. Suho’s head snapped forward. He noticed now — some of the kids were trembling. Their shoulders shook. Their heads ducked slightly, as if they wanted to turn away but couldn’t. Fear. Confusion.

 

But others… others were laughing. Cheering. Some even had phones raised, recording. Their screens cast sharp glows on their blurred faces.

 

“What—?” Suho whispered. His stomach twisted.

And then he glanced down.

His own hands.
Thickly wrapped in white bandages.

His chest seized. He touched his head, fingers brushing clumsy wrappings there too. Heavy. Throbbing. His breaths came sharp and short.

He looked down further — thin, shapeless fabric draped over his body. Not his clothes. Hospital clothes.

Why? Why am I like this?

Before he could think, another sound cracked through the chaos. A wet, heavy thud. A low groan.

 

The voices rose — laughter, screams, shrieks all tangled together. Phones lifted higher, capturing every second.

 

Suho stumbled forward, pushing through the crowd, desperate to see. His steps quickened, bandaged hands shoving between shoulders until the circle broke enough for him to see—

 

And his stomach dropped out.

 

There, in the center, under the glare of that merciless light—

 

A boy.

 

A boy drenched in blood. His hair matted, his shirt torn and dark with stains. His fists rose and fell in brutal rhythm, striking again and again at the body beneath him.

 

The boy below barely moved. Limbs slack. Head lolling. Each punch landed with a sickening thud, splattering more red across the ground.

 

The crowd screamed. Cheered. Some covered their mouths. Some laughed, their blurred faces tilted with excitement.

 

And Suho’s heart hammered against his ribs so hard it hurt. His breaths came jagged, painful.

 

He tried to step back — but his legs refused to move.

 

His eyes locked on the boy covered in blood.

 

And for a terrifying moment… Suho thought he looked familiar.

 

The boy was in uniform.

 

The same crisp white shirt, now spattered with crimson. The blue blazer wrinkled, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, streaked with dirt and blood. His tie — red-crossed blue — hung crooked against his chest, the knot loosened like it had been yanked.

And his hands…

God. His hands dripped red. It wasn’t just a stain; it was soaked deep, fresh, wet, clinging under his fingernails, seeping into his sleeves. He wiped them against his blazer, but it only smeared further, painting him in violence.

 

Beneath him, the first boy was already broken. His face was barely recognizable beneath swelling and blood, his body unmoving except for the shallow, twitching rise of his chest. Suho’s gut churned — that boy looked dead, or close to it.

 

But the boy in uniform didn’t stop. Didn’t even hesitate.

 

He rose from his crouch, movements steady, calculated, like this wasn’t madness but a ritual. He turned sharply, stepping toward another body sprawled on the dirt. This second boy was half-conscious, weakly groaning, already down. His fingers clawed the earth in a useless attempt to crawl away.

 

The uniformed boy bent down, fisted his collar, and dragged him upright just to slam him back down.

 

Then came the kicks.
One.
Two.
Three.

The sound was obscene — blunt thuds of shoe against flesh, bone rattling under impact.

And then the begging began.
Choked, hoarse, broken sobs spilling from the battered boy’s mouth.
“I’m sorry—! I’m sorry! It’s my fault, I’m sorry!”

Each apology cracked Suho’s chest like glass. He flinched at every word, every boot that followed. His stomach twisted so violently it hurt.

But the boy in uniform didn’t waver. His face was emotionless, lips pressed flat, eyes hard and distant. He kept kicking, relentless, until finally one last strike made the boy on the ground scream so loud Suho thought his skull might split from the sound.

Suho’s lungs locked. His throat burned. He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for it to stop — but no sound came out. His legs wouldn’t move. His arms wouldn’t lift. His body was a prison.

Sweat beaded across his forehead, rolled down his temples. His vision blurred with salt and panic.

And then—
The boy in uniform straightened. He wiped the back of his bloody hand across his face, smearing a crimson line across his cheek, streaks of red painting his skin like war paint. His jaw clenched once, tight.

It wasn’t finished. It was only beginning.

Because next, he turned.
And his eyes landed on something in the dirt.

A baseball stump.

Suho’s chest seized. His heart stuttered painfully in his ribs.

The boy reached down. His fingers curled tight around the wood. He lifted it slowly, almost gently — then let it drag along the ground.

The sound was unbearable.
A harsh scrape against the soil. A low growl of wood grinding against earth, vibrating straight into Suho’s bones.

The begging started again. “Please—! I’m sorry! I’ll stop, I’ll stop, please—!”

Suho’s whole body shook. His lungs begged for air, but he couldn’t breathe. His throat opened in silent screams, but nothing came out. He wanted to run, to throw himself between them, to tear the stump from his hands—

But he couldn’t move.

Not an inch.

He looked desperately around him. The kids in uniforms were cheering. Some were smiling, chanting. Phones raised high to record. Others looked pale, confused, but none stepped forward. None stopped it.

And Suho—
Suho wasn’t like them.

He didn’t enjoy this. He couldn’t stomach it. He wanted to stop it, wanted to help, wanted to save—

But he was frozen. Useless. Terrified.

His heart hammered so violently he swore it would burst. His head throbbed, his vision swam, his ears filled with the roar of screams and cheers.

And then, finally, his eyes rose.
Rose to the face of the boy in uniform.

The blazer.
The tie.
The blood streaks.

Yeon Sieun.

“...No…”

Suho’s lips trembled. The sound broke from him weak, hoarse, useless.

“...please… no…”

But Sieun didn’t hear. Didn’t stop. His hands tightened on the stump. His stance shifted, preparing to swing.

The crowd’s roar deafened.
The begging turned into shrieks.

And all Suho could do was watch, paralyzed in terror, as the boy he trusted more than anyone in the world raised the weapon high above his head.

 

The boy he trusted.
The boy he liked.

Yeon Sieun.

 

And Suho had never been so afraid in his life.

 

He wanted to scream.
The urge clawed at his throat, burning like fire, lungs swelling as if the sound were already there. He wanted to call out, beg— what are you doing? Stop. Please stop. He wanted to sprint forward, to latch onto Sieun’s arm and drag him away, anything to stop what was about to happen.

 

But nothing came.
Not a sound.
Not a step.

 

His body betrayed him. Muscles stiffened like stone, feet cemented to the dirt. He trembled violently, hands twitching at his sides, useless. His chest heaved, but no air seemed to reach his lungs.

 

And then—Sieun turned.

 

It was slow. Deliberate. His head shifting, chin angling until his gaze cut through the crowd and landed squarely on Suho.

For a moment, the world went silent. No screaming, no laughter, just that stare.
Sieun’s eyes—unblinking. Cold. Searching.

Like he was asking: Why are you here? Why are you watching me?

 

Suho’s lips parted.

 

His chest rose with desperate force.

He thought—no, he knew—this was his chance.

To scream. To stop him. To shout Sieun, don’t, please don’t do this.

 

But nothing came out. His jaw trembled, throat aching, but the sound stayed caged inside.

 

And then Sieun turned away.

 

“...no…” The whisper cracked from Suho’s lips, tiny, useless.

 

Sieun’s focus dropped back to the boy sprawled in the dirt. The boy sobbing, choking on his own terror.

“I’m sorry! I’m at fault! Please—I’m sorry! Don’t hit me! Let me … let me go!”

 

The pleas sliced into Suho’s chest like knives. His vision blurred, tears spilling hot and fast. His hands curled tight, nails biting into his bandaged palms, shaking so hard he thought his bones would snap.

 

But Sieun didn’t hear.
Didn’t care.
Didn’t stop.

 

The stump rose. Both of Sieun’s hands wrapped tight around it, knuckles white. His shoulders locked, his body coiled like a spring.

 

And then—

 

A savage swing.

 

The sound of wood cutting air, sharp and deadly, filled Suho’s ears. It carved through the silence, a whoosh that stretched into eternity, until Suho swore the world itself held its breath.

 

“NO!”

 

The scream tore out of him, ripping through his throat like broken glass. Raw. Violent. Agonized. It felt like it had been trapped in his chest for years and finally clawed its way free.

 

His body convulsed with it, lungs collapsing, voice shredding until his entire chest burned. Tears streamed unchecked, hot rivers down his face. He shook so violently it felt like the ground was buckling beneath him.

 

Bile rose in his throat. His stomach twisted, threatening to empty itself. His heart slammed so hard against his ribs it was almost unbearable.

 

And his mind—
his mind flooded with images he could never erase.

 

Blood.
Screams.
Laughter echoing all around him.

 

And at the center of it—
Sieun.

Not a stranger. Not a faceless monster.
Sieun.

 

The boy who cooked for him. Who steadied his steps. Who made him laugh when breathing felt impossible. The boy who meant home.

 

And now—bathed in blood. Hands gripping a weapon. Swinging down like a beast.

 

Suho’s chest caved. His heart collapsed in on itself, crushing, suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t exist.

All he could do was scream.

“NO—!”

Suho’s gasp shattered the stillness of the room, ragged and broken, like a drowning man breaking the surface. His chest convulsed, rising and falling with frantic force, but the air wouldn’t come. Every inhale scraped his throat raw, every exhale died halfway. He clawed at his own neck as if he could rip it open and force breath back inside.

It felt like death.
Not metaphor, not fear.
Real. Immediate. His body shutting down on him, lungs collapsing, black spots clawing into the corners of his vision.

Tears blurred everything. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until his cheeks burned with wetness. His ribs ached, his fingers trembled uncontrollably.

 

And then—touch.

 

Gentle. Warm.

 

“Suho…”

 

That voice. The only voice he knew could cut through. Sieun’s.

 

“Suho, breathe. Please—calm down. I’m here.”

 

But Suho couldn’t. He couldn’t hear. Not through the piercing ring in his ears, not through the storm ripping his head apart. His chest burned like it was caving in, ribs cracking under invisible weight.

 

He turned his head toward the voice, sluggish, terrified—and there was Sieun.

 

Wide eyes. Furrowed brows. Lips pressed tight against the panic straining his calm.

 

Sieun, leaning close, whispering again and again, grounding words falling useless into the roaring void in Suho’s mind.

 

Thunder cracked. A blinding flash tore the room open. For an instant, Suho saw it—Sieun’s face, half-lit, pale skin glowing around the small bandage still stuck to his forehead. A flicker of fear, naked and sharp, in those eyes.

 

“Suho. Listen to me. Just breathe. You can. With me.”

 

But Suho was terrified. Too terrified.

 

The sound roared outside again, rattling the walls, the storm’s fury clawing into his skull. Suho screamed silently, clamping both palms over his ears, pressing so hard his nails bit his skin. He wanted to tear the noise away, rip it out of his head, but it stayed, buzzing, relentless.

 

And then—another touch.
A hand brushing his arm. Steady.

 

Too much.

 

Suho’s whole body recoiled. He couldn’t calm down.

 

Because in front of his eyes—clearer than the dim room itself—flashed the nightmare.
Yeon Sieun.
Swinging the bloodied baseball bat down on a helpless, broken boy.

 

The image tore through him like lightning.

 

“No!” Suho’s chest heaved, breath choking, throat raw. Terror consumed him, crawling through his veins until there was nothing else.

 

He jolted. Shoved. Harder than he even knew he could. Every ounce of strength left in his trembling body exploded outward in that one desperate push.

 

The hand slipped away.
The body attached to it toppled backward.

 

The sound of impact echoed— a dull thud against the floor.

 

And Suho gasped, tears spilling faster, his heart hammering like it would break apart. His hands trembled violently, clutching at his own chest as though trying to cage the chaos inside.

 

But the image wouldn’t fade.
He couldn’t unsee it.
And he couldn’t believe that the one who had always been his shield was the same one haunting him now.

 

“Don’t touch me!” Suho’s voice broke open, hoarse and high, strangled with hysteria. He gasped again, and again, chest heaving violently, every breath shorter than the last. He pressed harder against his ears, shoulders curling in like he could make himself vanish.

 

On the floor, Sieun froze. For a moment his face was sheer shock—eyes wide, mouth parted, disbelief etched into every line. Then it shifted, softened by something rawer. Fear. Not for himself—for Suho.

 

Suho was clawing at himself now, nails raking against his own skin. His body shook violently, head jerking side to side, eyes wild and unfocused. His words spilled out broken and panicked, over and over, like a curse he couldn’t stop chanting.

 

“Don’t touch me—don’t touch me, please, don’t—don’t—”

 

The thunder boomed again and Suho screamed, kicking back against the wall, eyes rolling as if he could tear himself away from the world itself.

 

Sieun stumbled up fast, flicked on the yellow lamp by the bed. Its soft light spread over the room, chasing the darkest shadows back but making the broken glass in Suho’s eyes clearer, sharper.

 

Sieun grabbed a glass of water, hand trembling only slightly, and rushed back.

 

“Suho, it’s okay, it’s just water, sip this—”

 

But Suho saw him moving closer, saw the hand reaching out, and terror detonated in his chest all over again.

 

“No! No—don’t touch me, please—don’t—”

 

His hands shot out, wild and desperate, shoving with blind force.

 

The glass slipped. Shattered on the floor.

 

The sound of it cracked the air like another bolt of thunder. Water splashed across the floorboards, shards scattering in the lamplight like teeth.

 

Sieun froze again, staring down at his knees, then up at Suho, at his own empty hands. His chest rose and fell too fast, his eyes wide, disbelief cutting through them like a blade.

 

But still, all he heard— all he could hear—was Suho’s voice, shredded and raw, repeating like it would never stop:

 

“Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me—don’t touch me—please—”

 

And Sieun’s lips parted. His throat worked. The words wouldn’t come.

 

Only his name. Soft. Barely audible.

 

“Suho…”

 

But Suho couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything. Nothing but his own terror closing in on him, drowning him alive.

 

The thunder split the sky again, a violent boom that shook the glass in the windows. Suho’s body jerked so hard it was as if the sound itself had struck him. His arms clamped over his ears, nails digging into his scalp, tears streaking down his face unchecked.

 

“Make it stop! Please—make it stop!” His voice cracked, hoarse and desperate, each syllable torn out of him as if it cost his lungs everything they had left. His chest rose and fell in frantic, shallow bursts, his throat closing around every gulp of air.

 

Sieun was frozen for a second too long, eyes wide at the sight of Suho unraveling like this. He had always known Suho to fight through pain, to grit his teeth and endure what no one else could. But this—this was different. Suho wasn’t fighting; he was breaking.

 

“Suho…” Sieun’s voice came out low, careful, like he was afraid even the sound might hurt him. His hand reached out, trembling with hesitation before it steadied. “Calm down—please—”

 

But Suho recoiled like the words themselves burned him. He shook his head furiously, sobs shredding his throat. “No! Don’t—don’t touch me! Stay away!” The scream ripped through the room, raw, frantic, before his body lurched off the bed.

 

Suho stumbled as he climbed down from the bed, vision blurred with tears.

 

But he forgot.

 

Forgot he couldn’t walk.

 

Forgot he couldn’t take a single proper step without support.

 

Without Sieun.

 

He didn’t notice anything. Nothing.

But before he fell, strong arms wrapped around his body, yanking him back with desperate force.

 

“Let go! Let me go!” Suho screamed, thrashing wildly. His voice was unrecognizable—high, ragged, nothing like the steady Suho the world knew. His limbs flailed, his chest caved in, every muscle fighting to escape.

 

And then—his legs gave way.

 

He went down hard, bracing himself, for the cold slam of the floor, for pain to rip through his body.

 

But instead—softness. Warmth.

 

His head didn’t crash against the ground. It landed against an arm—an arm braced beneath him like a cushion. He blinked through blurred tears, his chest still convulsing, lungs still gasping for air.

 

And there he saw him.

 

Sieun.

 

Yeon Sieun.

 

Lying on the floor with him, one arm flung beneath Suho’s head, cradling it protectively. His other arm curved around his waist, still holding him close. His face was tight with worry, his lips pressed thin, his breathing uneven from the fall. A faint wince flickered across his features, but he didn’t let go.

 

He hadn’t even tried to save himself. He had only tried to catch Suho.

 

Suho’s body shook uncontrollably, but beneath him—Sieun was steady. He wasn’t trembling. He wasn’t recoiling. He was solid, warm, anchoring.

 

And what felt like an endless spiral of panic, Suho realized—he wasn’t hurt. Because Sieun had taken the fall with him.

 

Because Sieun had chosen, once again, to be his shield.

 

But the images wouldn’t stop.

 

Over and over again, behind his eyelids, Sieun’s figure loomed — blue blazer soaked in red, fists raised, bat swinging down. Every sound of impact echoed like thunder inside Suho’s skull.

 

“Stop,” Suho whispered hoarsely, but his own voice was lost in the storm of memory.

 

He jolted upright, his whole body pulled taut like a string stretched too far, ready to snap. His chest convulsed with ragged breaths, shallow and fast, each one more desperate than the last. His legs moved clumsily beneath him, dragging across the floor with no thought, no balance, no destination — only escape.

 

He wanted it gone.
He wanted those images erased.
He wanted to remember Sieun the way he knew him — the boy who made sure his medicine was taken, who carried water to his bedside, who caught him every time he fell. Not this monster painted in blood.

 

“I don’t—” his words cracked, broken by sobs, “I don’t want to be scared of you…”

 

But he was.
God, he was terrified.

And then—

Thunder.

 

“Make it stop! Please—make it stop!” he begged the air, his voice shredded raw. Tears blurred his sight until all he could see was light flashing, the silhouette of Sieun with blood dripping down his face.

 

His body trembled violently, ribs heaving, lungs clawing for breath they wouldn’t take.

 

The memory.
The storm.
The fear.

 

It all crashed down on him at once, and Suho thought, for one suffocating moment, that he might break entirely.

 

A violent boom tore through the night, the kind that made the walls tremble and the floor hum beneath him. Suho’s body collapsed into itself, knees buckling, hands flying up to crush against his ears. His eyes squeezed shut, hot tears spilling free as his voice cracked open.

 

“Stop—stop this! Please, make it stop!”

 

The words ripped out of him, raw, shredded. His throat burned, his chest screamed for air, but each gasp was weaker than the last. He tried to push himself back up, palms slipping on the floor. His legs shook, then gave out, sending him sprawling forward. This time no arms caught him, no shield to break his fall. His body hit the floor hard, a sob tearing from deep inside him.

 

“Suho…”

 

The sound pierced through the static buzzing in his head. His breaths stuttered. He blinked through his tears, vision blurring in and out.

 

“Suho.”

 

He knew that voice. Even drowned out by thunder, even broken by the ringing in his ears, he knew it.

 

The storm cracked again, shaking the windows, and Suho scrambled backwards on instinct until his back slammed against the wall. He dragged his knees to his chest, covering his ears so tightly his nails pressed into his scalp. His sobs broke into pleading cries, voice so small and so broken.

 

“Stop this… please… make it stop…”

 

He was too far gone. His body was shutting down, breaths coming in rapid, shallow bursts that left him dizzy, his throat closing, his chest clawing against itself.

 

Then—through it all—the voice again. Clearer now.

 

“Listen to me.”

 

Suho frozen, eyes darting through the blur of tears. His chest convulsed with another ragged inhale.

 

“Suho, listen to me.”

 

That voice. Warm, steady, cutting through the noise.

 

“You need to breathe.”

 

He couldn’t. His head shook furiously, tears flying from his lashes. His chest caved in tighter, ribs aching from the pressure.

 

But the voice didn’t break. It pressed closer, firmer, an anchor in the chaos.
“You need to breathe… for it to stop.”

 

Suho whimpered, nails clawing into his skin. He wanted it to stop. God, he wanted it to stop.

 

“Breathe with me,” the voice coaxed, low and patient.

 

His lungs spasmed, throat scorched, but he tried. Because what else could he do?

 

“Breathe in.”

 

His chest rose, shaky, jagged. The air scraped its way in, torn and uneven, but it was there. It was breath.

 

“Yes… that’s it. Now breathe out.”

 

A trembling exhale escaped him, weak, broken.

 

“That’s good. Again. In…”

 

Suho sucked in air, shaky but fuller than before.

 

“And out…”

 

He exhaled, a sob cracking with it, but his chest eased, just a little.

 

“That’s it. You’re doing great. Again. In… and out…”

 

The rhythm began to take shape. Fragile. Staggering. But real. His body stuttered less with each inhale, his shoulders dropped fraction by fraction. The crushing band around his ribs loosened, bit by bit, giving his lungs space again.

 

“Yes… just like that. One more time. In… good. Out… perfect.”

 

Suho obeyed. In. Out. In. Out.

 

Tears still streamed down his face. His hands still shook where they pressed to his ears. But the air filled him now. It didn’t scrape and tear — it flowed. The storm outside still howled, but it didn’t swallow him whole. Not anymore.

 

The voice grew louder. Closer. Steadier.
“That’s it, Suho. You’re safe. Keep breathing with me.”

 

And Suho did. His body sagged with exhaustion, trembling, but calmer. His sobs softened to broken hitches, breaths steadying into something he could hold onto.

 

The thunder still cracked outside, but inside, his storm was finally fading.

 

He had listened. He had followed.
And he was breathing again.

 

Suho’s chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, every breath scraping his throat like broken glass. He clung desperately to the rhythm Sieun’s voice was trying to carve into him—in… out… in… out…—but his lungs betrayed him, collapsing into ragged gasps between the counts. His eyes remained shut tight, terrified of what they might confirm, terrified of losing the fragile hold he had on the world.

 

When he dared to open them, the room swam. Blurred edges, colors bleeding into each other, tears refusing to dry. His vision cleared only enough to reveal what he feared most—Sieun.

 

He was there. Kneeling in front of him. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance to not overwhelm him, yet close enough that Suho could feel his presence pulling him back like gravity. Sieun’s hands twitched restlessly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as though fighting the urge to reach out. His knuckles were pale, tendons tight, and Suho’s already trembling heart nearly gave way when his eyes slid lower.

 

Blood.

 

A thin stream ran from Sieun’s arm, dark and stark against his skin, dripping steadily down. It spread into the fabric at his wrist, staining his sleeve in jagged blotches. The sight knocked the air from Suho’s chest all over again.

 

His body betrayed him—panic surging, every nerve screaming danger danger danger. He squeezed his eyes shut once more, head falling back, as though shutting out the world would erase the blood, erase the sight of Sieun in pain. His own pulse thundered so violently it drowned out everything else for a moment.

 

And then, again, Sieun’s voice.

 

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey.” Calm but urgent. Steady but trembling at the edges. “Don’t—don’t shut me out. Breathe. Just breathe, Suho. Come on.”

 

The words cut through the static in Suho’s ears. He dragged in a ragged inhale, his chest heaving, his whole body shaking with the effort.

 

“Yes,” Sieun said quickly, seizing on it, “that’s it. That’s good. Just like that. Don’t think about anything else. Just this. In and out. That’s all. That’s all you need to do.”

 

There was movement—shuffling, fabric brushing against the floor. Suho couldn’t tell if Sieun had shifted closer or simply adjusted his balance, but the sound anchored him. His breaths still came harsh, uneven, but he forced them to follow the beat of Sieun’s words.

 

Sieun’s tone lowered, softer now, coaxing rather than commanding. “Yeah… you’re okay. Just focus here. Nothing else matters. Don’t think about the rest.”

 

The world remained blurry, his heartbeat a wild animal in his chest, but Suho clung to that voice like it was the only rope keeping him from the dark.

 

The images wouldn’t leave him.
Over and over, Suho saw Sieun’s hands painted in blood, the baseball stump swinging down with merciless force. Every blink replayed the scene. Every inhale dragged the sound of bones breaking back into his ears. It was endless, merciless.

 

But the voice—
God, the voice was different.

 

Sieun’s voice. Low, calm, steady, cutting through the noise like a hand reaching into the dark. A tether. A rhythm.
“Suho… breathe. You hear me? Just breathe.”

 

Suho clung to it. Even when the bloodstained flashes burned behind his eyelids, he kept listening. He forced his lungs to obey, each breath ragged but closer to steady. Because the voice didn’t stop. It stayed with him. It never abandoned him.

 

“That’s it… in,” Sieun coaxed softly, his words perfectly timed with Suho’s inhale.
“Good. Now out. Let it go, Suho.”

 

Suho gasped, trembling, but the sound of Sieun’s tone steadied him more than the breath itself.

 

Again and again, Sieun guided him:
“In. With me. Nice and slow.”
“Yes… you’re doing great. Out now. Let it go.”
“Don’t think about anything else. Just this. Just me and you. In. Out.”

 

And the more he listened, the more something twisted painfully inside Suho’s chest.

 

Would Sieun really do what he saw in the nightmare?
Would he ever hurt someone without reason?

 

No. No, never.

 

His heart rejected it. Screamed against it. Because the Sieun he knew—the one kneeling in front of him now, whispering breath into his lungs—was the same boy who carried water to his bedside when his throat was dry, who tugged the blanket over his shoulders when he dozed off, who never let him walk alone when his legs faltered.

 

Sieun had only ever been his shield. His anchor. His home.

 

So why was Suho seeing him like that monster in his head? Why was his mind trying to tear him away from the one person who kept him alive?

 

“Stay here with me, Suho,” Sieun murmured. “Don’t go back there. You’re safe. You’re here.”

 

His chest hitched. A sob shuddered out of him. Because the truth was cruel: all this time, Sieun was giving, and Suho… Suho was breaking.

 

What had he given back?
What had he done in return for everything Sieun did for him?

 

The thought hollowed him. His breaths came quicker again, but Sieun’s voice caught him, pulled him back.

 

“Don’t speed up—stay with me. In… there you go. Out… just like that. That’s all you need to do.”

 

Because no matter how much Suho’s mind tried to betray him, his heart—his heart knew.

 

The boy kneeling in front of him, whispering him back to life, was not a monster.
It was Sieun.
His Sieun.

 

Suho’s lashes lifted sluggishly, heavy with tears, his vision still swimming as though the nightmare hadn’t fully released him. Every breath shuddered out of him, fragile and uneven. His body felt carved from trembling glass, moments away from shattering again.

 

But through the haze, one truth pulsed louder than the chaos in his skull:
Sieun would never hurt me.

 

His mind screamed with bloody images—the stump, the cheers, the crushed bones—but his heart refused to bend. And so, slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes to the world in front of him once again.

 

And there he was.

 

Sieun.

 

His face was the first thing Suho registered, and the sight of it nearly split him in half.

 

Brows locked in tension. Jaw tight. Lips pressed into a line so pale they’d almost lost their color. But his eyes—God, his eyes. Dark and glassy, hollow yet frantic. They weren’t just worried. They were begging. Empty in the way only someone who had nothing left could look. Like Suho was the last thing tethering him to earth, and that tether was fraying before his eyes.

 

Suho’s chest constricted sharply, as though his ribs themselves couldn’t bear the sight.

 

Then his gaze slipped lower. To Sieun’s hands.

 

They were trembling faintly at his sides, twitching, curling in and out of fists. Not idle. Not careless. Restless. Desperate. As though they were itching—aching—to reach out, to grasp something solid.

 

To grasp him.

 

Was it him?
Was it Suho those hands longed for?

 

The thought made his pulse spike, his throat tight with something raw and unnamed.

 

And then he saw it again.

 

Blood.

 

A strip of cloth, clumsily wound around one of Sieun’s hands, already soaked through. Dark red spreading like an ugly bloom.

 

Suho froze. His stomach lurched violently, his body stiffening as fresh panic lit through him. His heart screamed no, but his vision blurred and he nearly crumbled again.

 

Sieun noticed instantly. Of course he did—he always noticed. And the reaction was immediate, instinctive: his arm pulled back, slipping behind his body, hidden away.

 

Like his pain didn’t matter. Like showing it would only scare Suho more. Like he had to erase every trace of himself if it meant keeping Suho from falling apart.

 

The gesture gutted him.

 

And then memory slammed into him, merciless.

 

That day. That cursed day at Sieun’s apartment.
His hand wrapped in a cast.
Suho forcing a fragile smile, whispering, “See you tomorrow.”
And then—tomorrow never came. Tomorrow stolen. Tomorrow filled with silence, with absence, with despair.

 

The ache was so sharp Suho dug his nails into his knees, grounding himself before he dissolved into pieces.

 

He dragged his gaze lower again, needing to look away, and the world stabbed him with another truth.

 

Water. Spread across the floor in a thin pool.

 

And among it … tiny shards of glass, sharp, glittering like stars scattered in a cruel constellation.

 

His mind pieced it together instantly:

 

His choking gasps.

 

Sieun’s hand, trembling but determined, holding out a glass of water.

 

Suho’s panic-shaken shove.

 

The crash. The scatter.

 

The guilt suffocated him.

 

Sieun had been trying to help. Always, always trying to help. And Suho, blinded by fear, had only broken more things.

 

But none of it—the water, the glass, the blood—crushed him as much as Sieun himself.

 

Kneeling there, silent, his wound hidden, his hands twitching, his face carved hollow with worry. Still staying.

 

Even after Suho shoved him away.
Even after he screamed don’t touch me.
Even after he broke everything Sieun offered.

 

He stayed.

 

Didn’t leave. Didn’t give up. Didn’t let go.

 

And Suho’s heart, heavier and louder than all the nightmares, whispered again, relentless, until it drowned out the storm….

 

Never….

 

He would never hurt me….

 

Suho’s gaze wouldn’t move.

 

It was locked, fixed like iron, on the sight of Sieun’s hand—awkwardly tucked behind his back, hidden from view. Hidden like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

And then the truth hit him.
Not gently. Not in pieces.
It slammed into him, sharp and merciless, like a blade to the gut.

That scar.
That wound.
That blood-stained cloth.

It wasn’t from someone else. Not from some nameless stranger. Not from the endless battles Sieun had fought on his own.

It was from him.
Suho had done this to him.

The memory replayed, cruel and unforgiving.

 

Him, stumbling down from the bed—tears blinding him, lungs clawing for air. In that desperate, terrified haze, he had forgotten. Forgotten that he couldn’t walk. Forgotten that his legs, shattered and weak, couldn’t take a single proper step without help. Forgotten that he couldn’t move without crutches—without Sieun.

But panic had made him reckless. Fear of Sieun—painted by his poisoned mind—had driven him. He had wanted to run, to get away, to escape.

And then the weightlessness. That terrible tilt forward. His body collapsing on itself, the inevitability of his fall crashing down.

But he hadn’t hit the ground.
He hadn’t felt the bite of glass.
Because Sieun had been there. Always Sieun.

Arms catching him. Pulling him close. Protecting him before gravity could tear him apart.

But Suho hadn’t seen that then.

 

No.
His nightmare still clung to him, twisting everything. He hadn’t seen salvation. He hadn’t seen worry.

 

He had seen a monster. The monster his brain had painted Sieun to be.

And so he shoved.
He shoved away the only thing keeping him upright.
He fought against the only arms that were saving him.
He struggled to escape the one person who refused to let him break.
And when gravity finally won… when his body collapsed, when the glass on the floor waited sharp and hungry… Sieun had made a choice.

He didn’t let go.
He went down with him.
Deliberately. Willingly.

 

So Suho’s body would never touch the glass.
So the shards would cut into his skin instead.
So Suho wouldn’t bleed, wouldn’t hurt more than he already did.

It had cost him.

That bandage. That blood.

 

That was the price Sieun paid for him. Paid without hesitation. Paid because protecting Suho mattered more than protecting himself.

And what had Suho done?

He had screamed don’t touch me.
He had shoved him away like poison.
He had forced Sieun to tuck that bleeding hand behind his back, to hide it, to pretend his pain didn’t exist. Like it wasn’t important. Like he wasn’t important.

The realization scalded him.
It burned hotter than the nightmare ever could.

Shame tore through him, ruthless and unrelenting. His throat closed up, tears flooding his vision again until the world swam. His lips quivered, unable to form words, his chest collapsing inward like the weight of it might crush him to dust.

What have I done to him?

He had looked at his savior… the boy who bled for him… and seen a monster.

 

He had turned the one person who protected him, shielded him, cared for him, into something to fear.

 

And worst of all, he had believed it.

His nails dug hard into his knees, leaving crescents in his skin. But even that pain was nothing. Nothing compared to the agony hollowing him out inside.

Because he had rejected Sieun.
Not just his hand. Not just his comfort.
But him.

And yet, Sieun had still gone down with him. Still bled for him. Still stayed.

The desperation hollowed him so violently he thought it might kill him. His whole body trembled, wracked with silent sobs.

Because it wasn’t just an injury.
It wasn’t just a scar.

It was proof.

 

Proof that Sieun had chosen to bleed to protect him.

 

Proof that even when Suho pushed him away, he stayed.

 

Proof that Suho had repaid every ounce of care, every act of sacrifice, with fear.

And the shame was so deep, so crushing, that Suho thought he might drown in it.

 

His chest convulsed with every ragged inhale, each breath scraping through his throat like glass. His ribs ached with the effort, as if his own body didn’t want to let him breathe. His vision blurred again, the room warping in front of him under the swell of fresh tears. They burned hot, spilling before he could blink them back, streaking down his face until his cheeks were wet and cold.

But his eyes … his eyes … wouldn’t leave Sieun.

That hidden hand. Tucked behind his back, pressed out of sight. As though the blood soaking the bandage didn’t matter. As though his pain didn’t matter.

 

He felt his stomach twist violently, nausea rising like bile.

He had done this.

Not someone else. Him.

He had been the reason Sieun bled. He had been the reason Sieun had to wrap his hand in cloth, had to hide it like a shameful thing.
And worse—he had been afraid of it. Afraid of the wound that had only existed because Sieun shielded him. Afraid of the touch that had only ever saved him.
His throat tightened until it burned, and shame poured through him like fire. It ate him alive.
Because he had forced Sieun into that posture. He had forced him to hide his own injury—like it was nothing. Like he was nothing. Like his pain, his blood, his sacrifice, didn’t deserve even acknowledgement.

The thought broke him.

Because Sieun mattered. He mattered more than anyone else in Suho’s life, more than anything else Suho had left. And yet Suho had treated him like less than nothing.

He realized once again … when he shoved Sieun away, when he screamed not to be touched—it hadn’t just been a rejection of comfort. It hadn’t just been a rejection of hands that trembled with care.

It had been a rejection of him.

The realization tore Suho apart from the inside. His breath grew sharper, harsher, uneven sobs tearing free before he could hold them back. His shoulders curled inward, trembling under the weight of his guilt. His nails dug mercilessly into his knees, biting deep enough to hurt. He needed the sting—needed it to ground him, to distract from the deeper, uglier agony hollowing out his chest.

I rejected him.
The words seared into him.
I rejected the only one who stayed. The only one who waited.

And worse than all of it—his poisoned, broken mind had dared to see Sieun as a monster.

A MONSTER.

The boy who caught him every time he fell. The boy who bled for him without hesitation. The boy who had stayed, again and again, no matter how many times Suho shattered everything he touched.

And Suho had looked at that boy and seen a nightmare. He had listened to the lie his mind screamed at him. He had believed it.

He had looked at Sieun—and been afraid.

The shame hollowed him until he felt like a shell, small and worthless. His sobs cracked in his throat, hiccuping, uneven. His chest heaved like it was collapsing under its own weight. His eyes burned, tears spilling faster, his whole body wracked by tremors.

Because Sieun had never once abandoned him. Not once.

And Suho had repaid that unwavering loyalty with fear.

Every breath carried the same merciless truth:
He had turned his savior into something to fear.
He had hurt the one person who never let him fall.

Suho’s tears spilled unchecked, hot tracks sliding down his cheeks, soaking into his collar. His entire body trembled with the force of it, fragile and unsteady like he might break apart under the weight of his own sobbing.

His gaze couldn’t move. It clung helplessly to Sieun — to those twitching hands that wouldn’t stay still, fingers flexing, curling and uncurling against his thighs. Restless, desperate, but never daring to move closer.

“Suho…”

The sound of his name broke the air, low and rough, dragging something raw behind it. It was a voice that wanted to reach out, but didn’t. That carried weight but stopped short, like it knew it no longer had the right.

And Suho’s breath hitched. Another sob escaped him, ripped out like it didn’t belong to him. Because Sieun still wasn’t moving. Still kneeling at that distance, rooted in place like invisible chains held him back. Chains Suho himself had put there with his rejection.

It crushed him.

He had made him feel that way.
Made Sieun believe he had to stay away. That his touch was unwelcome. That closeness was dangerous.

The ache in Suho’s chest doubled, splintering sharp and unbearable. What if Sieun hated him now?

The thought stabbed through his ribs, left him breathless. Panic clawed through him anew, worse than thunder, worse than the nightmare. Because if Sieun … his anchor, his tether, the one person who never left … if he hated him, Suho didn’t know how he would survive it. He wouldn’t. He would unravel until nothing was left.

“Suho… don’t cry… Please…”

The words cracked. They weren’t strong. They weren’t steady. They sounded like someone begging without hope.

And that broke Suho entirely. Another sob ripped from him, harsher, louder, his whole body convulsing with it. Because even now—even bleeding, even after being shoved away—Sieun still thought about him first. Still cared about him first.

It was unbearable. It was everything.

And then—the worst of it.

His gaze slipped, watery and blurred, down to Sieun’s arm. To that blood-wrapped hand. And right there, in the dim yellow light, Suho saw it: Sieun flinching when Suho’s eyes landed on it. Flinching, then tucking it further behind him, hiding it like a child ashamed of a wound. His gaze darted away, searching for something else to focus on, anywhere but Suho’s stare.

As though the blood didn’t matter.
As though he didn’t matter.
As though his pain needed to be erased, invisible.

Suho’s heart broke. He pressed his trembling hand against his mouth, trying to hold back the sobs, but they only grew louder, harsher, shaking his entire frame.

Because it wasn’t about Sieun’s shame. It was about him.
Sieun wasn’t hiding his pain for himself.
He was hiding it for Suho.

Because Suho’s fear had made it dangerous to show.
Because Suho’s weakness had made Sieun believe his suffering wasn’t welcome, wasn’t safe, wasn’t allowed to exist in front of him.

And that truth ripped Suho apart.

He had made Sieun feel that way. He had forced him into silence, into hiding, into tucking himself away like he was something Suho couldn’t handle.

The shame suffocated him. His sobs shook his entire chest, rattling his ribs, spilling out in broken gasps he couldn’t control. His mind screamed, louder than thunder: What should I do?

What could he possibly do to undo this? To take it back? To make Sieun never, ever feel that way again?

But there was no answer. Only the sound of his own broken crying filling the room, drowning him. And across from him—kneeling, silent, desperate—were Sieun’s eyes.

Eyes that looked like they were about to shatter.

He wanted to claw out of his own skin.

He wanted to scream until his throat tore, until he couldn’t make sound anymore—because at least then, he wouldn’t have to hear his own voice saying things he didn’t mean, or worse, did mean and just said too late.

Why did he do that?

Why did he make Sieun… gentle, quiet, aching Sieun… feel like he had to tuck his pain away, fold it neatly into silence, when it was never fine?

Suho’s hands trembled. Not delicately. Not controllably. Like something was breaking loose in him, and it didn’t care who saw.

His entire body curled around the center of his guilt, like it physically hurt to sit upright. His stomach twisted into knots. He wanted to throw up. Or disappear. Or stop existing in this body, in this room, in this moment.

He looked at Sieun.
Just one glance.
And it destroyed him.

Because Sieun wasn’t yelling.
Wasn’t crying.
Wasn’t angry.

He was just looking at him. Quiet. Cracked open. Hollow. Worried.

And Suho couldn’t take it.

He couldn’t take those eyes—
those eyes that used to shine when they laughed together, that used to soften when he touched Suho’s arm, that used to hold warmth even when Suho pushed him away—

Now they were just...
gone.

And all Suho could think was:
“I did that.”

The thought clamped down on him like a vice.

“I did that. I made him feel like that. I made him feel like he had to shrink himself around me. I made him hide it.”

He grabbed his head with both hands, fists clutching at his hair like he could rip the thoughts out through his scalp. The air felt too thin. His lungs didn’t want to work. His chest heaved like something inside him was trying to escape.

“I’m poison,” he whispered, voice choked and shaking. “I’m fucking poison. I ruin everything I touch.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of Sieun’s face didn’t go away.
It was burned into him now.
Like a scar he deserved.

He didn’t deserve forgiveness.
He didn’t deserve to say sorry.
He didn’t deserve Sieun.

He didn’t deserve to be alive.

The thought hit him like a sledgehammer.

Not poetic. Not dramatic. Just… true.

He should’ve died that day.

The day everything went black—the one he never talked about.

The day when everything blurred his vision.

The day he closed his eyes and hoped the pain would just stop.

But it didn’t. He woke up. In a cold hospital bed. With lights too bright and doctors too careful.

 

And he’d told himself maybe, maybe there was a reason. But now? After this?

After making Sieun look like that?

What the fuck was the point?

He pressed his forehead to the floor. Let it crush him. Let the cold bleed into his skin. Maybe if he stayed there long enough, the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

“I shouldn’t have woken up,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have woken up. I shouldn’t have—”

The words became a rhythm. A chant. A punishment. He didn’t even realize he was crying again until he tasted salt on his lips.

He hit the floor with his fist—once, twice, again—until the skin split, until something felt real.

Until it hurt enough to match what was inside.

Because Sieun didn’t deserve to feel invisible.

Sieun didn’t deserve to wonder if his pain was too loud, too much, too inconvenient.

But Suho?

 

Suho deserved to disappear.

 

His vision swam, everything warping through the veil of his tears. His chest heaved so violently it hurt, each breath jagged and uneven, as though his ribs themselves were splintering under the weight of it.

Across from him, Sieun moved with quiet precision. He peeled a long-sleeved shirt from the rack, tugged it over his head, the fabric falling loose over his frame. The moment the sleeves fell past his wrists, hiding the bandaged hand—hiding the blood—Suho felt something inside him rupture.

It was like being struck.

Because Sieun shouldn’t have had to do that. Not for him. Not for anyone. And especially not from him. But Suho had made him feel like his pain needed to be tucked away, erased, hidden under fabric. As if it didn’t matter. As if he didn’t matter.

The words tore out of Suho’s throat before he could stop them. “I’m sorry…” His voice cracked open, every syllable ragged, shredded. “I’m so sorry…”

Sieun froze mid-motion, head turning toward him, eyes unreadable. There was a pause—long enough to make Suho’s breath catch—before Sieun’s voice came, quiet, rough, frayed at the edges. “Suho…”

But Suho’s head shook violently, tears spilling harder, as though the name itself was unbearable. The sobs poured out of him, raw and uncontrollable, his throat burning from the force. “I’m sorry… please don’t hate me. Please… please don’t hate me…”

The words collapsed into each other, tripping out between sobs, desperate and unfiltered. His body curled tighter on itself, shoulders folding in, forehead nearly pressed to the floor. His hands shook so badly his fingers kept clenching and unclenching against the floor as though trying to hold onto something, anything.

And still, Sieun didn’t move.

His hands twitched at his sides, restless, the muscles in his forearms straining like he was holding himself back. His shoulders were tight, rigid with control. His whole body looked like it was one breath away from breaking forward—but he stayed where he was. Kneeling. Watching.

That silence cut sharper than a blade.

Suho’s sobs broke louder, fuller, splintering through the air. Because what he wanted—what he had always wanted—was so simple. Sieun’s arms around him. To be pulled close, hidden away, protected until the storm outside and the storm inside both passed. To feel safe. To feel home.

But instead Sieun remained at that distance, restrained by the invisible chains Suho himself had forged with his rejection.

The storm outside erupted again. A violent flash of lightning seared the room white, followed almost instantly by a crash of thunder so loud the windows rattled in their frames.

Suho flinched so violently it was like the sound had struck his skin. A strangled cry tore from his throat. His hands flew to his ears, pressing so hard it hurt, trying to block it out, trying to make the world stop. He bent forward, sobbing harder, words spilling out broken and desperate.

“Please don’t—please don’t hate me—please don’t—”

His voice dissolved into hiccupping sobs, the words mangled by the storm of panic and guilt in his chest. His shoulders heaved, shaking with every desperate attempt at breath. His palms pressed harder against his ears, but nothing could drown out the sound of his own pleading.

And across from him, Sieun stayed frozen. His hands twitched again, more violently this time, his face pale, drawn tight with something raw—something Suho couldn’t name but felt deep in his chest.

But still… he didn’t move.

Not yet.

The thunder tore through the night again, so loud it felt like the sky itself was breaking apart. The sound rattled the glass panes, made the floorboards vibrate, shook the very air in the room.
Suho flinched violently, his whole body jerking as though the noise had struck him like a physical blow.

“Make it stop!” His voice cracked, hoarse from too much crying, but louder now—jagged, desperate, almost unrecognizable. “Please—make it stop!”

He rocked back against the wall, spine arching like he was trying to force himself into it, to disappear inside it, to escape. His hands didn’t just hold his ears—they struck them again and again, palms smacking, frantic, bruising. The storm outside was deafening, but the storm inside his skull was worse. It roared, it clawed, it echoed, until his sobs broke apart into short, gasping hiccups. His whole body convulsed with the effort of shutting out a world too loud, too sharp.

“I’m sorry!” The words poured out, raw, torn from his throat. “I’m sorry—I’m the poison—I ruin everything—” His voice fractured, the sobs cutting through it, trembling as if each syllable weighed too much. “But please, please make it stop!”

He collapsed inward, forehead pressed hard against his knees, his shoulders trembling under the violence of his own sobbing. His chest seized with shallow pulls of air, every breath scraping, every exhale weak and shuddering. His sleeves were wet through with tears, clinging to his skin.

The storm didn’t stop. Each flash of lightning lit the room in brutal white, each crash of thunder made him twitch harder, his hands pressing tighter, shaking violently against his ears.

And still, he whispered it. Again. Again. A chant of guilt and desperation, his voice breaking until the words were almost unrecognizable.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m poison… I’m poison… please don’t hate me… please…”

The silence between the thunderclaps pressed down even heavier, filled only with the sound of his sobbing, his broken gasps, the fractured repetition of apologies that could never be enough.

And across from him—

Sieun’s hands twitched again.

Not hidden now. Both of them in plain sight, fingers curling, uncurling, restless against his knees. Trembling, fighting against the invisible restraint holding him in place.

He moved them. Barely. Just a fraction, a slow slide an inch closer. Not enough to reach him. Not enough to cross the distance.

It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t weakness.

It was deliberate. Careful.

A test.

Because if Suho flinched, if he recoiled again—Sieun would stop. He would retreat. He would vanish into that hollow quiet he always used as armor. He was giving Suho the choice.

And Suho saw it.

The restraint. The caution. The way Sieun, even now—bleeding, sleeved up, carved hollow with worry—was still protecting him. Still making space for Suho’s fear. Still guarding his choice.

Even if it meant rejecting himself.

The realization hit Suho like ice water down his spine. He was so cold suddenly, the chill sinking deep into his bones. Because what if this was it? What if this was the moment Sieun decided he’d had enough—that Suho was too broken, too poisoned, too much to hold anymore?

The thought hollowed him out, left him gasping harder, his chest collapsing under the weight of it.

But louder than the fear. Louder than the shame. Louder even than the thunder—

His heart screamed… Don’t let him go.

 

Suho’s sobs tore out of him like they were ripping his chest apart, jagged and uncontrollable, each one shaking his whole body until he could barely sit upright. His palms pressed so hard against his ears they ached, the edges of his fingers digging into his scalp. He was trembling everywhere—shoulders, chest, legs—as if his body didn’t know how to contain the storm raging inside him.

The thunder outside cracked again, a violent, earth-shaking boom that rattled the glass in the windows. Suho flinched so violently it nearly lifted him off the ground. His cries broke into raw, desperate gasps, his lungs scraping for air.

And then—movement.
Slow, cautious, deliberate.
Sieun.

He shifted forward, step by step, like someone approaching a creature on the verge of breaking. Every motion was restrained, careful, as if the slightest wrong move might send Suho shattering further.

At first Suho didn’t see it through the blur of his tears. He couldn’t. But he felt it. The air shifted, closing in. The silence between the thunderclaps filled with something warmer, steadier.

And then—warmth.

Hands. Smaller than his, steadier, sliding over his own trembling ones. Not pulling them down. Not fighting him. Simply covering. Anchoring. Sieun’s palms pressed gently against the backs of Suho’s hands, stabilizing the bruising hold Suho had clamped over his ears. Lending strength where his was failing.

The sudden contact broke him open. A sob escaped, sharp and trembling, but different this time. Not just fear. Relief.

Finally. Finally, Sieun was there. Not at a distance. Not testing. Here. Holding him. Protecting him.

Suho’s fingers twitched, clumsy and desperate, before moving on their own. They latched onto the front of Sieun’s shirt, curling in so tightly the fabric bunched beneath his fists. His knuckles whitened with the force, his whole body leaning forward into the warmth like a drowning man clinging to the shore.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry—please don’t hate me—I’m so sorry…”

The words poured out of him, cracked and broken, muffled against Sieun’s chest but spilling anyway. His voice shook with terror, each apology tumbling over the next, frantic and uneven, like if he said it enough, it would undo everything.

And Sieun—he didn’t pull back. He didn’t freeze. He didn’t hesitate.

His arms wrapped around Suho instantly, firmly, drawing him in until every inch of Suho’s trembling body was pressed against him. The embrace was solid, grounding, unyielding, like a shield snapping into place. His chin brushed the top of Suho’s head as he spoke, voice low, steady, carved from steel and warmth all at once.

“It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

The words sank into Suho’s bones. He sobbed harder, clinging even tighter, his fists twisting more desperately into Sieun’s shirt.

“I would never…” Sieun’s voice broke for a second, trembling with the weight of it, but he forced the words out, steady and sure. “I would never hate you. Never. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Suho’s cries turned rougher, sharper, as he shoved his head further into Sieun’s chest. He gripped the fabric like letting go would kill him, like Sieun might disappear if he loosened his hold even a fraction. His entire body shook violently, but now the sobs were buried against warmth.

Warmth that held.
Warmth that anchored.
Warmth that had never once let him fall.

Sieun’s arms tightened, one hand pressing gently against Suho’s back, the other curving protectively around his shoulders. He held him close, unmovable, his body a shield between Suho and the storm outside.

And for the first time that night—through the thunder, through the terror, through the guilt—Suho felt it.

Warmth.
Safety.

He was safe.

Suho’s sobs weren’t just sounds—they were tears dragged through his chest, tearing him apart from the inside. Each one convulsed through his frame so violently that it felt like his body might splinter under its own weight. His fists fisted tighter into Sieun’s shirt, white-knuckled, as though if he let go, he would disintegrate completely. His voice was shredded to ribbons, words tumbling out broken, muffled against Sieun’s chest:
“I’m the worst… I’m the worst…”

Each repetition sounded like self-inflicted lashes, like he believed the words could punish him enough to atone.

Sieun moved without hesitation. His palm pressed harder against Suho’s back, firm and steady, moving up and down in slow, deliberate lines. His voice, though rough from strain, carried an unshakable weight:
“No. You’re not.” He said it again, sharper this time, as if to hammer it into Suho’s skull. “You’re not the worst.”

Then his tone gentled, softened like silk laid over steel. “You’re the best, Suho.”

The words sank into him like warmth against frozen skin. Suho sobbed harder, his face crumpling, unable to reconcile the gentleness with the shame clawing at him. His tears bled into Sieun’s shirt, soaking it through, but still he whispered, cracked and desperate:

“Please—please don’t hate me… please, please…”

Every syllable was a plea, each one breaking apart as if his throat couldn’t bear the weight of them. His body curled tighter, his nails digging into fabric, pulling Sieun closer like he could crawl inside him and disappear from the storm.

Sieun’s embrace only grew stronger. His arms locked around Suho, solid and unyielding, wrapping him in a shield that allowed no escape—not from fear, not from the storm, not even from himself. His lips pressed near Suho’s temple, words low and unwavering:

“Like I ever could.” His chest rose and fell sharply, the words thick, almost breaking, but steady enough to hold. “Never, Suho.”

His grip adjusted, firmer, but still gentle, pressing Suho’s head into his chest as his other hand slid up, fingers threading into his hair, cupping the back of his skull. His thumb moved in faint, repetitive arcs, calming, rocking, grounding.

“It’s okay,” Sieun whispered, voice so close it vibrated through Suho’s bones. “You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

The words struck like a balm, but Suho’s sobs only grew louder, guttural, breaking him apart. Because he should be ashamed. Ashamed for ever shoving Sieun away. Ashamed for recoiling from his touch. Ashamed for painting him as a monster when he was the only one who had ever stood between Suho and the abyss.

But when the shame became too sharp, too unbearable to hold, Suho clung tighter. His arms wrapped around Sieun’s body with desperate strength, dragging him closer, closer still, until no air separated them. His forehead pressed so hard into Sieun’s chest that he could hear nothing but the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat.

And in that closeness—something shifted.
The storm outside didn’t vanish, but it dulled.
The screaming in his head didn’t disappear, but it quieted.
The chaos didn’t end, but it bent.
Until all that remained was warmth.
Safe.
Protected.
His voice cracked again, a whisper torn apart by sobs, muffled into Sieun’s chest:
“Don’t… don’t give up on me… please… I’m sorry…”

The desperation in his words clawed into the air, but Sieun didn’t let him go. His hand drew slow, grounding circles against his back, his voice deep and steady at his ear:

“Never.”
The word struck like a vow.
“Never, Suho.”

And despite the raging thunder, despite the storm inside his skull—Suho felt it.
Safety.
Unshakable. Absolute.

Suho’s sobs had started like storms—wild, violent, shaking him apart from the inside out. But now… they were softening. Each cry still clawed through his throat, raw and broken, but the edges dulled, the force ebbed. His chest still stuttered, pulling in ragged, uneven breaths, but they came a little steadier now, each one less desperate than the last.

Sieun’s hand never wavered. It stayed pressed against Suho’s back, moving in patient circles, slow and constant, the rhythm as steady as a heartbeat. His other hand cradled the back of Suho’s head, fingers spread wide, stroking lightly—enough to soothe without pressing, enough to remind him he was being held. His voice was the anchor threading it all together, murmuring into the shell of Suho’s ear:

“It’s okay.”
“You’re safe.”
“I’ve got you.”
“I’ll never hate you.”

The words weren’t just spoken; they were poured into him, each one slipping past the cracks of panic and shame, smoothing them like waves against jagged stone. They didn’t fix everything. But they steadied him.

Suho clung tighter, his fists still knotted in Sieun’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric, refusing to let go. But his body—so tense, so rigid—began to give. His shoulders sagged little by little, trembling still, but not locked in terror anymore. His sobs broke into softer cries, hiccupped breaths that came in stutters instead of floods.

His head pressed deeper into Sieun’s chest, burying himself in the fabric, in the warmth, in the heartbeat steady beneath his ear. He wanted the world to disappear there. Wanted the voices, the storm, the shame to melt away in the only place that had ever felt like home.

What would I do without him?

The thought struck like a blade, sharper than any fear. If Sieun ever left him—if those hands ever pulled away for good—Suho didn’t know if he could keep breathing. The silence that would remain was unimaginable.

And the truth of it hurt even more: Sieun deserved better. He deserved someone stronger, braver, someone who wouldn’t shove him away, wouldn’t fear him, wouldn’t break everything he offered. Not someone like Suho.

I don’t deserve him… but I need to be better for him.

The vow pressed heavy in his chest, fragile but unyielding. Not born from guilt this time, but from love. From the desperate, aching need to hold onto the only person who had ever stayed.

Sieun’s touch deepened the vow. His hand rubbed between Suho’s shoulders with slow, patient pressure, his other palm steady on his head. His voice came again, low and even, layering reassurance on top of reassurance, until it became the only rhythm Suho could hear:

“You’re safe. You’re safe.”
“I’ve got you.”
“I’m here.”

Each word was a rope thrown into the storm. And Suho clung to them, wrapped himself in them, let them pull him out of the dark.

Little by little, the sobs weakened. From sharp, gasping cries to softer, broken sniffles. From wild tremors to smaller shakes against Sieun’s chest. His breathing, though uneven, grew steadier, as though Sieun’s voice was teaching his lungs how to work again, each inhale syncing with the quiet cadence of “in and out” Sieun had coaxed him through before.

The storm outside split the air again, thunder booming, but this time Suho didn’t jolt as violently. His body only pressed closer, hiding deeper in Sieun’s chest, muffling the sound into the warmth. And when Sieun’s arms tightened, steady and unyielding, Suho didn’t resist. He let himself be held.
His tears still fell, but softer now. His cries were no longer sharp screams, but small, broken sounds. Fragile, yes. But calmer.
And beneath all the trembling, all the guilt, all the ache—he felt it.
Warmth.
Safety.
Protection.
Suho knew it with certainty:
He was safe.
Finally safe.

Suho had finally gone still.
The storm inside him, once violent and crushing, had dulled into tremors—small, uneven hitches in his chest that shook him more from exhaustion than panic. His face was buried against warmth, his arms still wrapped tight, clinging as though letting go would mean vanishing.
He didn’t want to let go.
Not now. Not ever.

Sieun can’t leave me.

 

The thought clawed through him, raw and sharp. If he had to beg, he would. If he had to fall to his knees, he would. Sieun couldn’t leave him—because if he did, Suho knew there would be nothing left to hold him together.

He shifted faintly, turning in those arms, pressing lower until his ear rested against Sieun’s chest.

And there it was.
The sound.
A heartbeat.
Strong—but not steady. Loud, fast, pounding in a way that made Suho freeze.

It wasn’t Sieun’s usual rhythm, that calm, patient pulse Suho had grown used to hearing in the small moments when he let himself rest close. No—this one was erratic, racing, uneven.
Because of him.
Suho’s lashes fluttered, tears still clinging, and shame pricked deep in his throat. He had done this. His spiral, his sobbing, his panic—it had rattled Sieun so badly that even his heartbeat had broken its composure.

He should have hated himself for it. Should have drowned in guilt. And he did—he really did. But underneath, tangled deep within the shame, something else bloomed: fragile, almost foolish. A flicker of giddy warmth. Because Sieun cared enough to be shaken. His terror had reached him. His breaking had mattered.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windowpanes, but it wasn’t thunder Suho registered first—it was Sieun’s voice. Quiet. Almost too soft.

“…Water…?”

The sound caught him off guard. Only then did he realize how dry his mouth felt, how his throat ached for something cool. But his body was too heavy, his limbs too drained to even nod. He couldn’t summon the strength to lift his head.

“Please…” Sieun’s voice coaxed again, gentle, almost pleading.

Suho gave the smallest sign he could. A twitch of his fingers, a breath that wasn’t refusal. Not much, but enough.

He felt Sieun shift, his arms beginning to loosen, the warmth threatening to move away—

And panic flared hot, wild.
“No…”

The word was broken, desperate, as Suho’s arms clenched tighter. His fists twisted in Sieun’s shirt, clinging so hard his knuckles burned. His body trembled, clung, as if the very act of Sieun stepping away would rip the air out of his lungs. Sieun couldn’t go. Not even for water.

The thunder rolled again, booming heavy, and Suho shook violently, burying his face deeper against him.
“Suho-ya…” Sieun’s voice came low, coaxing, careful. But Suho only held tighter, refusing, shaking his head against his chest like a child.
There was silence for a beat. Then a quiet sigh. Not frustration—patience.

“…Then should we move to bed, at least?”

Suho didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His body was too far gone, every muscle trembling with weakness, every nerve drained. His mouth wouldn’t form the words.

But Sieun seemed to understand. His palm pressed once, firmly, against Suho’s back. “Come on. Lean on me.”

The command was soft, not forceful. It carried no demand—only support. And somehow, through the haze, Suho listened. His body sagged, heavy, surrendering all its weight into Sieun’s hold.

And Sieun bore it.

He shifted closer, his smaller frame steady, arms bracing around Suho as if he had been built for this moment. Suho was taller, broader, heavier—but none of that mattered. None of it had ever mattered. Sieun carried him anyway, every step slow, deliberate, careful.

To anyone else, it might have looked absurd—this quiet, slight boy taking the full weight of someone who seemed far too heavy for him. But to Suho, it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

His forehead brushed Sieun’s shoulder, his body sagging completely, all strength gone. He let himself be guided, trusted each movement without protest. The only reason his steps didn’t collapse under him was because Sieun was there, holding him upright.

Sieun moved with caution, eyes sweeping the floor, watching for every sharp glint of shattered glass. His voice came soft, low, the words carrying warmth and command all at once:

“Careful… just careful now.”

Each syllable wrapped around Suho like a tether, steadying him further than his legs could.

Until finally—the bed.

Sieun lowered him gently, easing him onto the edge, careful not to let his grip slip. And even then—even shaking, even drained, even with his eyes barely able to stay open—Suho’s arms tightened again, fists twisting, pulling him close.

Closer.

Because Sieun couldn’t leave.
Not now. Not ever.

Suho’s fingers were locked tight, white-knuckled in the fabric of Sieun’s shirt. His grip was desperate, frantic, as if the storm outside might rip Sieun away from him if he dared loosen it even for a second. Every tremor in his body screamed don’t leave me.

Sieun shifted slightly, only enough to adjust his position—but Suho reacted instantly, clutching harder, tugging with the last scraps of strength left in him. His breath hitched out sharp, almost a whimper, his hold begging silently what his lips couldn’t yet form.

And Sieun understood.
His arm pressed firmer around Suho’s back, his hand steadying him with quiet reassurance. His voice followed, low, unshakable, each word carrying the weight of a promise:
“I’m here.”

The words sank into Suho’s chest, hitting deeper than the thunder ever could. He had heard them so many times before—in fights, in silences, in every moment when Suho thought he might break. I’m here. It felt like time folding back on itself, reminding him that Sieun had never once let him fall.

When Sieun reached for the side table, Suho tensed again, his fists clenching tighter, his pulse spiking. But the motion was careful, deliberate—stretching, not pulling away. Sieun wasn’t leaving. He was only reaching.

A faint sound broke the air: the twist of a cap, the crinkle of plastic. Then Sieun was back, tipping the bottle toward Suho’s lips with the same gentle patience he had used a hundred times before.

Suho blinked, sluggish, confused. His body didn’t want to respond—but the cool edge touched his mouth, and instinct took over.

The first swallow burned. His throat felt raw, scraped hollow by sobs. But then—relief. Blessed, soothing relief. His body reacted greedily, gulping down mouthful after mouthful as though he hadn’t tasted water in days. Each drink dulled the ache in his chest, eased the sandpaper dryness in his throat. He didn’t even realize how much he needed it until he couldn’t stop.

When he finally slowed, Sieun eased the bottle back carefully. But in his haste, a few droplets slid down Suho’s chin, staining his shirt. Before Suho could even notice, Sieun was there—his sleeve brushing the skin, wiping it away in one smooth, practiced motion.

Déjà vu.

The same way Sieun always had—without hesitation, without thought. Like it was second nature to him to clean up Suho’s messes, to tend to him without ever being asked.

Suho’s chest loosened at the gesture. His body slumped heavier against Sieun’s hold, a sigh slipping out—shaky but softer, closer to relief than despair. His eyes fluttered shut, surrendering at last.

The storm still cracked outside, rattling glass and walls alike—but inside, there was nothing but quiet. Warmth. The steady thrum of a heartbeat under his ear.

Not the wild, panicked rhythm from earlier, but calmer now. Slowing. Settling. Returning to the steady pace that had always anchored Suho.

And Suho felt it.
The calm.
The safety.
The unshakable truth of being held by someone who would never let him go.

Safe. Protected. Anchored.

He let his breath fall in rhythm with Sieun’s heart, and he believed he was safe.
The storm cracked again outside, rattling the windows like fragile bones. Inside, the golden lamp painted everything in soft warmth, but Suho barely felt it. His body had just begun to grow heavy with calm, eyelids sinking, his breath syncing with the steady thrum beneath his ear. Safe. Anchored. He almost fell asleep—until he felt Sieun shifting.

The subtle nudge at his grip was like a blade. Fingers pressed against his fists, coaxing them loose from the fabric of Sieun’s shirt.

Panic tore him awake. His eyes snapped open, his body jolting, arms clutching harder, clinging as though his entire existence depended on it. Another thunder rolled, loud enough to shake the room, and Suho flinched so violently it was as if the sound had struck him.

“Hey, hey…” Sieun murmured, voice low, steady. His palm smoothed across Suho’s trembling back, anchoring him against the quake. “Relax. I’m here.”

But Suho only clung tighter. His fists locked, his knuckles pressing white into the fabric. No. He couldn’t leave. Sieun couldn’t leave.

“Suho-ya…” Sieun’s voice softened even more, dipping into that gentle register he used only when the walls were lowest. “I need to change.”

The words hardly made sense through the haze of terror. Change? Clothes? Why now? All Suho’s body understood was leaving. His arms shook, his grip refusing to yield, every muscle wired with the fear of being left behind.

“I’ll be quick,” Sieun said again, coaxing. His hand shifted, covering Suho’s fists where they clutched at him, holding them steady, not prying them away but grounding them. “I promise.”

Suho’s breath hitched. His throat burned. His mind screamed not to let go—but his chest cracked open at that word: promise.

He searched Sieun’s face, wet lashes blinking against tears, desperate to know if he meant it. And Sieun, steady as stone, repeated, softer but firmer, as though swearing an oath:

“Suho-ya… I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be back quickly. Hmm?”

Something pathetic stirred in him. Because he believed him. Because he always did. His fists loosened, weak and reluctant, trembling even as they released.
Sieun didn’t discard them. No—he lowered them gently into Suho’s lap, arranging them carefully, as though even his broken hands deserved to be held safe. “I’ll be back,” he whispered.
Suho’s eyes tracked him immediately, wide and unblinking, never leaving his frame. Every step Sieun took was swallowed in golden light, the shadows of the storm cut off by the blinds, the room dim and honey-soft.
First, Sieun leaned him against the headrest, careful, slow, steady. Suho let it happen, too drained to resist, but his eyes stayed locked, terrified that the next blink might make Sieun vanish.

Then Sieun moved across the room. He shut the balcony window firmly, sealing out the howl of the storm. The blinds came down, muting the lightning into faint glows, until only the lamp’s warmth lit the room.

At the closet, Sieun peeled his shirt over his head. The first layer dropped soundlessly to the floor. And with it—the makeshift cloth around his hand came into view, darkened with blood.

Suho’s stomach twisted. That scar. That wound. The one he had given him.

And still, here Sieun was—being his savior. His protector.

The second shirt came off, fabric pooling at his feet. Suho’s eyes darted away, ashamed to watch, but shame was weak against gravity. His gaze pulled back again, unable to stop himself.

And what he saw…
Sieun’s back, bare under the lamp’s glow. The light spilled golden over his skin, soft and warm like honey poured across smooth glass. Unmarked, untouched, painfully human. Suho’s throat tightened, an ache clawing deep in his chest. He wanted—God, he wanted to reach out, to press his palm there, to feel the heat of that skin under his touch. To know it was real.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t cross that line.
So he just watched.
Watched as Sieun tugged a fresh shirt from the closet—a faded thing, its fabric worn soft with years of use. The kind of shirt that looked like it carried every quiet night and every unspoken memory in its threads. Sieun slipped it over his head in one fluid motion, the golden lamplight brushing over his skin for just a breath before it disappeared beneath the cloth.
It clung to him gently, not new, not sharp, but lived-in. Warm. Comfortable. So very Sieun.
And then his hands moved again, pulling free another piece. A hoodie. Thicker, heavier, the kind of fabric that looked like it could swallow him whole in its warmth. For a second, he just held it in his hands, the fabric bunched loosely between his fingers.
The closet door clicked shut behind him, sealing the quiet moment in the amber glow of the room. Sieun turned slightly, the hoodie still dangling from his grip, the hem brushing against his leg. He hadn’t put it on yet, hadn’t hidden himself again—but he would.
And Suho couldn’t look away.
The image burned into him—the hoodie hanging limply from Sieun’s hand, the softness of the lamplight painting over the slope of his shoulders, the quiet, steady movements that said he’s still here. Still here, even after everything.

But with the hoodie waiting in his hands, Suho felt that familiar ache creep back into his chest. Because every layer Sieun pulled on, every piece he used to cover himself, felt like another wall Suho had made necessary.

And all he wanted—selfishly, desperately—was to stop him. To ask him not to hide. To just stay, exactly like this, in the golden quiet, within reach.

Suho thought—hoped—he would come back then. But Sieun moved again, not toward the bed, not toward him. His breath caught, panic sparking sharp in his chest—until his eyes followed.

The towel. His towel. Soft. Pink.

Sieun bent, picking it up gently, turning his head just enough to meet Suho’s wide stare. His voice came low, steady, like every word was a promise not to abandon him:
“Just a minute.”

And then he disappeared into the bathroom.

Suho’s eyes clung to the bathroom door like they were afraid it might never open again. His body stayed rigid against the headrest, hands twitching faintly, the urge to move gnawing at him. He thought about the crutches leaning uselessly against the corner. He thought about the sharp fall earlier, the humiliation of hitting the ground. His chest squeezed at the memory.

Still… the thought tugged at him. Maybe he could try without them. If he moved slowly. If he leaned on the wall, if he held onto furniture, maybe he could make it to Sieun before the storm outside broke him apart again. His palms pressed faintly against the mattress, testing—ready to move.

And then the door opened.

Sieun emerged.

The sight rooted Suho in place, as if the world itself had grabbed his shoulders and stilled him.

A hoodie and Suho’s soft pink towel draped over one shoulder, like warmth and comfort carried without question. In one hand, a folded napkin; in the other, a dustpan, brush, and dry cloth—ordinary things, yet in his grip they didn’t look ordinary at all.

He carried them effortlessly, as if they weighed nothing. As if chaos itself bent to him. Every piece he held seemed less like tools for broken glass and spilled water, and more like fragments of something greater—like he was quietly gathering the storm Suho had unleashed, holding it steady in his hands.

It wasn’t just glass he was about to sweep away. It was fear. It wasn’t just water he would wipe clean. It was panic, shame, the wreckage of a night that had almost swallowed Suho whole.

Sieun didn’t look strained, didn’t falter. He moved with that same calm, unyielding patience, like someone born to piece a shattered world back together—without complaint, without noise.

And Suho, watching, felt it down to his bones: Sieun wasn’t just carrying tools.
He was carrying him.

Sieun crouched low first, lowering the supplies to the floor with deliberate care. His eyes flicked over the ground, sharp and cautious, searching for stray shards of glass. Every motion was precise, measured—not for himself, but for Suho. Always for Suho. Then he shifted toward the bed, steps slow, deliberate, watching the floor so not even a splinter could hurt him.

And Suho’s body betrayed him before his mind caught up. He leaned forward, hands lifting instinctively, grabby and desperate like a child reaching for safety.

Sieun noticed instantly. His steps angled toward him, closing the space. He set the hoodie and towel carefully on the bed beside Suho before folding down onto bed beside him, cross-legged, close—closer than before. His left hand rose, palm open, steady.
Suho latched onto it at once, both his hands curling around Sieun’s like they were clinging to the last rope holding him above water. His grip trembled, desperate, but anchored.
Sieun let him hold on. Didn’t pry him loose. Instead, with his free hand, he lifted the napkin. He brought it to Suho’s face with a gentleness that was almost reverent. The cloth was wet, warm, pressed first against his cheek, and Suho’s eyes fluttered closed on instinct. A sigh slipped from him, shaky, but softer—less jagged than before.
“See?” Sieun murmured, voice low, coaxing. “I was quick, right?”
A faint hum left Suho in response. Too tired to form words, but too willing to let Sieun hear that he believed him.
The napkin moved slowly, its touch feather-light as it brushed the dried salt trails along Suho’s cheeks. It swept across his forehead, catching the damp sheen of sweat, pressing gently where his skin still burned from crying. Sieun’s fingers paused just long enough to push back the bangs that clung stubbornly to his skin, easing them from his eyes with a tenderness that felt almost reverent.
From there, the cloth traced lower—across the curve of his jaw, then down the fragile line of his throat. Every stroke was unhurried, patient, carrying no urgency except to soothe.
It didn’t feel like he was merely cleaning.
It felt like he was undoing the storm itself—erasing the chaos left on Suho’s skin, lifting panic and shame with every careful sweep. As though, with each pass, he was reminding Suho… you survived. You’re safe. You’re here.

Suho’s breathing followed the rhythm, settling with each stroke. His eyelids drooped again, heavy, his body sagging as though sleep was pulling him under. Until Sieun’s voice slipped through the haze, quiet but firm.
“Let’s change.”
The words dropped heavy into the silence, and Suho blinked sluggishly, realization dawning. His face might have been cleaned, but his shirt was soaked. His collar clung damp against his skin. Not just from his tears—but from the spilled water earlier, from everything that had dragged him through this night.
He opened his eyes, heavy but clearer now, and looked at Sieun. Just looked. And the thought burned through him: how lucky am I? Lucky that Sieun was still here. Lucky that he hadn’t left. Lucky that he was still willing to take care of him after everything.

His throat ached as he forced words past it. “I…” He swallowed, hoarse. “I wet your shirt too.”

What he meant was simple—that his crying had soaked through Sieun’s chest. But what he felt was heavier—that he ruined even the smallest things, left marks he couldn’t erase.

Sieun blinked once. His eyes didn’t move away, steady and unreadable at first. Then—just barely—a smile. The faintest curve, fragile, almost invisible. But there.

“I don’t mind doing extra laundry.”

The answer cracked something open inside Suho. His lips curved too, small, trembling, but real. The first smile since the storm inside him had broken loose. A calm smile. A safe one.

Sieun leaned in then, hand tugging gently at him, pulling him closer. His voice lowered to a whisper, coaxing, warm.
“Come on.”

And Suho, pliant, obedient, aching for nothing but that warmth—went.

Sieun worked with that same quiet steadiness, the same restraint that was almost more unnerving than carelessness would’ve been. He tugged Suho’s shirt carefully from one side, easing the good arm free without resistance. But when he moved to the other, Suho’s bad shoulder tensed, muscles locking like stone. A strained grunt escaped before he could catch it.

Sieun froze. His hand stilled instantly, eyes snapping up, sharp and searching.
“I’ll be gentle… okay?”

The words fell low—firm but impossibly soft, a promise wrapped in the simplest syllables. And for some reason, Suho’s breath caught. His throat bobbed with a swallow, hard, too loud in the quiet. His chest ached in ways that had nothing to do with his shoulder. He nodded, too fast, too eager, eyes darting away.

Because those words—I’ll be gentle—didn’t just land here. They echoed. They dragged him back to the vision that had seared itself into him earlier: Sieun’s bare back, bathed in the soft gold of the lamp, skin warm and unscarred, glowing like honey. And now the same phrase in Sieun’s mouth tangled with that memory until Suho’s face flushed hot. The same words… in a different context.

Shame prickled through him, but beneath it—something else. Something far more dangerous.

“You okay?” Sieun’s voice pulled him back, careful, perceptive, as though he’d felt the shift even if he didn’t understand it.

Suho nodded again, shallow, clipped, unable to meet his eyes.

The fabric slid up, slow, the collar brushing across damp skin. His hair fell forward in uneven bangs, clinging to his forehead, strands shadowing his eyes. But through it, he saw Sieun—close. So close he could trace every line of him in detail. The edge of his jaw sharp against the light, the slope of his nose, the faint shadows beneath his lashes. Close enough that Suho felt like one wrong breath would give him away.

And then the touch.

The cloth—warm, pressed to his skin. It dragged carefully over his chest, across his ribs, down the flat of his stomach. Each stroke was deliberate, slow, as if Sieun wasn’t just wiping sweat and storm-water but something deeper, something tangled inside him.

Suho startled faintly, then shuddered as thought replaced sensation. What if it wasn’t the cloth?

 

What if it was Sieun’s hand—his palm spread over his chest, feeling his heartbeat directly, grounding him with nothing between?

The thought made his stomach flip, sharp and uneasy. His mind flickered back to his body—the way it had changed. Softer now. Not what it once had been. No longer cut the way it had been before the coma. But Sieun’s face never shifted. His hand didn’t falter. His touch carried no judgment. Only patience. Only quiet care. As if none of those changes mattered. As if Suho was still exactly who he had always been.

Suho’s throat dried, and he swallowed again, mouth watering for reasons that had nothing to do with thirst. His eyes dragged upward despite himself.

The golden lamplight caught Sieun’s face in profile, his bangs dipping forward, his jawline illuminated, sharp yet softened by the glow. The sight punched through Suho’s chest so hard it hurt.

And then—Sieun turned.

Their eyes met.

Suho’s breath faltered. His mouth parted, lips trembling open like words might stumble out—but nothing came. The soundless ache in his chest said more than language could.
The world outside thundered, the storm rattling against the glass, but inside—nothing. Only that silence. Only the weight of Sieun’s gaze.
And for a suspended, fragile moment, it felt like everything else had fallen away.

Sieun tilted his head, his eyes steady, unreadable in the lamplight. Suho couldn’t look away. His gaze clung, heavy and desperate, caught in that quiet pull between them. And then Sieun leaned in—closer, close enough that Suho’s lashes trembled and dropped, his throat tightening with heat.

The air thickened. The moment was intimate in a way that made Suho’s chest ache, like his ribs couldn’t contain his heart. Sieun’s arm lifted again, the damp cloth brushing gently across his back in patient strokes. Suho shivered—not from the storm, not from fear, but from being surrounded. Surrounded by Sieun’s arms, his scent, his steady warmth. His whole world shrank to that circle, and for the first time in hours his heart pounded not from panic, but from something far more dangerous.

He almost leaned in. Almost rested his cheek against Sieun’s shoulder. Almost let himself fall—until Sieun finished and reached instead for the towel slung over his shoulder.

The pink towel. His towel.

Sieun spread it carefully, patting him dry—his neck, his shoulders, his chest—with movements so deliberate it felt like each one was meant to calm him further. To tell him without words: I’m here. You’re safe.

And then Sieun’s voice broke the silence, low and almost casual, though something softer curled beneath it.
“…Your pillow was pink too.”

Suho blinked, startled, confused.

“Pink suits you, though,” Sieun added. Not teasing. Just… saying it. As though it were fact.

Suho stared. His throat ached, his lips parted, but no words came. His eyes, heavy with something unnamed, only clung to Sieun’s face.

Sieun didn’t press. He simply reached for the hoodie waiting on the bed. With careful hands, he guided Suho into it—good arm first, then the bad one, moving slowly, so slowly, watching for every flicker of pain. Suho winced, a small grunt slipping, but Sieun’s patience never wavered.

The fabric slipped down, mussing Suho’s hair so strands fell across his eyes. Sieun tugged the hoodie into place, smoothing it down until it rested properly on his shoulders. The cloth was soft, worn, warm—and familiar. The scent that clung to it was Sieun’s.

Suho inhaled sharply. His chest clenched. Wrapped in that warmth, he felt as though he’d been swallowed whole by him. Giddy, almost. Because Sieun hadn’t picked Suho’s own clothes. He hadn’t chosen something folded nearby. He had chosen his. As though he’d known Suho would prefer it. As though he understood what he wanted better than he did himself.

A hand brushed over his forehead, gently sweeping his bangs aside. Suho’s breath caught.

“Bathroom?” Sieun asked quietly.
Suho shook his head.
“Water?”
Another shake.

Sieun’s gaze softened further, almost tender. “Lie down. Go back to sleep.”

And then—he shifted. Leaned back, as if to move away.

Panic jolted through Suho. His hand shot forward, clutching at him with sudden strength. “Stay,” he rasped, voice hoarse and raw.

Sieun stilled. His eyes flicked down to Suho’s grip, then back up, then to the floor. Silence stretched heavy, pressing in on them both.

Suho’s fingers tightened, trembling, as if the world itself depended on it. His voice cracked, breaking into a whisper that felt more like a plea: “…Tomorrow.”

Sieun’s eyes lifted again, unreadable. They lingered on him, then dropped to the floor, then back again. The pause felt endless before his voice finally came—softer than Suho had ever heard it, a hush carved out of vulnerability.

Sieun’s voice was quiet, steady, but edged with something fragile.

“Then… I’ll be quick. Like before.”

Suho’s chest squeezed, the words threading into him with a mix of dread and need. His voice cracked as he asked, barely more than a whisper:
“…You promise?”

Sieun’s gaze held him, unwavering. “Promise.”

The word landed like an anchor in Suho’s chest—solid, grounding. But then came the question, softer, almost hesitant, as though Sieun himself feared the answer.
“Will you wait?”

And that—God, that undid him.

Suho’s heart caved in. His lips trembled, breath catching on the edge of a sob. The words tumbled out of him like vows, fragile but fierce, carved from something deeper than he knew how to name.

“Yeah… always.”

Not just a reply. Not just a promise. A confession.

And in that moment, under stormlight and shadows, it was the only truth Suho had left:
He would always wait.

Sieun’s eyes lingered on him for a beat longer, something unreadable flickering there, and then he gave a small nod. His voice was quiet, steady, unyielding in its promise.

“Okay… I’ll be quick.”

He rose carefully, his shadow stretching against the honeyed lamplight. Suho’s eyes followed him like a tether, his chest tightening the instant Sieun’s warmth left his side. He crouched low to the floor, dustpan and brush in hand. Each movement was precise, deliberate—gathering the shards one at a time, as though every sliver of glass was more than just broken matter. As though they were fragments of Suho himself, jagged pieces scattered in panic, dangerous if left unchecked.

And wasn’t that what Sieun always did? Quietly cleaning up after him. Picking up the sharpness he left behind. Making sure none of it cut him again.

When the last of the shards were swept, Sieun reached for the cloth. He pressed it to the dark stain of water, slow, steady strokes soaking it up. Suho’s throat burned watching him. The curve of his shoulders was heavy, his motions slower than usual. Not annoyed—never annoyed—but weighted, as though he carried storms that were never his.

Suho’s eyes flicked toward the clock. 2:43 a.m. The guilt hit harder than thunder. I make him this tired. I drag him into nights like this, storms like this. And still… he doesn’t push me away.

Sieun scanned the floor one last time, eyes sweeping carefully, confirming every shard was gone. Only when he was certain did he rise, gathering the tools and slipping out. The space he left behind felt like a wound. Suho’s chest squeezed painfully until the doorway filled with his shadow again.

He returned briefly from the bathroom, then disappeared outside once more. Panic spiked sharp in Suho’s chest…until Sieun’s voice carried back, calm, grounding:
“I’ll come in a second.”

And he did. When he stepped in again, the golden light framed him. A bottle of water in one hand, a glass in the other. He set the glass gently on the bedside table, lifted the bottle to his lips, and drank. The soft sound of his swallowing filled the hush, grounding in its ordinariness.

Then his gaze lifted, steady. “Water?”

Suho shook his head quickly. No. He didn’t care for water. What he wanted… what he burned for… was simple…just come to bed.

And Sieun listened. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, voice coaxing, warm.
“Okay… come here.”

Suho’s arms lifted without thought… grabby, desperate, childlike. And Sieun leaned in, guiding him down gently, carefully. Suho’s fists clung at once, twisting into his shirt like lifelines, refusing to let go.
Sieun didn’t resist. He reached up instead, tugging the hood of the hoodie over Suho’s head, framing his face in its warmth. Then his hands guided him lower, easing him into the pillow with patient care.

But when Sieun’s weight shifted back, Suho’s body jolted—panic flaring, hands jerking tight again.

“Stay,” he rasped, raw.

Sieun froze, eyes lifting to meet his. For a second his gaze flickered, unreadable, and then softened. Suho’s lips parted again, voice smaller, breaking. “Please.”

That word cracked something.

Sieun’s jaw worked, his gaze flicking away, then back. He moved again, but not away. Instead, he reached for the blanket. His voice was quiet as he murmured, “Just adjusting it.”

He stood, draping the blanket with painstaking care. Every corner tucked in, each fold smoothed, his touch deliberate. Covering him. Protecting him. Making sure no piece of him was left exposed.

Suho shifted under the weight, his voice hoarse but certain. “Stay.”

This time, Sieun didn’t wait. His eyes held his for one long second… then he sat again.

And Suho moved instantly. His hands reached, pulling, dragging until Sieun’s body leaned closer, half-lowered onto the bed.

Suho clung, fists knotted in his shirt, breath warm against him.

And Sieun let him.

Sieun leaned closer, posture half-curved, one arm firm but gentle around Suho. His hold wasn’t demanding—just steady, secure. The kind of touch that told Suho he didn’t have to grip so tightly to be kept in place. Still, Suho pressed in closer, sighing as his body melted into that chest, childlike in his relief.

 

“…Why’s your futon not here?” he murmured, the words muffled against Sieun’s shirt.

 

Sieun’s reply came quiet, even. “I was studying in the living room.”

 

The answer should’ve been nothing, casual, but it made Suho’s chest twist with guilt. He tilted his face up slightly, eyes wet and hazy, voice low.
“…Did I disturb you?”

 

Sieun’s gaze dropped down to him, studying—not impatient, not annoyed, but quietly searching. Measuring the weight behind the words. Then he shook his head faintly, tone steady, absolute.
“No. You didn’t. I was almost done anyway. I was coming to sleep.”

 

“Really?” Suho asked, a fragile edge to the question.

 

Sieun’s lips curved just faintly, not quite a smile, but something warm enough to count. “Really.”

 

Something uncoiled inside Suho, loosening the knot in his chest. He shifted, nuzzling deeper into him, as if that single confirmation had given him permission to rest.

 

Sieun’s hand moved then—first patting gently at the back of his head, then sliding toward his temple, fingers brushing softly across his skin. The touch drifted down, catching on his bangs, smoothing them back. Suho’s eyes fluttered closed, warmth blooming beneath the gentle motion.

 

Sieun caught a strand of hair between his fingers, rolling it lightly. His voice dropped, a murmur against the storm outside.
“You need a haircut…”

 

Suho hummed faintly, barely a reply.

 

But then Sieun added, softer still:
“…But long hair suits you.”

 

Heat rushed through Suho at once, flooding his cheeks, prickling at his neck. His lashes lifted, and he turned, searching Sieun’s face with wide eyes. His voice scraped out hoarse, uncertain, but threaded with something deeper.
“Really?”

 

“Really.” Sieun’s gaze didn’t flinch. His hand lingered in Suho’s hair, combing idly, almost unconsciously.

 

“…Why?” Suho whispered.

 

Sieun tilted his head, thoughtful, fingers stilling for a moment before rolling the strands again between two fingers. His answer was quiet, almost like a confession.

 

“Because… long…fluffy… messy hair… overgrown hair … it suits you. You look pretty. Makes you look like an idol like this.”

 

The words struck through Suho like a jolt. His face burned hotter, his throat tightened, and he shoved his head back into Sieun’s chest, hiding himself. “…Liar.”

 

Sieun’s lips curved faintly again, the smallest smile. “It’s true.”

 

Suho groaned quietly, cheeks heating more, but there was no stopping the giddy spark that spread through him. Light and dizzying, curling warm in his chest. He wanted to laugh and cry all at once. Instead, he buried deeper into the scent of him—soap, fabric, something distinctly Sieun—and let it consume him.

 

In those arms, Suho felt a peace he’d never known. Calm, safe, shielded—anchored so completely it was as if the world itself had fallen away, leaving only warmth, only safety.

 

The quiet stretched, warm and golden, until Sieun’s voice broke it—soft, almost casual:
“…So… should we go to the parlor tomorrow? For your hair?”

 

Suho mumbled into his chest, voice muffled and heavy with sleep, “I don’t know…”

 

Sieun hummed, the sound low, thoughtful.

 

After a moment, Suho tilted his head slightly, his cheek brushing against the soft fabric of the hoodie. “I don’t feel like going tomorrow.”

 

Sieun didn’t press. He never did. His reply came steady, simple:
“Okay.”

 

Suho blinked slowly, his lashes brushing fabric, when a thought came to him—bright, almost mischievous in the haze of his exhaustion. He tilted his head back slightly, voice softer but clearer.
“…Why don’t you cut it?”

 

Sieun stilled. His eyes flicked down, blinking once. “Me?”

 

Suho nodded, the smallest, sleepy motion. “You cut it.”

 

For a moment, silence. Then Sieun’s voice, cautious, thoughtful.
“…I’d need to learn it first. What if I end up hurting you?”

 

The last sentence was so quiet Suho almost didn’t hear it. Almost. But he had. And the way Sieun said it—the way his voice dipped with the weight of that worry—made something twist in Suho’s chest.

 

His answer came out firmer than he expected, almost startling himself. “You would never.”

 

The words rang with a trust so solid it was almost shocking, like his earlier spiral—his panic, his rejection—had never happened. Like he hadn’t once painted Sieun as a monster.

 

It didn’t matter if he’d doubted before. What mattered was now. And Suho needed to make him believe it now.

 

Sieun’s gaze lingered on him, quiet, unreadable. For a long moment, he only studied him, as though searching Suho’s face for cracks. And then—finally—he nodded. His voice came out quieter, but sure:
“…Okay. I’ll try.”

 

Suho’s lips curved, soft and small. His eyes slipped shut again as he nuzzled deeper into Sieun’s chest, rubbing his face into the warmth like a cat seeking comfort. The scent, the softness, the steady heartbeat—it was everything.

 

And wrapped in it, Suho felt it again.
Calm. Safe. Anchored.

His trust, fragile but unshaken now, rested entirely in Sieun’s arms.

 

His eyelids grew heavier with each blink. The storm’s rumble blurred into background, fading against the louder, steadier sound of Sieun’s heartbeat under his ear. He let his own breaths fall into rhythm with it, syncing, tethering himself to it like a lifeline.

 

And as he drifted, thoughts blurred, hazy but sharp enough to sting.

 

He thought of Sieun’s back under the lamplight, honey-soft, golden, strong.
He thought of the scar on his hand—the one Suho had given him, yet Sieun still stayed.

He thought of his words: Really. It suits you.

And as his mind slipped toward sleep, the final thought that struck was simple, unshakable, overwhelming:

I don’t ever want to lose this. I don’t ever want to lose him.

 

His breathing slowed. His lashes fell shut. And in Sieun’s arms, wrapped in his warmth, Suho finally drifted—half-dreaming, wholly safe.

 

Suho’s breathing steadied little by little, each inhale softer than the last, each exhale sinking deeper into the fabric of Sieun’s chest. It was fragile, uneven at first, like a body relearning how to rest—but it was there. The storm inside him was quieting.

 

His lashes fluttered against his cheeks. His grip, once iron-tight, eased just slightly, enough to make it seem like he’d finally surrendered to sleep.

 

Sieun noticed. His hand, which had been combing gently through Suho’s hair, stilled. Slowly, carefully, he shifted, trying to slip away without disturbing him.

 

But even in half-dream, Suho felt it. His body jerked, brows knotting, and a broken whisper tore through the quiet:
“Stay…”

 

Sieun froze. His lips parted, his voice soft, uncertain.
“Suho…”

 

The name was enough to crack his eyes open again—wet, glazed with exhaustion but sharp with fear. His voice, hoarse and raw, pushed out again:
“No… stay. Please… stay.”

 

For a long heartbeat, Sieun only looked at him. The silence stretched heavy, but then he nodded, slow, sure. His voice was steady when it came.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”

 

Relief bled across Suho’s face, his shoulders sagging—but the instant Sieun shifted again, even slightly, his body tensed all over. His grip clutched tighter, panic already threatening to rise.

 

Sieun didn’t fight it. He bent close instead, his fingers brushing Suho’s forehead, smoothing over the furrow of his brow. He whispered softly, almost like a vow pressed directly to his skin:
“I’m not going anywhere. Relax.”

 

The touch worked. Suho’s eyes fell shut again, not fully but enough, his body loosening under the reassurance.

 

This time, when Sieun moved, it wasn’t to leave. It was to reach for the blanket. He drew it up carefully, adjusting it around Suho, then pulling it over himself as well. His movements were deliberate, protective, as though he wasn’t just covering a body but sealing away a wound from the night’s cold.

 

And Suho felt it. A strange, warm thrill ran through him—an excitement, almost—that Sieun had covered them both under the same blanket. They were bound in it, wrapped in the same warmth, as if the storm outside couldn’t touch them anymore.

 

The lamp clicked off with a soft sound, the room falling into darkness. Only the occasional white flash of lightning slipped through the blinds, staining the shadows silver before fading again.

 

When Sieun lay down at last, his head sinking onto the pillow beside him, Suho didn’t hesitate. His body curled forward instinctively, pressing into that familiar chest again, fists knotting tight into the hoodie. His cheek pressed against the worn fabric, clinging like if he let go, the world would vanish.

 

And Sieun responded without pause. His arms came around him fully, holding with the steadiness of stone and the warmth of fire. One hand cupped the back of Suho’s head, gentle but firm, cradling him as if to say stay here, stay safe. The other wrapped across his middle, securing him in place, shielding him.

 

Suho sighed into the hoodie, the sound small, fragile, childlike. His chest loosened, his lungs expanding fully for the first time all night.

 

And then he knew…

 

This was safety. Not the flimsy kind that came from locked doors or silent rooms. Real safety—the kind made of arms that wouldn’t let go, warmth that refused to leave, a heartbeat steady enough to drown out every storm.

 

For the first time in his life, Suho felt utterly, undeniably secure.
Held. Protected. Anchored.

 

More than he ever had before.

 

Sleep tugged at him like waves pulling a body under. Each blink dragged heavier, each breath fell softer, until his chest rose and fell in rhythm with the steady thrum beneath his ear. Sieun’s heartbeat. That sound—low, grounding, patient—was the only tether left holding him upright.

 

He sagged deeper into the warmth surrounding him. Hoodie soft against his cheek. Blanket heavy and secure. Arms strong around him. All Sieun. All the proof he needed that nothing outside, not the thunder, not the shards, not the ghosts of his nightmares, could touch him here.

 

Still—he fought it. The sleep. Because he wanted to stay a little longer in this warmth awake. Wanted to hear Sieun’s voice a few more times before drifting away.

 

“…Why’d you bring another bottle?” His words slurred, mumbled, sleep pulling at the edges of them.

 

Sieun’s chest shifted with the low rumble of his reply. “What if you need it?”

 

Suho’s lips curved faintly, eyes barely open. “But… there was already one.”

 

“That one’s half-finished.”

 

A faint huff of laughter escaped him, weak and warm. “…Yeah, but that’s still half full.”

Fingers combed absently through his hair again, calming, steady. “What if it finishes… and you need more water?”

 

This time Suho giggled, the sound small, childlike, muffled against the hoodie. “…You’re so weird.”

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Yes, you are.”

 

“…Okay,” Sieun murmured after a beat, voice quiet, indulgent. “Okay. If you say so.”

 

Something in the way he said it—the softness, the quiet surrender—made Suho’s chest tighten. He loved this version of Sieun. The one who let Suho’s words matter. The one who believed him without question, like his voice alone was enough to shape truth.

 

His questions tumbled out again, fragile, drowsy:
“…Why do you always stay up so late?”

 

“Because I study better when it’s quiet.”

 

“…Why do you never tell me when you’re tired?”

 

“Because you worry enough already.”

 

Suho blinked, lashes brushing damp against his skin. His lips curved in the faintest smile. “…Why do you never let me go?”

 

Silence. Then Sieun’s hand pressed firmer against the back of his head, and his voice dropped, low and unshakable:
“Because you’re the only one I want to hold.”

 

The words settled into Suho like a stone sinking into still water, deep and final. Heat prickled behind his eyes, but no sob came. Just a long, soft sigh as the tension bled out of his body.

 

His breathing evened. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm aligned itself with Sieun’s heartbeat until he couldn’t tell where his own pulse ended and the other began.

 

The blanket, the hoodie, the arms anchoring him—all of it seeped into him like a balm. A cocoon that smelled like worn cotton, faint soap, something steady and familiar. It filled every space that had been empty.

 

His last thought, before sleep overtook him, was dizzy and simple, but absolute:
Sieun’s scent. Sieun’s warmth. Sieun’s arms.
I could live here forever.

 

And then Suho surrendered fully, drifting under at last. Safe. Protected. Anchored in the only place he’d ever truly belonged.

 

His breaths had settled into something gentler now—shallow, but steady enough to carry the illusion of peace. His lashes, damp and clumped, rested against his cheeks, his body finally heavy in Sieun’s arms. He looked so small like this, worn down, but not terrified anymore.

 

And Sieun should have felt relief. But instead, something hollow clawed at him.

Because he remembered.

 

He remembered the sound of thunder that had rattled the glass earlier, even he had flinched at it. He remembered padding toward the bedroom, thinking he’d just peek in. And what he saw—Suho twisted in his sheets, sweat soaking his skin, whispering no like someone was tearing him apart in his sleep—was burned into him.

 

Then the spiral.
The breaking.
The way Suho had shoved him away, eyes wide and wet, like he wasn’t Suho’s safety but the monster himself.

 

Now Suho was calm. But even in sleep, he twitched. His fingers clenched faintly, his brow creased, his lips parted in faint murmurs. And Sieun knew—it wasn’t random. Even in dreams, he was looking for him. Reaching. Checking.

 

And every time, Sieun gave him what he needed. His palm smoothed down his back. His fingers brushed through his hair. His hand pressed steady against his arm. Until Suho eased again, until his muscles softened, until the storm let him go for a little longer.

 

But watching him like this—needing him like this—shouldn’t have felt so sharp.

 

Because in the back of his mind, a thought whispered: maybe it’s you.

 

The picnic surfaced in his memory. That day Suho had broken too—gasping, crying, clutching at him. Tonight wasn’t new. The signs had been there. Only then, Suho hadn’t pushed him away. Tonight, he had.

 

What if it was him?

 

The thought pressed like a knife against Sieun’s ribs, sharper the longer he stared at Suho’s sleeping face.

 

Because he remembered.
He remembered what had happened earlier that day.

 

Their fight.

 

The way Suho had looked at him—angry, wounded, eyes sharper than Sieun had ever seen them. Words bitten off, silence stretched heavy. He hadn’t spoken to Sieun after that.

 

And Sieun had known then, with a sick twist in his stomach, that something was wrong. Because Suho never went to sleep without him. Not once. Not since he had been discharged. No matter how tired, no matter how late, there was always a moment—Suho looking for him, waiting for him, needing him close.

 

But tonight… after dinner, Suho had gone straight to the bedroom. Alone. Without a word. Without waiting.

 

And Sieun had let him.
He told himself it was space, that Suho needed quiet. But the truth was, he had been too rattled, too tired, too ashamed of his own sharpness in the fight to follow him.

 

Now here he was, staring at the boy curled into him, trembling even in sleep, and the thought lodged deep in his chest:

What if I caused this?

What if Suho’s spiral, his panic, the way he had shoved him away tonight—what if all of it had been triggered by that fight? By him?

Because Suho had looked at him differently tonight. Not just hurt. Not just upset. Something else. Something that lingered even as the storm started.

 

And now Sieun couldn’t untangle it. Couldn’t separate the thunder from his own failure.

 

If he was the cause, and Suho’s breakdown the effect…
then Suho wasn’t safe with him.

 

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what this looked like. And Suho had lived through enough to explain it, but still…

 

Still the thought returned, relentless: what if it’s because of me?

 

Maybe Suho spiraled because Sieun was there. Because his presence was too heavy, too sharp. Because he had failed to be what Suho needed—gentle enough, careful enough, good enough.

 

The guilt was quiet but merciless.

 

If Suho’s breakdown was the effect… and Sieun was the cause…

 

Then he wasn’t fit to care for him. He wasn’t the right hands for this. Suho deserved steadier ones, stronger ones, hands that didn’t make him bleed or hide his wounds.

 

And the cruelest part—Suho was sleeping peacefully now. But only because Sieun was holding him. Only because he hadn’t dared to move.

 

What did that mean? That he was both the poison and the cure? That his presence broke him, but his absence shattered him worse?

 

Sieun’s gaze lingered on Suho’s face, the faint crease still lingering in his brow, the way his lips twitched with every small disturbance. And with every look, the thought pressed heavier into his chest.

 

Maybe Suho isn’t in good hands.
Not in mine.

 

Suho’s body was finally calm against him. His breath brushed faint and even against Sieun’s chest, his fists slackened only slightly but still clinging, as if even in sleep he didn’t trust Sieun not to vanish.

 

And Sieun stared down at him, his mind drowning in thoughts he couldn’t silence.

 

The memory slashed through Sieun like glass. Suho’s wild eyes, terrified, recoiling from his hands. That broken voice: don’t touch me.

 

If Suho could look at him that way, even for a second, wasn’t that proof enough? Proof that maybe he was bad for him. Proof that maybe he wasn’t what Suho needed.

 

Sieun’s jaw clenched, his chest twisting painfully.

 

Had his failure to soothe that fight planted the seed for tonight’s collapse?

 

The thought hollowed him.

 

Because if that was true—if his presence, his mistakes, his very self was what broke Suho—then maybe yes. Suho wasn’t in good hands. Not in HIS HANDS.

 

Maybe he was bad for him. Maybe all this time he had been clinging to a role he wasn’t suited for, convincing himself he could protect Suho when all he did was wound him deeper.

 

His gaze dropped to Suho’s sleeping face—finally still, finally untroubled. Peaceful in a way he hadn’t been all night. And Sieun’s heart ached so sharply it almost felt like it would tear open.

 

Because even if he was the cause, even if he was poison, he couldn’t move. Not now. Not when Suho twitched every few minutes, searching, frowning, clinging tighter like his body knew who it needed.

 

At least… at least right now he could help him sleep better.

 

That much he could do.

 

So he stayed. One arm secure around Suho, the other resting protectively over him. His eyes stung from exhaustion, but he didn’t close them until Suho was fully still again, wrapped in his arms under the same blanket.

 

And when finally his own body gave in, the last thought echoing through him was merciless but true:

 

Maybe I’m not what he needs. Maybe I’m bad for him. But if this is all I can give—then I’ll give it, until he breathes easy again.

 

By that thought, Sieun finally fell asleep too.

 

༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ

 

“Have you lost it…?” Baku’s voice finally broke the silence, a deep rumble of disbelief.

“Yaahhh, wait—” Juntae jumped in quickly, raising both hands, eyes flicking between them like a referee desperate to stop a foul.

But Gotak leaned forward in his chair, cutting him off. “No, I’m with him this time.” He stabbed a finger toward Baku. His face was twisted somewhere between anger and worry.

Sieun didn’t look up. His silence only made their stares bite harder.

The living room was thick with tension, heavier than the late afternoon air sneaking in from the balcony.

Sieun had retreated into the corner of the couch, knees drawn slightly inward, long-sleeved T-shirt soft and wrinkled, pajama cuffs brushing his ankles. His arms were folded tight across his chest like they could hold everything together if he just pressed hard enough. Beside him, on the opposite corner, Juntae sat stiff, shoulders angled defensively toward him — like he’d plant himself there as a shield if things went too far.

Across from them, Baku had dragged the beanbag closer, so close it bumped the couch leg. He’d plopped into it with his usual carelessness, his big frame sinking until it swallowed him whole. The chair creaked each time he shifted, the sound loud in the loaded quiet. Gotak, restless as always, had stolen a dining chair and wedged it into their circle, backwards, arms slung over the backrest like he was ready for a fight — or an intervention.

Their blazers had been tossed somewhere across the apartment, forming a careless trail from the entryway to the couch. At the door, a small cluster of umbrellas leaned together, still dripping rainwater onto the mat.

The boys hadn’t bothered changing out fully — each of them sat in uniform pants, but with their signature tops. Baku in his red hoodie, Gotak into his blue one, Juntae still in his white shirt with sleeves half-rolled, and Sieun in his long-sleeved T-shirt and pajamas.

Outside, the storm rumbled on. Rain hammered against the windows and balcony rail, a steady thudding that filled every pause in the room. The chilly draft carried in the earthy smell of wet soil whenever the door had been opened, but inside it was warm, close, almost too quiet.

The air smelled faintly of detergent and, sharper still, the spice of Suho’s fever medicine lingering on the counter.

It had started with a single message. Sieun had typed into their group chat that morning: “Suho has a fever. I’m not coming to school.”

And just like that, all the tigers had turned up at their den — Sieun’s apartment. No plan, no discussion. Just instinct. Now, uniforms damp at the hems and socks chilled from the walk over, they filled the space as if it belonged to them too, carrying the storm in with them.

 

And all three of them were staring at Sieun.

 

Gotak scoffed. “How much of an idiot do you need to be to think like this?”

“That’s what I don’t get,” Juntae said, voice higher, almost desperate. “You’re the smart one, Sieunah. This doesn’t make sense!”

“Exactly!” Gotak slapped the back of his chair with his palm, rattling it. “Even he agrees.”

Baku shifted forward in the beanbag, scowling. “Right. Even if we mashed our three brains together—” he pointed at himself, Gotak, then jerked his thumb toward Suho’s usual spot on the couch — empty now, only a folded blanket left behind — “we still wouldn’t match yours.”

Juntae blinked, offended. “Why didn’t you mash mine?”

Gotak turned his head slowly, staring at him. His silence was eloquent.

Baku blinked, confused for a long moment, then finally muttered, “…I don’t know.”

The whole room paused. They all blinked. For one strange second the tension cracked, absurdity seeping through like a bad laugh at a funeral.

Then Baku leaned forward again, frown returning. “Whatever. That’s not the point. Why are you saying you triggered Suho’s breakdown?”

 

Sieun’s voice came out quiet, but steady enough to freeze them. “Because I did. I think… he’s having panic attacks.”

 

The words fell like a stone. Gotak’s smirk vanished. Baku stopped shifting. Even Juntae’s hands, still hovering mid-gesture, lowered slowly to his lap.

 

Nobody spoke.

 

“It still doesn’t mean it’s because of you—” Juntae tried, voice softer now, almost pleading. But Sieun cut him off before he could finish.

 

“He caught me yesterday.” His voice dropped even lower, flat but weighted. “He realized I’d been in a fight.”

 

That drew the reactions all at once.

 

“Fuck,” Baku muttered, low and sharp.

 

Gotak echoed him, louder, angrier. “Fuck!”

 

“Oh no…” Juntae’s words were a whisper, almost to himself.

 

Sieun only sighed, his shoulders falling the smallest fraction, like even exhaling cost him.

 

The silence that followed was brutal — pressing down on all of them, suffocating in its heaviness. And yet, absurdly, it was still ridiculous: three half-grown boys in their wrinkled shirts, glaring holes into their friend on a couch, completely out of their depth. For once, none of them had a joke ready.

 

“But how the hell did Suho even catch you? I thought he was dumb,” Baku grumbled, scratching his neck.

Sieun’s glare cut across the couch like a knife.

Gotak smacked the back of Baku’s head. “He’s not dumb — at least not dumber than you.”

Baku winced. “Ow, what the hell, man?”

Juntae pressed his lips together, trying to be the responsible one. But his shoulders shook, and a muffled laugh escaped before he could swallow it back. “Sieun literally had a bandage on his forehead. How was Suho not supposed to notice?”

Gotak tilted his head. “But it’s not like it’s the first time. He knows you still fight.”

“Yeah,” Baku jumped in, eager. “Like he doesn’t know we’re always in fights too. Beside him.”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Juntae huffed, leaning forward, his hair flopping into his face. “You two dragging him into fights probably makes Suho even more worried!”

Both Baku and Gotak froze. Then they turned, blinked at each other.

Gotak shrugged slowly. “Yeahhh… but still.”

Baku rubbed the back of his head again, sheepish. “I mean… Suho did text me. Asked why I didn’t stop Sieun from fighting.”

Gotak’s eyes went wide, like he’d just been handed gossip. “And? What’d you reply?”

Baku deadpanned, “I said I didn’t stop him because I’m the one who brought him into the fight to help me.”

A beat.

Then both he and Gotak collapsed into laughter, doubling over. Gotak nearly slid off his chair, slapping his thigh, while Baku rolled sideways in the beanbag, choking on his own wheeze.

Juntae bit his lip hard, trying not to laugh, his hand over his mouth like that would help. The corner of his mouth twitched until he gave up with a strangled giggle.

Sieun just blinked at their antics, unimpressed, his face caught somewhere between long-suffering patience and disbelief.

“So then what did Suho say?” Juntae finally asked, curiosity winning over reason.

Baku straightened with a grin, still hiccupping laughter. “He sent me that sticker—you know, the angry puppy running after a man to bite him.”

Gotak slapped the back of his chair so hard it rattled. “Then?!”

“Then I sent one back — the puppy actually bites the guy, but trips, and the guy laughs at it.”

Gotak laughed so hard he nearly toppled backwards. “You didn’t—!”

“I did.”

Juntae cracked then, snorting into his sleeve, shoulders shaking. Even Sieun’s lips twitched, the tiniest reluctant smile breaking through before he caught himself.

“And?” Juntae pressed, leaning forward, eyes bright now.

Baku chuckled, dragging it out. “Then he sent me the pouty sticker. You know, the one where the cheeks look like they’re about to explode.” He puffed his own cheeks up, crossing his arms and pouting exaggeratedly. Gotak absolutely lost it, doubling over again.

“And then…” Baku wheezed, “he said he’s not talking to me too.”

Gotak froze mid-laugh. “Too? Not talking to you too? Who else?”

Sieun’s voice slipped out, quiet, almost unwilling: “Me. He didn’t talk to me the whole day.”

The room erupted.

“A whole day?!” Juntae yelped.
“No way!” Gotak shouted.
“Are you kidding?!” Baku barked.

Sieun just sighed, shoulders sagging further into the couch.

Juntae stared. “But you don’t even look angry with us?”

Gotak frowned. “Yah, Juntae. What, you want Sieunie to get mad at us too?”

Baku folded his arms. “Right. Why are you throwing fire into calm petrol?”

Gotak whipped around. “Idiot. It’s petrol into calm fire.”

Baku blinked. “…Yeah, whatever.”

Sieun’s voice cut through their bickering, flat and heavy. “Because you didn’t really do any damage. It was me.”

The laughter thinned into silence.

Gotak frowned, serious now. “What? Why? What happened?”

Sieun sighed, long and heavy. “When I came home… he just looked at my face and said, ‘You got into a fight.’ And I said nothing.”

“Okay… then?” Gotak urged, softer.

Sieun’s jaw clenched. “Then he got… really mad. Started shouting. Asked if I went to school for studying or fighting.”

Baku hummed low. “Fair question.”

“And then,” Sieun continued, voice lowering further, “out of nowhere he started saying… what if the guy I beat up got seriously hurt? What if I got suspended? What would I have done then?”

Gotak leaned back slowly. “…Valid point.”

Juntae’s voice came out quieter, almost hesitant. “There must’ve been more, right?”

Sieun flinched like the words pressed against an open wound. He hesitated. Then finally, quietly:
“I told him… that I don’t regret it. I didn’t regret beating him. I don’t regret it now. And I won’t… regret it in the future. Even if I…got suspended.” His fists tightened on his knees. “Because I beat up the bully who was harassing girls.”

The words hit the room like stones dropped into water, rippling silence through them.

Nobody moved.

“…Did he hear the last part?” Baku asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.

Sieun nodded once. His voice broke just a fraction. “He heard it. But he was still angry.”

The quiet stretched. The rain outside thudded harder against the windows, like underlining it.

“And so…” Sieun’s gaze fell to the floor, his voice thinning. “Maybe I’m the problem here. Maybe… I’m not the one he needs right now.”

Gotak shook his head hard, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. “No way…”

Baku leaned back in the beanbag with a heavy thud, arms crossed, jaw tight, shaking his head too.

Sieun stayed quiet.

Juntae’s eyes lingered on him. Sieun was tucked into the corner of the couch, body drawn in tight — arms folded, legs pulled up, back pressed against the cushions. From the outside, he looked calm, expression flat as always. But Juntae knew better. He’d watched Sieun long enough to recognize it. The stillness wasn’t calm. It was armor.

Maybe Baku and Gotak knew it too. Maybe that was why they kept cracking jokes earlier, laughing too loud — not because they weren’t worried, but because they were. Covering the cracks in their own way.

Because Sieun was shaken. He just wasn’t showing it.

“Sieunah…” Juntae’s voice broke the hum of rain, softer than usual, careful. “You’re not the problem. You’re missing the one thing here.”

The room stilled.

Even the storm outside seemed to pause, only the steady thudding against the windows filling the silence.

All three of them turned to him. Even Sieun’s eyes shifted, unblinking, curious in their emptiness.

Juntae swallowed, his throat dry, and pressed on. “Suho. Because of the fights… because he got dragged into fights… that’s why he ended up that way.”

Sieun blinked once. Slowly.

“He must be worried sick,” Juntae went on. “What if you got hurt?”

Sieun’s gaze stayed on him, sharp but distant — like his mind was elsewhere, twisting around words unsaid. Juntae faltered for a second, nervous he’d chosen the wrong words.

WRONG WORDS.

JUNTAE HAD CHOSEN WRONG WORDS.

Then Sieun spoke, voice low, cutting through the room like a blade. “If you say it like that… Suho got into a fight in the first place… because of me—”

“Sieunah.”

Baku’s voice hit like thunder. He cut him off immediately, leaning forward in the beanbag until it creaked beneath him. His fists dug into his knees, knuckles white. And a smile plastered. His tone was steady, rough. “You’re the only person he needs right now. Don’t think anything else.”

The air in the room thickened. The rain outside picked up, pounding harder against the glass, relentless as if trying to shove its way inside.

Sieun didn’t reply. His face stayed still, unreadable. But the corners of his mouth tightened, his folded arms pressed harder into himself. Juntae noticed the small tremor in his sleeves — not from cold, but from holding back. Sieun looked like he wanted to fight, to argue, to finally say everything clawing at him.

Instead, all he managed was a whisper.

“You didn’t see him.”

The three of them snapped their eyes to him again, sharp, waiting.

Sieun’s voice came hoarse this time, scraped raw. “He was… he was gasping for breath. He was crying. Sobbing.” His hands dug into his sleeves so tight the fabric bunched. “And when I reached him…” His voice faltered, just for a beat. “He shoved me away. He pushed me like he couldn’t bear to see me.”

His eyes dropped to the floor, heavy with something darker than guilt, deeper than shame.

When he finally spoke again, the words barely made it out.

“He saw me as a monster.”

And now Juntae realized it was far more serious than he had thought.

He’d noticed the bandage on Sieun’s arm earlier. They all had. But none of them asked. They had just assumed it was from yesterday’s fight — another bruise, another scrape, nothing unusual.
But now… now he understood it hadn’t been that.
Quietly, cautiously, Juntae asked, “Did it… did it happen last night? The bandage on your arm?”

Sieun didn’t lift his head. His voice came low, almost drained. “He shoved me away. When I was trying to calm him down.”

His gaze stayed locked on the floor, the words falling from him like stones. “And then the glass slipped.”

The room went still. The only sound was the rain hammering harder against the windows, thudding like fists.

Sieun’s voice carried on, hoarse and detached, as if he wasn’t even speaking to them anymore. “In his panic… he forgot. That he couldn’t walk. That he still needed support to stand. He was falling when—”
He stopped.
But he didn’t need to finish. They all understood. The silence filled in the rest.
Suho had fallen. And Sieun had gone down with him — taking the hit so Suho wouldn’t.
The air in the room seemed to grow colder.
This wasn’t just serious. It was devastating.
Because if Sieun truly believed that Suho had looked at him like a monster — pushed him away in terror — then this wasn’t just panic. It was a rejection. A rejection of Sieun, of the one person who had stayed by his side.

Juntae felt awe, and fear, twist in his chest. Awe, because Sieun was still sitting there, holding himself together, his voice steady enough to speak. Fear, because if it had been him… he would have shattered already. He would have locked himself away, refused to speak, broken down until nothing was left.

But Sieun… Sieun was still here. Still silent, still breathing, still folded into the couch like nothing could touch him — while inside he was bleeding.

And what Sieun might do next — Juntae had no idea. He feared it. Maybe Baku and Gotak did too, because both of them had gone silent, watching him with tight jaws and heavy eyes. For once, there were no jokes.

Finally, Baku’s voice broke the silence. Low, uncertain, but steady enough to ground them. “Then… we need medical consultation. This isn’t just about fights anymore.” His eyes moved across the others, then back to Sieun. “If Suho’s having panic attacks, if it’s that bad… we can’t just leave it. He’s already in rehab for his leg and shoulder, but this…” He paused, his jaw clenching. “…this is different. We need a doctor who deals with the mind too. A psychiatrist. Or at least a psychologist. Someone who can help.”

Gotak nodded quickly, his usual careless expression replaced by something grim. “Yeah. He needs that. For sure.”

Juntae added a small, firm nod, his throat too tight for words.

The room grew heavier, weighed down by the truth of it, by the storm outside pressing against the walls. The rain beat harder, steady and merciless, like it was trying to drown the silence.

And then —

A sudden, galling sound cracked through it.

A dull thud, followed by the faint scrape of something shifting.

All three of them froze, hearts leaping.

It came from the bedroom.

From where Suho was supposed to be sleeping.

Sieun was the first one to move.

And the speed shocked them. One second he was sitting folded up on the couch, the next he had sprung to his feet, fast — too fast. He nearly startled them with how quick it was.

For a moment, all three just stared at him in awe. Then instinct kicked in, and they followed, footsteps quick, no one wasting time.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Sieun was already inside. He wasn’t close, though. He stood at a respectful distance from the bed, his posture careful.

On the floor lay the alarm clock — scattered in pieces, as if it had crashed hard. The cover rolled one way, the cell another, the clock face to the side.

Suho’s eyes flicked down at the broken thing, but only for a second. Because the moment Sieun bent to pick it up, Suho’s gaze locked on him instead.

Sieun crouched quietly, gathering the scattered pieces.

And Suho… Suho lay propped against his pillows, a damp cloth slipping from his temple. His eyes were swollen, puffy from tears, his nose flushed red. He looked wrecked. Yet at the same time — unbearably soft. A baby-faced Suho, gazing at Sieun with all the confusion and stubbornness of a puppy whose master had refused to cuddle him.

It was almost ridiculous.

Sieun, completely aware of the gaze burning into him, said nothing. He only kept collecting the pieces of the clock, shoulders slightly hunched. His long fingers found the cell under the edge of the bed, the cap near the table leg, the main frame by the rug. And, without a word, he began fitting them back together.

Behind him, the others hovered in the doorway, watching in silence. Confused — but also, oddly, amused.

Because no one would have guessed, from the way Suho was looking at him now, that he’d been angry with Sieun at all. If not for the swollen eyes, the puffiness of his face, the red nose, you could almost believe nothing had happened.

Juntae noticed it most. The intensity of Suho’s stare. The way he clung to Sieun with his eyes as though he needed him. As though he wanted nothing else in the room.

He leaned sideways, whispering low so only Baku and Gotak could hear. “You don’t look at someone like that if you really think they’re a monster.”

For a moment, the three of them just stood there, the truth settling in. And then, slowly, they smiled.

The storm outside was still raging. But here — in this small bedroom with its broken alarm clock and swollen-eyed patient staring at the boy fixing it — the air softened.
Warm. Wholesome. Quiet.

Suho made a small sound, barely a whimper — soft, weak, like the complaint of a child.

It was enough to draw Sieun’s eyes. He looked up immediately, gaze softening, body subtly tilting forward. “Hey,” he said quietly, voice carrying that low steadiness he always used with Suho.

Suho blinked at him, slow and hazy, fever dragging at his thoughts. His expression was confused, almost dazed, as if his mind couldn’t quite stitch together why Sieun was standing so far away. Everyone noticed it — the distance, the space Sieun had put between himself and the bed. Everyone except Sieun himself.

“You’re home,” Suho rasped, his voice hoarse and cracked around the edges.

Sieun nodded once, calm as ever. “You had a fever.”

Suho frowned faintly at that, still fogged with confusion. His fingers twitched as if to push himself upright, but when he tried, his arms trembled weakly, shoulders giving out before he could manage.

Sieun moved in an instant. No hesitation, no pause. Two quick steps and he was there, at Suho’s bedside, leaning in close enough that Suho instinctively relaxed back into the pillows with a soft exhale.

Suho’s clumsy hand tugged at the damp cloth slipping from his temple. It flopped awkwardly into his palm, but before it could fall, Sieun’s fingers closed around it, catching it smoothly. Their eyes met for a moment — Suho’s swollen and watery, red around the edges, lips dry and chapped from fever, nose flushed pink. He looked wrecked. Fragile.

And in that broken, fragile state, he whispered, “You weren’t here.” His voice cracked like it hurt to say.

Sieun’s hand was already reaching for his forehead, palm pressing lightly to check the heat. Suho leaned into it at once, nuzzling into the touch like it was all he’d wanted from the beginning.

“I was outside,” Sieun murmured, voice quiet, controlled. “The guys are here to see you.”

But Suho didn’t care about that. Didn’t care about anyone else. He just pressed closer, eyes fluttering shut as though if he leaned hard enough, Sieun wouldn’t be able to move away again.

From the doorway, Juntae thought helplessly, He really does look like a puppy.

And no one disagreed. Not Baku, not Gotak — for once they were silent, caught in the same awe.

“How are you feeling?” Sieun whispered.

Suho’s lashes trembled as his eyes slipped shut. “My head hurts… my nose too…” His voice cracked again. He swallowed, then added softly, “…and I’m hungry.”

Sieun’s hand shifted, brushing the damp strands of hair at Suho’s temple. “Then let’s get you something to eat. After that, you can sleep more. Hmm?”

Suho nodded faintly, obedient, pliant.

But then his eyes opened again — wide, glazed, searching.

And what he found was Sieun looking back at him. Not with judgment. Not with frustration. But with quiet affection, raw and unhidden. It was steady, almost gentle in its weight.

And in that gaze, Suho felt everything dull. The pounding in his temple eased, the sting in his nose faded, even the burn of his swollen eyes dimmed. For a fleeting moment, it felt like he could just drift off again, safe, warm, held — if only Sieun leaned close enough for him to cling to.

But hunger gnawed at his belly, pulling him back.

“Let’s go,” Sieun said softly.

Suho nodded again, weak hands reaching up — grabby, desperate, small.

Without hesitation, Sieun slid an arm under his shoulders, lifting him carefully. Suho melted into the movement, pliant, trusting, letting himself be guided. When he sat up, he simply let his chin fall onto Sieun’s shoulder, half-hugging him, his weight light but clinging.

It felt good. Too good. Like he could stay there forever.

And then—

A sharp whistle sliced through the quiet.

The sound was jarring, bouncing off the walls. Suho flinched faintly, eyes cracking open. Still nestled into Sieun’s shoulder, he turned his head, cheek brushing against the soft fabric of Sieun’s shirt as he blinked toward the doorway.

The gang stood there like a badly behaved audience at the worst possible play.

Juntae was the first sight: both hands slapped over his mouth, his eyes wide, gleaming with mischief, shoulders trembling as he tried not to explode with laughter. Next to him, Gotak froze like he’d been caught red-handed, his hand half-raised in a sheepish little wave, face torn between guilt and amusement. And at the center, Baku leaned back against the frame as if he owned the moment, hands laced lazily behind his head, a smug smirk curving his mouth.
“Hey, Romeo,” Baku rumbled, voice thick with mockery and amusement.
The word hung in the air like a punchline none of them were ready for.
Suho blinked slowly, still foggy from fever. Romeo? His fever-hazed brain lagged a full second before catching on. His ears burned first, then his already-red cheeks darkened.
But instead of pulling away, Suho did the opposite. His fingers bunched weakly into the fabric of Sieun’s shirt, clinging tighter. His chin stayed tucked against Sieun’s shoulder, body pressing in like a child caught hiding behind his parent.
Sieun, on the other hand, went very still. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t respond. He just adjusted his grip slightly, steadying Suho against him, his face as unreadable as ever — though the tips of his ears had turned faintly pink.
The silence stretched. Rain drummed against the windowpanes.
Then Gotak let out a muffled squeak of laughter through his hands. Juntae’s wave faltered, his shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh too.
Baku smirked wider. “What, no lines for Juliet?”
That broke them. Juntae wheezed behind his hands, Gotak ducked his head to hide his grin, and the room filled with the barely-contained snorts of idiots trying not to die laughing.
Suho’s brows knitted together. He shifted just enough to glare weakly past Sieun’s shoulder at them, though the effect was ruined by how watery his eyes still were and how puffy his face looked. Like an angry puppy growling with a squeak.
The gang only laughed harder.
Sieun finally exhaled, long-suffering, his voice dry. “Get out.”
It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to cut through their laughter.
Baku chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. Gotak was still hiccuping with laughter, while Juntae, bless him, mouthed a tiny, guilty sorry in Suho’s direction.
But none of it mattered to Suho. Because he had tucked his face right back into Sieun’s shoulder, eyes closing again, clinging even tighter.
And the sight of it — Suho half-dozing in Sieun’s arms, stubbornly ignoring the rest of the world — left the three of them quietly smiling despite themselves.
Sieun lowered his head, his voice calm and steady. “Let’s get fresh, hmm?”

Suho made a faint noise in response, nuzzling his face deeper into Sieun’s shoulder, breathing him in. He lingered there for a moment, reluctant to move.

Then, slowly, he tilted his head back just a little, enough to look at Sieun. His bangs fell over his eyes in the movement, messy and damp from sweat.

Sieun’s gaze softened. He reached out, fingers brushing Suho’s fringe aside with a gentle stroke. “I should really try cutting your hair,” he murmured.

Suho just gave the faintest, tired smile — a small curve of lips, but warm.

“Let’s go?” Sieun prompted quietly.

Suho nodded.

Sieun stood, first leaning down to grab the crutches propped against the wall. He set them within reach, then slipped an arm carefully under Suho’s arm, steadying him as he pulled him upright. Suho wavered at first, his body heavy and weak, but with Sieun’s steady grip, he found his balance.

Together, step by step, Sieun led him toward the bathroom.

 

The small space was warm with steam from earlier. Suho’s movements were sluggish, almost mechanical. First, Sieun helped him to the bathroom … he needed to relieve himself … waiting discreetly but close by in case he stumbled. When Suho emerged again, pale but calmer, Sieun was already waiting with the sink running.

“Wash your hands,” Sieun said gently.

Suho obeyed, taking a pump of hand wash and slipping his hands under the stream. The cold water startled him, making him blink awake a little. He rubbed his palms together slowly, movements sluggish, then shook them out weakly.

Meanwhile, Sieun uncapped the toothpaste, carefully squeezing a neat ribbon onto the brush. He handed it to Suho, but Suho only blinked at it, glassy-eyed, too dazed from fever to really react.

 

Sieun sighed softly, but his expression stayed patient. He stepped closer, brushing a thumb against Suho’s chin to coax his mouth open. Then, steady and unhurried, he lifted the brush and began moving it gently across Suho’s teeth.

Suho stood pliant, eyes half-closed, lips parted just enough, letting Sieun guide every stroke. The sound of bristles scratching faintly filled the small room, rain thudding outside the window behind them.

When he was done, Sieun reached for the rinse cup, filled it with clean water, and held it to Suho’s lips. “Rinse,” he murmured.

Suho swirled it lazily in his mouth, cheeks puffing a little, then bent forward to spit. His head felt heavy, but Sieun’s hand stayed steady at the back of his neck.

“Good,” Sieun murmured.

Then he rolled his sleeves higher and turned the tap back on, cupping cold water in his palms. “Hold still.”

He brought the water to Suho’s face, patting gently over his flushed skin. Again and again, until Suho’s fever-slick sweat eased away, leaving him cooler, fresher. Suho’s eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, a faint sigh slipping out.

With practiced ease, Sieun grabbed the towel hanging by the sink. He dabbed at Suho’s cheeks, then his forehead, then carefully under his jaw, every motion unhurried.

When he lowered the towel, Suho’s face was pink, damp, his eyes glossy as he looked straight at Sieun. He didn’t speak, just stared with quiet devotion, like he couldn’t believe this care was real.

“Come on,” Sieun whispered.

 

He guided Suho back out, step by slow step, into the living room. The rain outside still hammered against the balcony, but the apartment felt warm, wrapped in a cocoon of soft yellow light.

 

Sieun eased him down onto the couch, adjusting his position until Suho sat comfortably. Then he pulled a blanket up over Suho’s lap, tucking it in around him.

Turning toward the kitchen, Sieun started to step away — only to feel a weak tug at his wrist.

He turned back. Suho’s fingers were curled around him, grip faint but firm.

“Where are you going?” Suho asked, voice rough, thick with fever. His eyes were wide, almost childlike.

Sieun blinked. “I’m here. You can see me from here.”

From across the room, Baku and Gotak exchanged looks.

“We’re here too, man,” Gotak said, gesturing at himself. “Let Sieun go.”

Baku leaned back with a scoff. “Yeah. That hurts, dude.”

Suho ignored them. His gaze stayed on Sieun. “Can’t you stay?”

From the kitchen, Juntae let out a giggle, wooden spoon clattering softly against the pot he was stirring.

Baku and Gotak scoffed in unison, feigning offense. “That hurts, man,” Baku repeated, clutching his chest. Gotak sighed dramatically.

But Suho didn’t care. His eyes were still locked on Sieun, glossy and stubborn.

Sieun crouched slightly, his face closer now. His tone was patient, careful. “You’re hungry, right? I’ll be back.”

Suho didn’t let go.

“Suho-ya,” Sieun said softly. His thumb brushed over the back of Suho’s fever-warm hand. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

Suho’s lips pressed together. Then, slowly, he nodded, loosening his grip.

Only when Sieun finally stepped away did Suho settle back against the couch. But his eyes followed him, unblinking, until he disappeared into the kitchen.

 

When Sieun stepped into the kitchen, the smell hit him first — rich, savory steam curling up from the pot on the stove. Juntae stood there, sleeves rolled up, stirring slowly with a wooden ladle. The broth was golden, dotted with soft rice, carrots, green scallions, and pieces of tender chicken.

“Almost ready?” Sieun asked quietly, not wanting his voice to carry too far into the living room.

Juntae glanced over his shoulder, his hair damp from the humidity of the kitchen. A small, proud smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah. Just needs a minute more.”

Their voices were low, easy, almost ordinary. But from the couch, Suho’s fever-heavy eyes followed every word. He couldn’t make them out clearly — the rain was too loud, and his own pulse too strong in his ears — but he wanted to. Wanted to know what they were saying, why Juntae was smiling like that, what tone Sieun had used.

He wished, with a sudden sharp ache, that he was there too. Standing beside Sieun, close enough to hear every word.

Instead, his eyes never left him.

“Are you okay?”

The voice broke his drifting. Baku’s. Low, rumbling, but unusually gentle.

Suho turned his head slowly, blinking at him. After a pause, he gave a faint nod.

Gotak leaned forward from where he was perched on a chair, elbows on his knees, his expression serious for once. “Do you need a doctor?”

Suho shook his head, weak but certain. His lips parted, and his voice came out faint. “…He’ll know.”

Gotak blinked. “He?”

But Suho didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. The meaning was obvious. Sieun would know. Of course Sieun would know.

Gotak hummed under his breath, scratching the back of his neck. Then, trying to soften the air, he perked up with a grin. “Should we play something after you eat? Or maybe watch a movie?”

Suho’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, lashes heavy, before he whispered, “…a movie.”

“Okay. Deal,” Baku said at once, his mouth tugging into a grin.

And then — Suho felt it. That subtle shift in the air.

His eyes snapped to the kitchen.

Sieun was walking in, steady and careful, a tray balanced in his hands. On it were bowls, steam rising in curling wisps, carrying the scent of warm chicken, rice, and vegetables. The aroma spread into the room instantly, wrapping around them like a blanket.

Juntae followed, holding a ladle and smaller bowls, setting them on the table one by one. When he placed one in front of Suho, he said gently, “This one’s for you.”

Suho blinked at the bowl. His hands, however, stayed folded in his lap. He made no effort to move.

The silence was immediate. Everyone noticed.

Even Sieun froze for a beat, his eyes flicking to Suho, then down to the untouched bowl. Without a word, he shifted. He placed Suho’s medicine neatly on the table, then lowered himself onto the couch beside him.

His movements were quiet, deliberate. He reached out, took the bowl gently from Juntae’s hands, and held it himself.

Across the room, Baku cleared his throat, breaking the thick pause. “You know what? Let’s put on a movie right now.” His voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of softness in it.

Gotak’s grin returned, bright and teasing. “Yeah! What kind though? Comedy? Or romantic?” He looked straight at Suho.

But Suho wasn’t looking at him.

His fever-hazy eyes were fixed on Sieun.

Sieun sat close, the bowl cradled carefully in one hand. With the other, he stirred gently, then bent his head and blew across the surface until the steam thinned. Each motion was patient, practiced — like this was something he’d done countless times before.

When he lifted the spoon toward Suho’s lips, Suho blinked at it slowly. His gaze wavered, drifting briefly to Gotak, who was still waiting for an answer.

“…Romantic,” Suho murmured, his voice hoarse but sure.

Gotak’s grin widened instantly, delight sparkling in his eyes.
Baku smirked knowingly, arms crossed over his chest.
And Juntae, halfway to sitting down, ducked his head and covered his mouth with his hand, trying to hide the blush creeping over his cheeks.

But Suho had already turned back.

His lips parted slightly, obedient, and Sieun eased the spoon into his mouth.

The soup was warm. Savory. The rice soft, the carrots tender, the chicken delicate and seasoned just enough to be comforting. The broth coated his tongue, slid down his throat, and spread warmth through his chest.

Suho swallowed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as if savoring the way it filled him from the inside. When he opened them again, Sieun was already bent forward, blowing gently on the next spoonful.

Steam curled upward between them. Suho’s glassy gaze lingered on Sieun’s face — the way his bangs shifted forward, the faint crease of concentration between his brows, the steady patience in his hands.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Not the storm outside. Not the gang hovering in the background.

Just the steady rhythm of Sieun’s hand, the warmth of the soup, and Suho — pliant, trusting, fever-dazed — letting himself be cared for, his entire world narrowed to the boy beside him.

 

The room was filled with the comforting smell of chicken broth and steamed rice, the gentle clink of spoons against bowls mingling with the steady thudding of rain on the windows. It was such a simple thing — food, warmth, the five of them together — yet it wrapped the apartment in a sense of home Suho hadn’t felt in a long time.

 

Across the room, Baku slurped noisily, making a show of it. “Damn, Juntae, you sure this isn’t from a five-star hotel?”

Gotak smirked, balancing his bowl in one hand. “Five-star? Please. More like convenience store microwave special.”

Baku turned to him with mock outrage. “Then why are you already on your third serving?”

Gotak froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. He blinked, then grinned sheepishly. “What? It’s good, okay!”

Juntae flushed, the tips of his ears pink, but tried to look composed as he stirred his own bowl. “Just eat quietly, both of you.”

The banter was ridiculous, but the laughter it drew out was real.

Baku eventually leaned back, remote in hand, and flicked the TV on. After some noisy arguing — Gotak lobbying for an action flick, Baku insisting on something “classy,” Juntae muttering about what’s actually available — they landed on a famous romantic movie. One everyone had heard of, with sweeping music and gestures so over-the-top it was impossible not to react.

Steam curled from their bowls as they settled in, light from the screen flickering across their faces. The rain outside pounded harder, but inside the air was warm, golden, and full of laughter.

Even Suho, slumped into his cushions, felt it seep into him.

But his gaze drifted. Not to the movie. Not to the others. To Sieun.

Sieun laughed at something Gotak said, the corner of his mouth pulling upward, his eyes crinkling faintly. It was soft, unguarded — the kind of smile that didn’t need hiding.

Suho stared. He couldn’t help it.

He loved that smile. Always had. But the realization that struck him was bitter, aching: Sieun had changed.

Suho could see it so clearly now.

He laughed more easily. He let them tease him, even fired back sometimes, rolling his eyes instead of retreating into silence. There was a lightness to him now, a quiet acceptance of their chaos, that hadn’t been there before.

And Suho… hadn’t been there to see it happen.

I lost two years, Suho thought, the words pressing heavy against his chest.

Two years of school. Two years of inside jokes and afternoons like this. Two years of exams, festivals, fights, and dumb arguments he never got to share.

Two years where the world moved on without him.

And worst of all — two years of Sieun.

He thought of all the mornings he hadn’t walked beside him, the times he hadn’t been there when Sieun needed someone, the smiles he hadn’t witnessed. What could he have said, what could he have done, if only he had been awake?

How many chances had slipped through his fingers, never to return?

It felt like grief. Grief for a life that had passed without him.

His fingers clenched faintly in the blanket, his gaze sinking to the floor even as laughter bubbled around him. Baku made some crack about the movie’s hero, Gotak pretended to swoon at the dramatic declarations of love, Juntae groaned in embarrassment — the room alive with noise.

But Suho’s chest hurt. He couldn’t shake the thought: I missed it all. I missed him.

The storm outside beat mercilessly against the glass, the wind sneaking through faint cracks with a chill. But inside, the little apartment glowed — warm bowls in hand, laughter echoing, golden light spilling across the floor.

When Suho finally swallowed his last spoonful, Sieun set the empty bowl aside. Without a word, he reached for the towel, leaning close to wipe Suho’s mouth gently. The motion was so instinctive, so patient, that Suho’s chest squeezed painfully.

“Medicine,” Sieun murmured. He picked up the pills from the table and pressed them into Suho’s palm. Then he held out a glass of water.

Suho drank slowly, lips pressed to the rim. His fever-weak hands trembled faintly until Sieun’s steady grip came over his own, guiding the glass until it was safe to set down.

When it was done, Sieun adjusted the blanket around him again, tugging it up to his chest like he always did — small, simple, but protective.

Then Juntae leaned forward, holding out a fresh bowl. “Here. Eat before it gets cold.”

Sieun blinked, then accepted it with a quiet, “Thanks.”

Juntae smiled, small and warm, before settling back into his seat, his gaze already sliding back to the movie.

The room slipped into a steady rhythm. Baku and Gotak bickered over whether the lead actor was handsome or just ridiculous. Juntae stifled laughter into his sleeve. And Sieun, finally eating his own bowl, did so calmly, his attention only breaking when Suho shifted faintly beside him.

Suho watched it all with heavy eyes. The laughter, the warmth, the flickering light. It was so ordinary. So perfect.

And yet all he could think, as his body sagged against the cushions and sleep tugged at him, was how much of this he had missed.

How much of Sieun he had missed.

By the time the movie reached its halfway point, Suho’s head was already drooping, his eyes barely open. His last clear thought wasn’t of the film, or the storm, or even his own regret.

It was of Sieun’s hand — steady on his glass, adjusting his blanket, wiping his mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The world felt safe again. Safe enough to let go.

So Suho did. Fever-warm and dazed, he let his eyes close.

Suho’s lashes fluttered heavily, his vision hazing at the edges. Every blink lasted longer than the one before, his body sinking deeper into the couch cushions. His breaths came slower, shallow but steady, his fever pulling him gently under.

Sieun noticed immediately. The way Suho’s head tipped to the side, the faint slackness in his grip on the blanket — he was drifting. Quietly, carefully, Sieun pushed himself up to stand, moving with the silent intention of adjusting him.

But the second his warmth shifted away, Suho stirred. His eyes cracked open, glassy and dazed, but his hand jerked out weakly to grab him. His fingers curled into Sieun’s wrist, clumsy but desperate, holding him there.

The sudden movement pulled everyone’s eyes toward them. Baku stopped mid-slurp. Gotak’s spoon froze halfway to his mouth. Juntae stilled, bowl in his lap.

Sieun blinked down at Suho, caught between surprise and patience. “You should lie down more comfortably,” he murmured, voice low, coaxing.

But Suho shook his head stubbornly, fever-hazy eyes fixed on him, as if the idea of letting Sieun move away was unbearable.

“Just lie down,” Sieun said again, softer, steadier this time. His voice had that rare, grounding calm. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Suho’s eyes searched his, unblinking, glassy. He still didn’t let go.

So Sieun crouched, bringing himself closer, lowering his voice to a promise. “I promise.”

 

That word seemed to settle something in Suho. His grip loosened — not releasing him entirely, but enough for Sieun to adjust him. Gently, Sieun guided him down, slipping a hand behind his shoulder, easing his body flat against the couch.

 

He tugged the blanket higher, smoothing it over Suho’s chest, tucking it in until the fevered boy looked cocooned in warmth.

“Sleep,” Sieun whispered. His hand brushed through Suho’s messy bangs, combing them back from his forehead. Then, almost instinctively, he pulled the hood of Suho’s hoodie up, tugging it snug over his head so it framed his flushed face. He smoothed Suho’s hair again, fingertips lingering against the curve of his temple like he couldn’t stop himself.

Finally, when Suho stilled again, eyes closed once more, Sieun lowered himself onto the floor beside the couch. He leaned back against it, his posture unassuming, quiet. He didn’t move to free his hand.

Because Suho was still holding it.

Fever-warm fingers curled around Sieun’s knuckles, clinging even as sleep weighed him down.

And in that hazy space between waking and dreams, Suho’s thoughts blurred into a single truth: How could I be this lucky? Was it normal for a friend to take so much care — to feed him, brush back his hair, sit on the floor just to keep his hand in reach?

He didn’t have the answer. His eyelids grew too heavy to chase it. Sleep pulled him under before he could decide.

The room seemed to hush in response.

The only sounds left were the softened patter of rain against the windows, steady and soothing; the slow rhythm of Suho’s breathing, finally even and calm; and the faint hum of the television, turned low so it wouldn’t disturb him. The glow from the screen washed the walls in shifting shades of blue and gold.

Baku sat sprawled on the floor, bowl forgotten in his lap, his usual smirk softened into something quieter. Gotak leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his hands, watching the scene with wide eyes but saying nothing. Juntae, curled on the edge of the other couch, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips.

None of them spoke.

They just watched, silent and fond, as though the scene in front of them — Sieun on the floor, Suho asleep with his hand curled tight around his own — was too rare, too fragile to risk breaking with words.

And in that moment, with the storm outside and warmth inside, it felt like their little world was whole again.

 

╰⁠(⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠´⁠꒳⁠`⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠)⁠╯

 

The movie was going on, casting soft light across the room. The storm outside rumbled low, rain slapping heavy against the windows. Beneath it all, the room was hushed with the kind of warmth only shared after food and laughter.

 

Suho shifted faintly in his sleep. His brow furrowed, lips parting in the smallest whimper, and his fever-warm fingers suddenly squeezed Sieun’s hand tighter — almost desperate.

Immediately, Sieun stilled. Then, with his other hand, he reached over and rubbed slow, steady strokes across the back of Suho’s knuckles. His thumb moved gently, rhythmically, as if smoothing the panic out of him.

 

“It’s okay,” he murmured under his breath, low enough for only Suho to hear. His eyes softened, though his expression barely changed. “I’m right here.”

 

The tension in Suho’s face eased by degrees. His grip stayed firm, but the lines of his forehead smoothed, his body slackening again as sleep tugged him back under.

From the futons, the others watched — silent at first, then whispering in the dim light, their voices hushed under the noise of the rain and the TV.

Gotak leaned toward Baku, his grin half-hidden in the blanket. “Did you see that? He calmed him down without even thinking.”

 

Baku smirked, but his voice was softer than usual. “Yeah. Like it’s automatic for him.”

On the other side, Juntae’s whisper carried a trace of awe. “That wasn’t just calming. That was… it's like he knew exactly what to do. Like he’s been doing it all along.”

 

Gotak chuckled under his breath, but even he sounded quieter than his usual loud self. “Man, Suho’s right. If anyone’s his doctor, it’s Sieun.”

 

Baku gave a low laugh. “Not just a doctor. More like…” He trailed off, smirk tugging, but didn’t finish the sentence.

 

Juntae pressed his lips together, cheeks warm, before whispering again. “It’s not normal… right? For a friend to care this much?”

 

The three of them glanced at one another, their faces half-lit by the glow of the screen. None of them had a real answer. But the fondness in their eyes said more than words could.

 

On the couch, Suho stirred faintly again, fingers squeezing once more. Without missing a beat, Sieun shifted his hand, thumb tracing back and forth across Suho’s skin.

“Sleep,” he whispered again, almost inaudible. “I’ve got you.”

Suho’s breathing evened out, his hold still firm but no longer frantic, like he trusted the anchor in his palm too much to let go.

The gang watched in silence this time. Not a joke, not a tease. Just three boys lying in their futons, staring at their friend on the floor — a boy who pretended to be stone-faced but was sitting there quietly, letting someone cling to him in his sleep, steadying him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

 

The rain thudded harder outside, but inside it was soft and golden, the air full of warmth and unspoken thoughts none of them dared to voice.

 

The movie flickering quietly on, its sound a low hum under the steady patter of rain.

Suho’s breathing deepened, his fever making him cling even in sleep — fingers curled stubbornly around Sieun’s hand, knuckles white.

Sieun had stayed still for so long, shifted, facing towards the couch, simply letting Suho hold on. But fatigue finally caught up with him. His head began to tip, his shoulders loosening as drowsiness crept in. Inch by inch, his posture slumped until his head rested against the edge of the couch cushion — tilted just enough that his face ended up close to Suho’s. Their foreheads weren’t touching, but they were near enough to feel each other’s warmth.

Suho didn’t let go. Not once.

And that was how Sieun drifted off: hand trapped in Suho’s, face angled toward him, their breaths falling into the same slow rhythm.

From their futons, the gang watched in silence. Not teasing, not giggling — just… watching.

Gotak was the first to whisper, voice hushed with something between awe and amusement. “Suho’s clingier than usual.”

Baku let out a soft huff, smirking but quieter than his usual drawl. “Must be the fever. Makes him softer.”

Juntae nodded faintly, his eyes soft. “Sieun’s… he’s so great though.”

Both Baku and Gotak hummed their agreement, nodding almost unconsciously, their gazes lingering on the pair at the couch.

The fondness hung thick in the room, unspoken but shared.

Juntae moved before he could think twice. Rising carefully from his futon, he picked up one of the spare blankets folded nearby and walked over. Gently, he draped it over Sieun’s shoulders, tucking it so it wouldn’t slip as he slept awkwardly on the floor.

He lingered a moment, looking down at the sight. Suho with his hand latched tightly around Sieun’s, Sieun letting him, their faces close in sleep. His heart ached at how fragile and perfect it looked.

And then… he couldn’t resist.

Juntae slipped his phone out, thumb hovering uncertainly for a second, before he snapped a photo.

The faint shutter sound made him grin. He stared at the picture — the two of them sleeping so close, Suho’s grip, Sieun’s soft profile. His chest warmed.

 

“They’re so cute,” he whispered when he showed the screen to Baku and Gotak.

Gotak leaned up on one elbow to peek, eyes going wide. “Wow. Suho’s really clingy with him…” His voice trailed off before curiosity slipped in. “You think he’s… possessive too?”

Baku turned his head and gave Gotak a look — flat, unreadable, but heavy with meaning. After a second, he exhaled through his nose, muttered, “I’m sleepy,” and flopped back down under his blanket.

 

Gotak blinked, then chuckled to himself, lying down too.

 

Juntae smiled softly, one last glance at the couch. He knew Sieun’s posture was uncomfortable, head crooked, back bent against the couch frame. But there was no point in waking him. Not when Suho was clinging so tightly, not when Sieun looked… at peace.

With a quiet sigh, Juntae padded back to his futon. He reached for the remote, turned off the TV, and let the room sink into the sounds of rain and steady breathing.

Curling beneath his own blanket, he closed his eyes, the photo still glowing on his phone in his mind’s eye.

His last thought before sleep claimed him was simple, warm, and certain.

We’re so lucky to have each other.

 

(⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

 

Suho drifted slowly toward consciousness, like rising from deep water.

The first thing he noticed wasn’t light, or sound. It was touch.
His hand. Damp with sweat. But warm. Anchored.

 

Warmth surrounded him everywhere, pressing close, cocooning him in a way that didn’t feel suffocating — it felt safe. His head was heavy, but the ache that had been pounding earlier was fading, softened into a dull hum. The air was faintly sharp with detergent, faintly damp with wood that had absorbed last night’s rain. And beneath it all was something steadier. Subtle. Clean. Familiar.

A scent he had learned without ever trying.

Sieun.

Even without opening his eyes, Suho knew. He could feel it — in the weight against his palm, in the rhythm of another’s breathing just near him. It was him.

And when Suho finally blinked awake, the blur sharpened into what he already knew he’d find.

Sieun.

The boy slumped beside the couch, head tilted awkwardly, posture stiff in the most uncomfortable angle. The boy who could have moved, could have shaken his hand away… but hadn’t. Because Suho had been holding on.

Suho’s chest tightened.

This was the boy who had fed him soup when his body was too weak.
The boy who pressed medicine into his palm, patient even when Suho barely had the strength to swallow.
The boy who tucked the blanket tighter around him, who brushed back damp hair from his fevered forehead, whispering things he only half remembered now.
The boy who stayed, even when all he had to sit on was a hard floor and Suho’s desperate, clinging grip.

The boy Suho liked.
Far too much.

Quietly, he shifted onto his side, careful not to disturb him. That way he could see him better.

Their hands were still connected, Suho’s grip slack but unbroken. Above them, Sieun’s head rested against the couch edge. His lashes trembled faintly, catching shadows under his eyes. They looked tired. His expression now was peaceful, softened by sleep.

Suho’s breath caught.

Why did it have to be him?
Why was it always him … carrying the weight, refusing to let go, even when it left him folded into impossible shapes just to stay near?

 

Suho’s body felt lighter, fresher. His head no longer ached. His chest wasn’t burning anymore. The rest he’d needed had finally found him. And he knew, with a certainty that ached down to his bones, it wasn’t because of medicine, or time, or luck.

It was because of him.

The boy who stayed in the most uncomfortable position just so Suho wouldn’t wake up alone.

 

As Suho lay there, his gaze tracing every line of Sieun’s sleeping face, the memories wouldn’t let him rest. They returned in fragments, sharp enough to sting.

He remembered the small mercies.
Sieun crouching low, toothbrush in hand, coaxing his lips to part because Suho’s fingers had refused to move.

The gentle tilt of his wrist as he held water to Suho’s mouth, waiting, patient, until he rinsed.

The cool cloth brushing across his skin, wiping away sweat, dabbing his face with the same care one might give a porcelain figure.

Soup spooned carefully, breath blown over each mouthful so it wouldn’t burn, the warmth carried from bowl to lips with infinite patience.

The way Sieun steadied the pills in his palm, guided the glass so water didn’t spill, and didn’t let go until Suho had swallowed.
And always, always — that low murmur of calm when Suho flinched at the sudden spikes of pain, the voice grounding him, coaxing him back down.

And through it all, Sieun stayed.
No matter how long, no matter how uncomfortable, no matter how silent the hours stretched — he stayed.

Suho’s chest swelled with something unbearably tight. Because the more he remembered, the harder it became to breathe.

 

Last night.

 

The warmth of those memories cracked against the darker truth. The way he had shoved Sieun away. The way his own body had recoiled violently, as though Sieun’s touch was something he couldn’t bear. His voice still echoed in his ears — sharp, hoarse, ragged — screaming at him not to touch him.

And yet, here he was now. Anchored by nothing else but Sieun’s touch. Depending on it as if it were the only thing keeping him whole.

His throat burned.

Because he could still see it — the flicker in Sieun’s eyes when he’d pulled back, when Suho’s rejection had cut deep. How quickly he had masked it, how quickly he had swallowed his own pain and hid it away. How he had forced himself into silence, as if he had no right to show hurt, not when Suho was the one falling apart.

And Suho hated himself for it.

For making him feel that way.
For turning his steadiness into something he had to smother.
For forcing him to believe that his own pain didn’t matter.

His chest clenched so hard it felt like it might splinter.

How many times had Sieun gotten hurt because of him? How many times had he carried wounds, physical and invisible, just to shield Suho?
And every time, Suho repaid him the same way: with distance, with harsh words, with hands that pushed him away instead of holding him close.

 

The thought gnawed at him — maybe he didn’t deserve him at all. Maybe he didn’t deserve this hand under his own, this warmth beside him, this boy who stayed when anyone else would have left.

Maybe Suho had been wrong all along. Maybe Sieun wasn’t what he needed to survive.

Maybe Suho was the one who was dangerous for him.

Because the truth was unbearable: Sieun was the only one keeping him steady, but Suho was the one making him break.

 

Even after all of that — after Suho had pushed him away, screamed, flinched from his touch — Sieun had still stayed.

 

Why?

 

The answer pressed against Suho’s chest in ways he couldn’t untangle.

Maybe it was because Suho was sick.
Maybe it was because Sieun was his friend.
Maybe that was enough reason for him.

 

But sometimes, when the silence grew heavy, Suho wondered.

 

Just like how he, himself, carried the suffocating weight of losing two years of his life… did Sieun carry that too? Did he feel the same hollowness, the same loss? Was that why he was still here, still holding Suho together? Out of guilt for the time that had slipped away?

 

The thought made something ugly bloom inside him — insecurity, the desperate fear that maybe it wasn’t love or care keeping Sieun close, but obligation.

 

But…

 

Suho clenched his eyes shut.

 

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

 

Even if it was pity. Even if it was guilt. Even if Sieun stayed only because Suho was broken and sick — none of it mattered.

What mattered was that he was here.
What mattered was that Sieun was still beside him.
What mattered was that Suho couldn’t breathe without him.

And he wasn’t going to cry about it anymore.

No. The first thing he needed to do — before anything else — is apologize.

His fingers moved before his mind could catch up, brushing lightly through Sieun’s bangs, tracing the strands away from his forehead. His hand drifted lower, down the slope of his brow, along the bridge of his nose.

Suho’s heart thudded painfully.

He looked so pretty like this. So soft. So unguarded.

 

Mine, Suho thought, the word heavy and greedy in his chest.

He had accepted it long ago — maybe even that day at the picnic, when it had hit him like a quiet confession he could never voice. These feelings weren’t just friendship. They were more. So much more.

 

His fingers trembled as they reached lower, brushing against his lips.

 

Chapped. Rough at the edges. But still soft. So unbearably soft that it made his throat ache.

He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t. But he couldn’t stop. The urge to memorize every part of Sieun — to hold onto him in ways no one else ever could — overwhelmed him.

For a fleeting second, he wanted to capture this moment forever.
Sieun asleep, gentle, vulnerable, his hand against those lips. His. All his.

The thought made him fumble for his phone — but his pockets were empty.

Disappointment swelled inside him. Until—

Out of nowhere, a hand appeared at the edge of his vision.

Juntae. Standing there silently, his wide, knowing eyes betraying nothing as he shoved Suho’s phone into his hand.

 

Suho froze, breath caught sharp in his chest.

The phone in Juntae’s hand gleamed faintly under the dim light, far too visible, far too dangerous. For a moment, Suho couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. His heart thudded violently in his ribs, louder than it had been moments ago when his fingers had brushed Sieun’s lips.

Juntae stood there, small frame shadowed by the couch, glasses sliding slightly down his nose. His expression was unreadable — eyes wide, quiet, almost startled. And yet… not accusing. Not mocking. Not even surprised in the way Suho expected.

He just held the phone out.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Suho’s throat tightened. His first instinct was panic — to pull his hand back from Sieun’s lips, to drop his gaze, to act like none of this had happened. But his body refused. His fingers remained where they were, lightly pressed against the softness of Sieun’s mouth, as if glued there by something deeper than shame.

Embarrassment burned hot under his skin. But tangled with it was something darker … a stubbornness, a refusal. Why should he let go? Why should he pretend? This was his. Sieun was his. Even if no one else knew, even if no one else understood, Suho couldn’t … wouldn’t … deny it. Not to himself. Not anymore.

 

The silence stretched unbearably thin between them. Suho’s eyes flicked up at last, meeting Juntae’s.

For a terrifying second, he braced for the worst … mockery, disgust, pity. Some sharp remarks to slice open the moment and leave Suho bleeding in its wake.

But Juntae only blinked. His hand holding the phone didn’t waver. His expression stayed strangely gentle, a quiet calm that Suho didn’t know what to do with.

It felt… conspiratorial.

Like he knew.
Like he had always known.
And instead of tearing the secret from him, he was simply handing him the choice … the phone, the proof, the memory to keep if Suho dared.

 

Suho swallowed hard, his chest aching with a cocktail of fear and longing. He slowly pulled his hand back from Sieun’s lips, only enough to take the phone from Juntae’s small hand. Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, and Suho thought he felt something there.

Not judgment, not approval exactly, but recognition.

Recognition of something fragile. Something dangerous. Something true.

Juntae didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just stepped back quietly, his presence folding back into the shadows, leaving Suho with the phone in his hand and Sieun’s steady breath in his ear.

Suho’s gaze dropped again to the boy asleep beside him, lips parted ever so slightly under the trace of his touch. His thumb hovered over the camera icon, pulse racing.

For a moment, all he could think was: Mine. Let me keep him like this. Just once. Let me have this proof.

Suho’s thumb trembled as he lifted the phone, the glow spilling across his skin like a secret flame. The tiny sound of the shutter almost made his chest seize, but Sieun didn’t stir. His lashes stayed pressed to his cheeks, lips parted ever so slightly in soft, steady breaths.

At first, Suho thought one picture might be enough.
A single stolen proof. A quiet confession only the screen would know.

But the moment his eyes caught that frozen image — Sieun, fragile and breathtaking in sleep — something inside him unraveled.

One wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

So he took another.
And another.

His camera chased every detail, each click of the shutter an echo of the frantic beat of his heart. The way Sieun’s bangs scattered over his forehead, a few strands stubbornly clinging to his lashes. The delicate slope of his nose, faint shadows softening its line. The parted lips, dry and a little cracked, yet impossibly soft-looking, as though they’d give under the lightest touch.

And then the angle of his body — curled towards the couch, head tilted awkwardly– pressing leaning on couch cushion, spine bent into discomfort he shouldn’t have endured. Yet he stayed like that, all because Suho’s hand refused to let go.

Suho shifted the phone carefully, angling it until he caught that tether: their hands, fingers locked loosely together. His heart tightened at the sight. It was proof. Proof that even in sleep, Sieun had stayed tethered to him.

Every photo hurt, and every photo healed. They carved something raw into him, but also gave him something to cling to — the silent mantra echoing with every stolen capture: all of this belongs to me.

But shame licked at his spine, forcing him to glance up, check, make sure.

 

Juntae lay there, in a corner. Blanket covering him. For a terrifying second Suho thought he was watching — thought the boy’s sharp eyes had caught everything. His pulse thundered in his ears.

 

But no. His eyes were closed. Breathing deep, even. Asleep.

Relief shuddered through Suho, and with it came the hunger again.

 

This time he leaned in closer. Inch by inch, carefully enough that Sieun wouldn’t wake. Until his own forehead hovered just shy of brushing Sieun’s. Until he could feel the ghost of his warmth against his skin.

 

Suho let his eyes fall closed, mirroring Sieun’s. His lips parted faintly, unconsciously echoing the softness of the boy beside him. The angle was awkward, painful even — neck twisted, arm straining to hold the phone just right.

But he didn’t care.

Click.

The sound felt like a heartbeat, pounding through him.

A selfie.
Proof.
Them together, framed in the secret closeness no one else could ever touch.

 

Suho’s hands shook as he scrolled through them afterward. Each one dragged his breath from him like a confession. He zoomed in on every detail: the curve of Sieun’s lips, the fine lashes curled against his skin, the faint flush in his cheeks, the tired bend of his shoulders. He lingered on the photo of their connected hands — the proof of what no one else saw, what no one else could take.

He couldn’t stop. Zoom in. Zoom out. Again and again. His eyes memorized what his chest already knew by heart: that this boy wasn’t just important. He was everything.

But memory wasn’t enough. Not for Suho.

He needed permanence. He needed to keep Sieun forever.

So he opened the gallery, thumb hesitating only for a second before creating a folder. The name hovered on the screen like a dare. Sieunie — sweet, soft, the way others might call him. But Suho’s chest clenched. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t enough.

 

He typed instead, each letter burning like a vow: Mine.

One by one, he slid the photos into it. Each drop into the folder felt like sealing a pact, a shrine hidden inside his phone, his chest, his life. Only his eyes would ever see them. Only his heart could ever hold them.

When the screen finally dimmed, Suho let the phone slip from his hand, chest heaving as if he’d just done something forbidden. Maybe he had.

But his hand betrayed him immediately, reaching back to where it always belonged. Tracing Sieun again. Slow, reverent. Through his hair, over the line of his brow, down the gentle slope of his nose. The shell of his ear. The sharp cut of his jaw.

And, at last — his lips.

Especially his lips.

Because this — all of this — wasn’t just Sieun. It was his Sieun. His to memorize. His to keep.

Even if the world never knew.
Even if Sieun never knew.

Suho pressed the truth into his own heart with trembling fingers:

Everything about him was Suho’s.

Suho swallowed hard, his pulse thundering in his ears. He felt like a creep. He knew he did.

Every rational thought screamed at him to stop, to pull his hand away, to let Sieun rest untouched. But his fingers betrayed him. They lingered, tracing. Again and again.

He told himself it was harmless — just memorizing, just carving each line of Sieun’s face into memory. But it wasn’t enough. It never was. His hand ached to move lower. Past the jawline. Down toward the hollow of his throat.

And then further.

Toward that neckline, loose and soft, where fabric slipped away from skin. Suho remembered it — the faint glow from last night, honey-colored light painting Sieun’s back in gold. He remembered how smooth it looked, how fragile. His back. His waist. His everything.

 

The want burned, ugly and insistent. His shame only sharpened it.

He froze for a moment, head snapping toward Juntae. His chest tightened — was he awake? Did he see?

The boy was still. The blanket pulled high now, covering him completely, his face tucked into the shadows. Asleep.

Relief and guilt tangled in Suho’s chest. His hold on Sieun’s hand tightened, desperate, as though that grip was the only thing tethering him to sanity.

And yet, even as his heart screamed wrong, wrong, wrong, his gaze dragged back to Sieun.
Back to the way his lashes lay heavy against his cheeks.
Back to the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Back to the lips Suho had already stolen touches from.

His hand moved again.
Tracing. Wandering. Wanting.

Because he couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop looking.
Couldn’t stop touching.
Couldn’t stop claiming.

And he never noticed.

Never noticed that the “sleeping” boy under the blanket wasn’t asleep at all.

Juntae’s eyes, hidden behind fabric and shadow, were wide open. Silent. Watching.

He had seen everything.

The tracing.
The lingering stares.
The hunger in every touch.

And he watched Suho’s obsession take root — watched the bloom of something dark and desperate beginning to grow.

 

At first, Juntae hadn’t thought much of it.

Suho watching Sieun wasn’t new. He’d seen it before — the way Suho’s gaze lingered too long, the way his shoulders seemed to loosen only when Sieun was nearby. Back then, it had been easy to dismiss. They’re best friends, he told himself. The closest. Closer than anyone else. Almost like family.

And family didn’t look at each other like that.

But even as he told himself that, a whisper stayed with him. Since that picnic day. The sunlight had been soft, laughter carrying lightly in the air, and Suho… Suho hadn’t looked away from Sieun. Not once. It had been the kind of gaze that didn’t belong to brothers or best friends. It had been heavier. Longing, maybe. Or something beyond that.

He had shaken the thought off back then, embarrassed by his own imagination. Don’t overthink it, Juntae.

But now… now he knows.

Because best friends didn’t touch each other like that.

 

His breath had caught the second Suho’s fingers brushed over Sieun’s lips.

 

It wasn’t just surprise — it was like his lungs had been stolen from him, like the air had vanished in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He lay frozen where he was, every nerve in his body locking up tight, eyes wide and unblinking.

The sight didn’t make sense. It didn’t belong in the world he thought he knew. Suho’s hand — the same hand that had thrown punches, shielded Sieun from the bullies, pulled him forward — now moving with a gentleness that made Juntae’s stomach twist. Fingers grazing Sieun’s mouth, soft and slow, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Juntae’s own mouth fell open before he realized it, shock dragging it wide. The urge to gasp, to let out the sound pressing against his throat, rose so sharp it scared him.

Instinct saved him — or maybe betrayed him.

He yanked the blanket up in a rush, hiding himself beneath it, as though the thin fabric could erase what he’d just seen. His hand flew up to his own mouth, clamping down hard to smother the sound that threatened to escape.

His chest heaved silently, breaths trapped and shaky under the weight of his palm. The blanket pressed hot and suffocating against his skin, but he didn’t dare lower it. He couldn’t. Because if Suho even glanced his way and saw his eyes open…

The world would crack open.

And still, beneath the blanket, the image burned into him — Suho’s fingers against Sieun’s lips. The intimacy of it. The claim inside it.

Not friendship. Not family.

Something else entirely.

But hiding didn’t undo what he’d already seen.

 

Suho’s hand, reverent and trembling, tracing down, further and further, like he had every right to. His expression wasn’t one of care or concern. It was something darker, deeper — something that made Juntae’s stomach twist because it didn’t fit into any box he had words for.

It was supposed to be wrong. Every instinct told him that. Sieun was asleep. Helpless. And Suho… Suho wasn’t acting like the friend, the protector, the boy who shielded Sieun with his fists.

Juntae’s chest squeezed painfully. He pulled the blanket tighter, eyes shut hard beneath it. He didn’t even want to put words to what he had seen.

But then… then he remembered this morning.

Sieun’s voice. Quiet. Tired. A little broken. Whispering the fear that Suho didn’t need him anymore. That Suho only saw a monster in him now.

And Juntae knew, with bone-deep certainty, that wasn’t true.

Because the way Suho was looking at him now — no, that wasn’t how you looked at a monster. That wasn’t how you looked at someone you didn’t need.

It was hunger, yes. But more than that, it was something frighteningly deep. Like Sieun was the only thing tethering him to the world.

It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t family.

 

It was an obsession. Blooming right in front of Juntae’s hidden eyes, taking root in every brush of Suho’s fingers, in every stolen picture, in every breathless look Sieun would never see.

 

Fear curled inside him, sharp and cold. Not for himself — Suho wasn’t dangerous to him. But for both of them. For Suho, for Sieun, for what this fire might turn into if it kept burning unchecked.

And yet… tangled with that fear was something softer.

Pity. Worry. But also — strange as it was — a quiet sort of acceptance.

Because Suho hadn’t done this to make a point to anyone else. He’d checked. Twice. Making sure Juntae was asleep. Making sure no one saw.

 

This wasn’t about staking a claim in front of the world.

 

No. It was about proving something to himself.

 

Every brush of Suho’s hand, every trembling trace of lips, every glance that lingered too long — it was Suho telling himself the truth he couldn’t say aloud:

I belong to him.

Ahn Suho belongs to Yeon Sieun.

 

Juntae’s throat tightened.

And for reasons he couldn’t name, that didn’t make him feel wronged. If anything, it made him almost… glad. Glad that Suho didn’t see Sieun the way Sieun feared. Glad that Sieun, who carried so much weight, still had someone who looked at him like he was everything.

 

But the gladness didn’t last. It was swallowed by the gnawing worry that love like this — if it could even be called love — wasn’t steady. It wasn’t gentle.

It looked like fire.

And fire, once it caught, didn’t care what it burned down.

 

It was confirmed.

 

Suho’s chest knew it. His bones knew it. His very blood knew it — he belonged to Sieun. And Sieun… Sieun could never leave him. Not now. Not after this. Not after Suho had already staked his claim in silence, in secret, in the brush of his fingers and the folder locked in his phone.

 

He held onto that truth like a lifeline, thumb brushing over the back of Sieun’s hand. Even in sleep, the warmth was there, steady, grounding. Suho wanted to stay in that moment forever, suspended, cocooned.

But the world never stayed quiet.

The room began to stir.

Baku was first. A groan, deep and low, as he rolled onto his back, stretching arms above his head until his joints popped. His hair stuck out in every direction, a mess of cowlicks and sleep-creased strands. “Ugh… what time…” he mumbled, voice rough as gravel.

 

Before Suho could answer — not that he would — there was a thump. Gotak, half-asleep, shoved Baku in the side with a grunt, muttering something that sounded like shut up. Then he dragged himself upright, yawning so wide his eyes watered.

Suho pulled his hand back just a fraction, enough to seem casual, but his fingertips still brushed Sieun’s skin. Just enough to keep the tether. Just enough to pretend it was nothing. His face was carefully neutral as his eyes flicked toward the others, though his heart hammered hard in his chest.

Of course they noticed. They always noticed. Their gazes swept over him, the quiet hanging for only a second before Gotak broke it.

“How are you feeling now?” His voice was soft, genuine, his eyes still hazy but lined with worry.

 

Suho swallowed. The instinct to look back at Sieun was too strong, but he forced himself to meet Gotak’s gaze. He nodded once, a small smile tugging at his lips, like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t unraveling inside.

 

And before the silence could settle again, Baku cut in, grin wicked despite just waking.
“Well, of course he’s fine,” he drawled, stretching his arms behind his head. “He’s got the world’s best doctor.”

 

The laugh that followed was sharp, unrestrained, shaking off the sleep. Gotak barked a laugh too, shaking his head at Baku’s tone.

 

Suho’s face heated instantly, red spilling across his cheeks.

Blushing.

The sound of their laughter filled the room, rolling into the corners, echoing off the walls. It was too loud, too normal, too light — and in the middle of it, Sieun stirred.

Suho froze.

The faint exhale came first, slow and soft. Then the faint furrow of his brows, lashes trembling before heavy eyes blinked open. Suho’s gaze devoured every flicker, every second. And then — the slight pressure. The way Sieun’s fingers tightened instinctively around his, before he was even fully awake.

 

God.

 

Then those eyes — tired, still fogged with sleep — found him.

 

“You’re awake,” Sieun murmured, voice low, rough, husky from sleep.

 

Suho’s smile broke out before he could stop it. Wide. Honest.

 

Sieun shifted, hand lifting, brushing gently against Suho’s temple, fingers light, almost absentminded. “How are you feeling?”

 

Suho’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, breath escaping him like a sigh. “Better,” he whispered, and meant it.

 

Sieun leaned closer, frowning slightly, his hand pressing to Suho’s forehead. His touch was cool against the lingering warmth of Suho’s skin. “Still a little warm.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Suho answered softly, forcing his eyes open, lips curving upward. He let the words fall out, unguarded. “Since you’re here.”

 

Sieun blinked at him, expression unreadable, something caught between exasperation and confusion. But before silence could settle —

 

Baku whooped, “Ooooooh!” The sound was high and sharp, cutting through the air.
Gotak let out another laugh, leaning over to smack Suho’s shoulder. “Cheesy, man!”

Their voices rose in teasing cheer, filling the room with warmth and noise.

 

Suho’s face flamed deeper, crimson spilling down his neck. He didn’t even try to defend himself. He couldn’t. His gaze stayed locked on Sieun. Only Sieun.

 

And across the room, beneath his blanket, Juntae still hadn’t moved. His hand pressed hard over his mouth, his cheeks pink, burning hot. He didn’t know if it was embarrassment, secondhand teasing, or the heavy memory of what he’d seen minutes ago.

 

But his heart pounded mercilessly as he stayed hidden. Silent.

Watching.

The room was now soaked in the amber hues of evening, the kind of light that softened every edge, made everything look warmer than it really was. The air was still drowsy with sleep, futons shifting as the boys stirred, the faint rustle of blankets the only sound breaking the quiet.

On the couch, Suho tried to push himself up. His movements were sluggish, his body still heavy, his muscles not quite catching up with his will. Before he could stumble, Sieun was there. As always. Steady hands slipped beneath Suho’s arm, guiding him upright with the same quiet efficiency he carried into everything.

Their hands never parted.

Even as Suho leaned into the couch cushions, trying to find his balance, Sieun’s grip remained. Suho’s body rested, but his heart—no, his entire being—rested in that touch. It was an anchor, a lifeline. He smiled faintly, almost shyly, letting the warmth of it bleed into his chest.

“Careful,” Sieun murmured, his voice low, eyes flicking briefly across Suho’s face as if searching for signs of weakness.

But Suho didn’t answer. Not with words. He answered with the firm tightening of his grip, his fingers lacing deeper into Sieun’s, unwilling to yield.

Once Suho was settled, Sieun shifted as if to stand. His gaze moved toward the far corner, where one futon remained curled tight, blanket pulled high over a still figure. “I’ll wake Juntae.”

He turned, but Suho’s hand didn’t release.

The grip stayed. Stubborn.

Sieun blinked, pausing mid-step, half-turning back. His brows lifted, faint confusion flickering across his face. “Suho…”

 

Suho’s only answer was a smile. Eyes bright, lips curved, head shaking just slightly—not yet.

 

Baku caught it instantly, his grin spreading like wildfire. “Ooooh, look at this,” he drawled, stretching exaggeratedly, hands behind his head. “Clingy much?”

 

Gotak barked out a laugh, rubbing his face with one hand before pointing lazily at them. “He won’t even let him go for two seconds.”

 

Suho’s cheeks burned, heat rising fast, but he didn’t move. His hand remained firmly locked in Sieun’s, his body angled toward him, pretending he hadn’t heard a word.

 

Sieun sighed, so softly that only Suho caught it. He bent a little closer, voice gentler, coaxing. “Let go. Just for a moment.”

Suho shook his head, lips tugging stubbornly upward. “No.” His voice was soft but firm. His eyes didn’t waver. “You need to come back quickly.”

 

Sieun blinked, caught off guard. His lips parted as if to argue, but Suho repeated it again, quieter this time, his smile curling with something unyielding.

 

“You… need to come back… quickly.”

 

And then—finally—the faintest twitch at Sieun’s mouth, reluctant, small, but unmistakable. A smile.

 

Suho’s chest swelled instantly, warmth flooding his veins. He answered with a grin of his own, broader, unrestrained, the kind he only ever gave Sieun.

Their hands slipped apart at last, but Suho could still feel it, phantom heat lingering in his palm, stronger than any bond.

Sieun rose and crossed the room, his steps quiet against the tatami. He crouched down by the futon, where Juntae lay curled, blanket pulled high. “Juntae. Wake up.”

 

His hand pressed lightly against Juntae’s shoulder, shaking gently.

 

But beneath the cover, Juntae’s eyes were already wide open. They had never closed. His chest had been tight the whole time, breath shallow, every sound and word filtering through the blanket as if it were pressed directly into his skin.

He had heard enough. He had seen enough.

Too much.

The secret from earlier, colliding with the scene unfolding just now, pressed down on him heavier than the blanket he hid under. He couldn’t show it. He couldn’t let Suho know. He couldn’t let Sieun see.

So he forced his lashes to flutter, his expression slack, voice groggy. “Mm… I’m up.”

It came out low, strained with feigned sleep. Careful. Too careful.

Because if he wasn’t careful, everything would spill out—the truth, the storm, the confusion tearing at him.

Careful not to betray Suho.
Careful not to betray Sieun.
Careful not to betray what he had witnessed blooming between them: a fire neither of them fully understood, and one that terrified him in its intensity.

 

Beneath the blanket, his hand pressed against his mouth, his cheeks hot with a flush he couldn’t name. Shame. Fear. Pity. Maybe even something like relief. He didn’t know. He couldn’t untangle it.

 

He only knew this much—

 

The way Suho looked at Sieun, the way his hand refused to let go, the way his voice clung to him even in the smallest moments—this wasn’t something fleeting.

It was permanent. Consuming.

 

And as Juntae forced himself to sit up under Sieun’s touch, blinking like he’d just woken, one thought pulsed in his chest, quiet but certain:

 

Suho had already decided.

Sieun just didn’t know it yet.

 

୧⁠(⁠ ⁠˵⁠ ⁠°⁠ ⁠~⁠ ⁠°⁠ ⁠˵⁠ ⁠)⁠୨

 

The smell of something light filled the small home — rice porridge thickening gently on the stove, miso soup kept warm, soft vegetables steaming in neat bowls. It wasn’t a grand meal, but it was warm, fresh, and made for someone sick to eat without strain. The kind of food that healed.

Sieun moved with quiet focus, sleeves pushed up, his movements precise. Beside him, Juntae helped without needing direction — passing bowls, checking the seasoning when Sieun tilted the spoon his way, setting chopsticks in their proper places.

In the living room, Gotak guided Suho carefully to the couch. Suho’s body was still weak, his steps slower than usual, but his eyes never strayed toward his footing. They were locked on the kitchen.

On Sieun.

Because Sieun had betrayed him.

He should have come with Suho, should have been there to steady him, should have been at his side — but no. He had chosen to cook. Dinner, instead of him. And now Suho sat with his bottom lip jutting forward, sulk painted plain across his face, eyes sharp as they pinned Sieun in silent accusation.

When Sieun glanced up, just briefly, Suho’s pout deepened.
Sieun blinked once, tilting his head slightly, expression as unreadable as always. And then he turned back to the stove.

The pout sharpened, practically glowing.

Gotak sighed, tucking a cushion behind Suho’s back. “You’ll live,” he muttered dryly.

Baku, draped dramatically across his bean bag like he owned the world, let out a long yawn and stretched. “I never thought I’d love spending my whole days at home this much… with idiots like you.”

Gotak’s head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?” His tone was scandalized, almost shrill.

Juntae raised his brows, unimpressed.
Sieun, without missing a beat, rolled his eyes.
And Suho — Suho broke. The pout cracked, a soft laugh slipping out before he could stop it.

It spread like a ripple. Gotak’s mock offense dissolved into laughter, Baku barked out a laugh so loud it shook his bean bag, and even Juntae’s mouth twitched, a smirk slipping free. For a brief moment, the rain against the windows and the chill outside ceased to matter. The room was warm, glowing with sound.

Dinner was ready soon after. Sieun brought the food to the low table, steam curling into the air. Simple, nourishing, comforting — a meal made with quiet care. Juntae set everything neatly, serving the bowls, while the others began eating without hesitation.

Except Suho.

Just like that afternoon, he made no move to lift his spoon. His arms crossed loosely, his gaze fixed on the table, lower lip pushed forward in a stubborn sulk.

“Suho…” Juntae tried gently, nudging the bowl closer to him.

No reaction.

Baku spotted it immediately. “What’s this? He thinks he’s royalty now?” His grin was sharp, teasing.
“He just wants someone to spoon-feed him,” Gotak added, smirking as he shoveled rice into his own mouth.

Suho stayed perfectly still, pout heavy on his face.

Sieun sighed. It was soft, resigned — a sound the others might miss but Suho heard as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud. He shifted Suho’s bowl closer, picked up the spoon, and began feeding him. Patient. Wordless. Steady.

Suho opened his mouth without protest. His pout stayed, but his eyes — traitorous, unguarded — flicked up every so often, searching Sieun’s face before darting away the second he was caught.

On the TV, contestants shrieked as they slipped off some ridiculous obstacle course into mud below. Baku suddenly sat up, fire in his eyes. “These players are so dumb. Even we could win this show easily.”

Gotak barked a laugh. “Win? You think it’s that simple? You need strategy. You need to use your brain, plan every level, and play the game smart.”

Baku turned to him instantly, offended. “Who said I can’t use my brain? I have a strategy.”

The room went quiet, all eyes narrowing on him.

“…And what strategy is that?” Juntae asked flatly.

Baku leaned forward, lowering his voice as if he was revealing the secret to life itself. “All we need… is to take Sieun with us.”

The pause lasted two seconds before chaos broke. Gotak doubled over laughing, nearly choking on his food. Baku cackled, pounding his knee like his own joke was gold. Juntae giggled into his sleeve. Even Suho’s sulk cracked wide open, laughter spilling out of him, cheeks pink, eyes shining.

Sieun rolled his eyes again, muttering something low, but then his gaze slid sideways.

To Suho.

To the boy smiling, giggling softly, his lips curved, his cheeks flushed. And Sieun’s eyes lingered, just for a moment too long.

Then — without thought — Sieun reached forward. His thumb brushed against Suho’s mouth, wiping away a grain of porridge that clung at the corner. The gesture was casual, efficient, something he barely noticed himself doing.

But Suho felt the world tilt.

His breath caught, his cheeks burned, his pout vanished completely.

Because nothing — nothing — mattered more than Sieun’s hand on him.

 

Later, the cleanup began in a rhythm almost too smooth for a house full of boys. Bowls clinked as they were stacked, chopsticks tapped together in bundles, the sound of water running in the sink filling the kitchen. Juntae moved with quiet efficiency, collecting dishes with practiced neatness. Gotak ferried them to the counter, his broad frame moving back and forth like it was nothing. Even Baku, though grumbling under his breath about “slave labor,” carried bowls with exaggerated sighs, earning rolled eyes and small laughs.

 

Everyone was working.

Everyone except Suho.

He had tried, just once, to reach for a plate. His hand had barely brushed the edge of the table before three voices cut across at once — Gotak’s scolding, Baku’s mocking, Juntae’s sharp warning — and Sieun’s eyes, sharp and unblinking, snapped to his. That was enough. Suho’s hand withdrew instantly.

 

He wasn’t allowed to help.

So Suho did the only thing he could. He followed Sieun.

Like a shadow. Like a puppy.

 

When Sieun moved to the sink, sleeves rolled up and shoulders bent, Suho trailed two steps behind. When Sieun leaned over to rinse a bowl, Suho hovered just close enough that the steam from the water brushed his skin. When Sieun carried stacked plates back to the table, Suho was right there, eyes pinned to him, as if tethered by invisible string.

 

“When will you be done?” Suho asked softly, the words almost coaxing, hopeful.

Sieun didn’t turn his head. “When it’s finished.”

Suho’s pout deepened. “Then… let’s go watch TV. Everyone’s already there.”

“No.” A bowl was rinsed, set aside with a clean clink. “I’m not finished.”

Suho tilted his head, lips jutting further. “Then let’s go for a walk.”

“It’s raining outside.” Sieun’s tone was flat, immovable.

“We can take an umbrella,” Suho pressed, shifting closer.

“You’re still sick.”

Suho’s voice softened to almost a whisper, as if bargaining. “…We can just walk inside then.”

“Later.”

 

Every answer was short, clipped, quiet — not cruel, not unkind, but firm in a way that left no cracks to slip through. Still, Suho couldn’t stop himself. His eyes stayed on Sieun, his steps trailed his, his voice kept pushing.

Until Sieun finally turned.

His gaze landed on Suho, steady and unwavering. His voice didn’t rise, but the firmness in it hit harder than any shout. “Sit in one place. You’ll get hurt if you keep following me around with those crutches.”

 

The words struck like a splash of cold water. Suho’s breath caught, his chest tightening with something small and sharp. He froze for a moment, pout still clinging stubbornly, but he didn’t argue.

He only shuffled back to the couch, lowering himself heavily onto the cushions, his eyes dropping. Sulking. Shoulders curved inward like a scolded child.

Gotak nearly squealed. “Oh my god. That’s so cute.” He clapped once, grinning wide, voice pitched high with delight. “Look at him — pouting like a baby.”

Suho shot him a glare, cheeks burning, but it only made Gotak laugh harder.

“But Suho…” Gotak leaned forward, grin sly, “you need to listen to your doctor.” He nodded toward Sieun meaningfully, like he’d just revealed some universal truth.

Baku almost dropped the dish towel in his hand, laughter exploding out of him in loud, barking bursts. “Doctor!” he howled, smacking the counter. “Perfect. He really is, isn’t he?”

Juntae smiled quietly from where he was stacking glasses, his eyes glinting behind his frames, the corners of his lips twitching upward.

 

And Suho… Suho sat, cheeks hot, chest restless, sulking deeper. His eyes, though, betrayed him — again and again, flicking to Sieun. Watching the way his hands moved steady in the sink, water gliding over porcelain. Watching the way his hair fell into his eyes as he bent forward, only for him to shake it back with one small motion. Watching how, even surrounded by laughter, he worked without pause, silent and focused, like nothing outside the task mattered.

The others laughed, their voices warm and bright, bouncing off the walls with ease.

But for Suho, the room blurred.

There was only Sieun. Always Sieun.

Suho sat on the couch, his body curled slightly inward, chin tucked low. The television flickered brightly in front of him — contestants on the survival show shrieking as they fell into mud, the studio audience laughing in canned bursts. The noise filled the room, but for Suho, it was nothing but static.

His pout was heavy, carved into his face, lips pressed together in that stubborn line that refused to budge. His lashes stayed low, his jaw tight. Every angle of his posture screamed the same thing: he had been scolded.

Because he had.

It still stung. Like a kid told off by a parent for nothing more than wanting attention, Suho sat stiff and sulky, refusing to look at anyone. How could Sieun do that? How could he speak to him in that firm, unyielding way, as if Suho were fragile glass making trouble?

All he had wanted was Sieun’s attention.

His hands fisted lightly against his lap, knuckles pale, a sulk radiating off him so strongly it felt tangible in the air.

And then… he felt it.

That presence. That unmistakable pull.

Even before he heard the shift of footsteps, before the couch dipped, Suho knew. His chest tightened, his breath hitched just a little. Sieun.

Sieun sat beside him. Close enough that Suho felt the warmth immediately.

But Suho’s eyes didn’t move. He stared at the screen, so deliberately that it was almost comical, refusing to give Sieun even a glance.

A small tray slid onto the low table — a glass of water, a packet of fever medicine, and the recovery meds for his shoulder and leg.

“Take these,” Sieun murmured simply.

Suho’s hand moved, snatching them almost too quickly. He swallowed the pills one by one, washing them down with water. But not once did his eyes flicker toward Sieun.

“…How was the food?” Sieun asked after a pause.

Nothing.

“The weather’s turning colder.” Another attempt, quiet, careful.

Still nothing.

“Are you feeling okay now?”

Silence. Not even the twitch of a brow.

Sieun studied him, watching the lowered lashes, the pout tugging at his mouth, the way his shoulders were drawn so tight. He sighed, leaning back just slightly, his voice dropping low.

“Suho-ya…” His tone softened, careful. “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want you to get more sick. You need to rest as much as you can.”

The words sank like stones into Suho’s chest. Guilt twisted there, sharp and aching. His lips pressed tighter, the pout trembling at its edges. He wanted to turn. He wanted to reach for Sieun’s hand, to rest his forehead against his shoulder, to murmur that he was sorry too.

But his pride held him back. Not yet. Not so easily.

So he stayed frozen, eyes locked on the flickering screen, every muscle in his face screaming stubbornness even as his chest ached.

Across the room, the others watched.

Gotak’s grin was wide, his eyes sparkling like a kid watching a soap opera. Baku elbowed him in the ribs, smirking knowingly. Juntae’s lips were curved faintly, eyes glinting behind his glasses. None of them spoke. None of them had to. The scene was already entertainment enough.

Sieun studied Suho for one last moment, his eyes softer than his words had been earlier. His shoulders sagged, the smallest sigh slipping past his lips. Then he stood, gathering the tray back into his hands.

And just like that, the warmth beside Suho was gone.

The second Sieun stepped away, Suho’s chest hollowed. His pout faltered, slipping just slightly. His eyes darted toward Sieun’s back, then quickly away again as if caught doing something forbidden.

But the ache didn’t leave.

He looked like a puppy abandoned, ears drooped, eyes wide with unspoken longing. His sulk crumbled into something smaller, sadder — a boy who wanted nothing more than for that warmth to return.

The screen flashed. The rain tapped harder at the windows. The others smirked to themselves, amused and entertained.

But Suho only stared at Sieun’s back, heavy and desperate.

Because without him beside him, nothing felt right.

Suho’s fingers twisted in his lap, nails pressing faint crescents into his palms. His chest ached with the urge to call Sieun back, to say stay, to beg him not to walk away. But the weight of his own pride pressed him down like chains. Heavy, suffocating. So he did nothing. He sat stiffly, eyes glued to the television’s flickering light, sulking, his thoughts looping bitterly — Why does he do this? Why does he scold me? Doesn’t he know I only want him?
The sadness sat like a stone in his chest, pressing harder, harder, until he could hardly breathe.
And then—he heard it.
The soft pad of footsteps returning. That quiet pull, heavier than gravity. Sieun’s presence filled the room again.
Suho’s heart leapt violently against his ribs, but his head didn’t turn. His gaze stayed locked on the TV, stubbornly unmoving.
Sieun crouched down in front of him, close enough that Suho could feel the faint brush of his breath against his skin. Cool fingers touched lightly at his temple, then his forehead, pausing there, pressing just long enough to check.
“I warmed the bath,” Sieun said softly. His voice was low, coaxing. “Lukewarm water… with a little ginger in it. It’ll help your fever ease. Make your body feel lighter.”
The words curled around Suho’s ears like a balm, but he didn’t let it show. His eyes stayed fixed forward.
“Suhoya…” Sieun tried again, quieter. “Come on.”
Still nothing.
Sieun sighed, and the sound cut sharper than Suho expected. His gaze flickered over Suho’s face, reading the pout, the lashes stubbornly lowered. Then, more quietly, almost tiredly:
“What? …Now you don’t even want to look at me?”

The words landed like a slap.
Suho flinched, his whole body jerking before he could stop it.
The room froze. Even the ridiculous shrieks of the contestants on the TV seemed to fade into the background hum. Gotak’s hand stilled mid-gesture, Baku’s grin faltered, Juntae’s glasses caught the reflection of the screen but his eyes were trained only on them.
Sieun’s face didn’t shift much, but his voice softened, carrying a weight Suho had never heard so raw. “Just… I’ll leave after helping you with the bath.”
The pout crumbled. For a moment, Suho’s whole mask broke. Offense flared so hot it startled him. Leave? How could Sieun even think that? How could he believe Suho didn’t want him close? That was the point. That was always the point. He wanted him. Needed him.
His throat tightened, guilt and hurt tangling into a knot. He wanted to reach out, to grab Sieun’s sleeve and pull him close, to blurt don’t you dare leave me.
But his pride clamped down again, iron-hard. He stayed still, eyes trained stubbornly on the television, his silence screaming louder than words.
Sieun lingered a moment longer. Watching. His face calm, but his eyes… something sat there, unreadable, heavy, far away.
And then Suho noticed — Sieun wasn’t even looking at him anymore. His gaze had drifted. Past him.
A shadow moved into Suho’s periphery.
“Come on,” Baku said, striding over with careless ease, sliding an arm under Suho’s to steady him. His voice was light, teasing, but his grip was firm, practical.
Suho’s heart dropped.
Sieun didn’t move. Didn’t stop him. He stayed crouched, frozen in place, watching. Expression flat, mouth pressed in its usual line. No protest. No reaction.
Baku eased Suho up, guiding him toward the bathroom. Suho’s chest burned, pride and offense tangling until he thought he’d choke on it. His eyes slid away, hiding the desperate plea clawing in his chest … stop me. Take me yourself.
But Sieun didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Behind them, Sieun remained crouched, motionless. Expressionless. A still figure, left behind in the low light.
And across the room, Juntae didn’t blink. His eyes followed everything, sharp and steady, taking it all in.
His chest felt heavy as he sat back, the reflection of the television flickering across the glass of his lenses. He wasn’t watching it. His gaze lingered instead on the patch of floor where Sieun had crouched just moments ago, the image seared into him.
He felt bad. For both of them.
Suho was sick — feverish, weak, vulnerable in ways he’d never allow on a normal day. Half the things he did now weren’t calculated, they were instinctual, like a child grasping for warmth in the dark. But Juntae knew too well: just because Suho didn’t mean for it to hurt didn’t mean it didn’t cut. Words, avoidance, stubborn silence — they all left marks. And Sieun…

Just now, those words about Suho not even wanting to look at him — they hadn’t sounded like something Sieun meant to say. They’d slipped out raw, sharper than intended, like something that had been festering beneath the surface. And Juntae had caught it immediately. He wasn’t the only one. Gotak’s small frown, Baku’s sudden intervention — they’d all seen it. Maybe that was why Baku had been so quick to step in, to break the tension before it burned deeper.
Sieun, though, was still frozen in place. His eyes were lowered, his expression unreadable, but the weight in his shoulders spoke louder than anything. He looked tired — not just the tiredness of a long day, but of days, weeks, of quiet exhaustion catching up. It clung to him like an invisible weight.
Then, slowly, Sieun pushed himself up. His movements were steady, but drained of energy, as if every step cost him something. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t say a word. He only turned and walked toward the bedroom, his back rigid.
Juntae’s heart pinched sharply. He wished, just for once, he could bridge that gap — reach across to ease what pressed down on both of them. But he stayed quiet, lips pressed tight.

In the bathroom, the air was different. Steam curled faintly, clinging to the tiled walls, making the room feel close and heavy. Baku leaned against the counter, arms folded, his grin weaker than usual but still there. Suho stood in front of him, stiff and awkward, his hands fisting in the hem of his shirt.
“Come on, man,” Baku coaxed, voice softer than his usual bark. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s just me. I’ve seen worse.”
But Suho didn’t move. His fingers tightened on the fabric, knuckles pale, his eyes flicking once, twice toward the door. Waiting.
Baku sighed, shaking his head. “You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?”
As if summoned by the words, footsteps approached.
The door opened quietly, and Sieun stepped in. A towel draped neatly over his arm. He didn’t look at Suho. Not once.
His voice was steady, clipped. “Can you turn around?” he asked Baku.
“Oh. Yeah,” Baku muttered quickly, spinning to face the corner.
Suho’s breath hitched, his head snapping toward Sieun instinctively. His chest burned with hope, with longing, with the desperate need to be seen. But Sieun never lifted his gaze.
He came closer, every step precise, detached. His fingers brushed Suho’s skin as he tugged his shirt upward, peeling it away with careful efficiency. Suho’s breath stuttered at the contact, his heart lurching, but Sieun’s eyes stayed averted, lashes lowered like curtains drawn.
Then, with a small exhale, Sieun closed his own eyes, as though shielding himself from the moment. Silent, methodical, he helped Suho out of the rest of his clothes. His hands were steady, too steady, so careful it almost hurt. He wasn’t tender; he was deliberate, controlled, like every movement had been stripped of intimacy before it could take shape.
When Suho stood bare, Sieun wrapped the towel around him, tightening it snugly. His hands lingered only long enough to secure it.
And then, without hesitation, Sieun gathered Suho’s clothes into his hands and stepped back. He left the bathroom without a word, without a glance, the door clicking softly behind him.
The silence left behind was deafening.
Suho’s chest flared hot, fury and longing twisting together until it felt unbearable. What the hell is happening? Why won’t you look at me? Why won’t you stay? The scream burned in his throat, but it never left his lips.
Baku turned around again, his expression lighter than the heaviness that suffocated the room. He crouched down, his tone quieter now as he guided Suho into the bath. The towel slipped away, steam rising immediately around Suho’s skin as he lowered into the water.
“There,” Baku murmured. “Feels better already, huh?” He scratched the back of his head, awkward. “So… I should leave, right?”
Suho didn’t answer. His eyes were glassy, soft, fixed on the door Sieun had disappeared through. He looked like a puppy left out in the rain, ears drooping, chest heavy, gaze locked on the one person he couldn’t reach.
Baku sighed again, crouching until their eyes were level. His voice lost all its usual sharpness, turning blunt but startlingly gentle.
“I know what you want. His attention. We all know it. But listen—he’s not ignoring you to be cruel. He doesn’t want to hurt you. Whatever you do, he thinks you’re pushing yourself too hard, wearing yourself out.”
Suho’s lip trembled faintly, lashes lowering, his chest tightening.
“So don’t get mad at him for it,” Baku pressed, his eyes steady on Suho’s. “He’s breaking himself to make sure you’re okay. If you really want his attention, don’t make him think you hate him for caring.”
The words hit deep, cutting through Suho’s pride like a blade. His throat tightened, but no sound came. He turned his face away, the sulk slipping into something smaller, sadder — a boy who didn’t know how to reach the person he needed most.
Baku rose, straightening with a long exhale. At the door, he paused, his last words softer, almost gruff:
“Just… don’t waste what you two have. Not everyone gets someone like that.”
Then he left.

The bathroom grew quiet.
Suho leaned back, sinking deeper into the bath. The water lapped gently at his skin, the heat seeping into his bones, loosening the ache in his limbs. The faint scent of ginger rose with the steam, earthy and sharp, clearing his head, easing the fever’s hold.
His body relaxed. But his chest didn’t.
Because Baku was right.
The warmth Sieun had prepared for him seeped into his muscles, but it only sharpened the ache in his heart. Suho thought of Sieun crouched before him, of his words slipping out raw. He thought of the way Sieun’s hands had been careful, too careful, when undressing him — like he was holding back, stripping away all softness.
He thought of the way Sieun hadn’t looked at him. Not once.
The steam curled around him like a blanket, but it wasn’t enough. His lips pressed tight, trembling faintly as guilt swelled heavy in his chest.
Because no matter how badly he craved Sieun’s attention, the truth was clear — Sieun was tearing himself apart to give it. And Suho, in his stubborn pride, was only making him carry more.
He tipped his head back against the tiles, eyes squeezing shut, water lapping gently against his skin.
How must he be feeling right now… carrying all of this alone?
The thought carved through him, sharp and merciless.
The bath soothed his fever. But it couldn’t touch the ache inside him.

 

⊙﹏⊙

 

Sieun sat on the edge of the bed, Suho’s damp clothes folded neatly beside him. They weren’t folded out of habit, not really — just a small act to keep his hands busy, something to do while his thoughts dragged him somewhere far away. His shoulders slumped forward, spine curved, eyes distant. He looked like a boy carved out of fatigue, the kind of tired that wasn’t just from today, but from days and weeks bleeding into each other. The steady tap of rain against the window only deepened it, pulling him further into silence.

Juntae approached quietly, easing himself onto the mattress. He didn’t speak, not at first. He just sat there, present but not pressing, letting Sieun feel he wasn’t alone. The silence stretched until Sieun finally exhaled, voice low, frayed, barely there.

“I’m tired…”

Juntae’s chest ached. He nodded slowly, mulling over how raw the words sounded — not a complaint, not even a request for comfort. Just a truth, spilled heavy between them.
“Tired” wasn’t from cooking or cleaning or carrying Suho’s weight on his arm. It was the kind that came from carrying someone’s whole world on your back. From not letting yourself collapse because the person who needed you couldn’t stand on their own.

“You’re doing what you can,” Juntae murmured after a pause, his voice gentler than usual. “Don’t… don’t blame yourself.”

Sieun didn’t respond. His gaze stayed fixed on the rain, droplets streaking down the glass in crooked lines. The quiet pressed into the room, thick and heavy.

The door creaked open.

Suho stood in the doorway, damp towel clumsily wrapped around his waist, hair dripping into his eyes. His crutches made him hesitate on the threshold, and he didn’t step in further. His gaze skittered everywhere — the window, the floor, the bedframe — everywhere but Sieun.
Juntae rose quickly, moving toward him. “You should’ve called,” he said softly, concern bleeding through.
Suho only looked at him with wide, glossy eyes. Fever glazed his stare, his lips parted in a small, helpless pout. He looked fragile — too fragile — like a boy waiting to be scolded when all he wanted was to be held.
Then his gaze slipped past Juntae. Straight to Sieun.
The desperation there made Juntae’s heart twist. He couldn’t bring himself to be frustrated with Suho — not when he looked like that, pale and trembling faintly, his fever still clinging stubbornly to him.
For half a heartbeat, Juntae almost turned to Sieun and reminded him, He needs clothes, he’ll get cold. But he stopped himself. Sieun didn’t need reminders. He never had.
Sure enough, Sieun was already moving.
He stood with quiet purpose, a fresh towel in his hand, and crossed the space without hesitation. His expression gave nothing away, but his hands spoke louder — pressing the towel gently against Suho’s skin, rubbing away the lingering droplets along his shoulders, his chest, down his arms. Each motion was steady, efficient, but laced with a softness that made Juntae feel like an intruder.
So he slipped out of the room, leaving them to their silence. But not before catching the way Suho’s eyes clung to Sieun — wide, desperate, unblinking, as though no one else existed.

Sieun guided him to the bed, hand firm at his elbow, lowering him down carefully. He wiped Suho’s upper body first, the towel gliding across damp skin. Then he crouched lower, hands moving with practiced rhythm, unwrapping the towel at Suho’s waist. He didn’t pause. Didn’t falter. His hands slid the clean undergarments into place, quick and efficient, not giving either of them room to linger.
Next came the soft night pants. Then the oversized t-shirt. It was warm, comfortable, but when Suho pulled the fabric close to his face, his chest squeezed painfully. It wasn’t Sieun’s shirt. It didn’t smell like him. It smelled like laundry soap and warmth — but not Sieun.
And it left him aching.
Sieun didn’t notice.
He returned with another towel and pressed it to Suho’s head, rubbing gently at his hair. The friction warmed him, soothed him, made his eyelids droop with the pull of drowsiness. Then came the soft, low hum of the blow dryer, its warm air brushing against his scalp. Sieun’s fingers worked carefully through the strands, lifting, smoothing, patient in their quiet rhythm.

When his hair was finally dry, Sieun paused. His hand brushed Suho’s bangs back, fingers threading briefly through the strands. For a second, his touch lingered. Suho braced himself for it — the quiet reminder, the inevitable you need a haircut.
But the words never came.
Instead, Sieun tugged the hood of Suho’s shirt gently over his head, pulling it into place. His hands steadied on Suho’s shoulders, grounding him, holding him just a little longer than necessary. Their eyes met.
And Suho saw it — the exhaustion etched deep into Sieun’s gaze. Not the kind that a nap or a full night’s rest could fix, but the kind born from worry, from nights awake, from carrying someone else’s weight too long. The guilt in Suho’s chest burned so sharply it nearly stole his breath.
Then Sieun’s palm was on his forehead, checking his temperature. Again. For the hundredth time today. Maybe more. Suho’s thoughts stumbled. How many times has he done this when I wasn’t even aware? How many times has he worried when I was too lost in fever to notice?
The warmth slipped away. Sieun’s hand pulled back, leaving Suho’s skin cold in its absence.
Before Suho could speak, Sieun was already moving again. He opened the bedside drawer, pulling out a small tin. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he uncapped it. The faint, sharp scent of menthol filled the air, curling into the space between them.
He rubbed the balm between his palms until it warmed, then pressed his hands firmly against Suho’s legs, his knees. The pressure was steady, deliberate, his thumbs working slow circles into the muscles. His touch was strong — grounding — easing aches Suho hadn’t even realized were there.
Suho’s throat tightened. He watched him in silence, guilt and longing crashing together inside him. The fever was fading, the bath had soothed his body — but his chest only felt heavier.
Because Sieun never stopped. Not once. Even when his own body screamed for rest. Even when exhaustion clung to his every movement.
He never stopped giving.
And Suho… Suho only made it harder.
Sieun’s hands had stilled after the massage, his last press against Suho’s knee lingering just a moment longer before slipping away. The balm was capped with a soft click, set neatly back into the drawer. His movements were precise, almost automatic, as though routine was the only thing holding him upright. He picked up the damp towel, stepping toward the rack to hang it. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, his body weighed down by something more than just physical fatigue.
And that was when Suho snapped.
He couldn’t stand it — the silence, the distance, the way Sieun had kept his eyes carefully averted all evening, as if meeting Suho’s gaze would shatter him. The space between them had grown unbearable.
So he stood.
But his legs wavered immediately, strength draining out like water through a sieve. The crutches wobbled beneath his arms, his body threatening to tip sideways.
Sieun moved at once, hand darting forward with instinctive urgency to steady him.
But Suho jerked back. His body recoiled before his mind could catch up — panic, ugly and raw, spilling through his veins like it had last night. His eyes flew wide, breath seizing in his chest.

And Sieun… froze.

It was like someone had poured ice through his veins. His hand hung suspended in the air, inches from Suho’s arm, but he didn’t close the gap. Slowly, rigidly, it dropped back to his side. His expression emptied — not anger, not disappointment, but something far worse: a hollow blankness.

Suho’s stomach dropped.

Regret stabbed sharp and immediate. His chest caved inward as the memory of last night slammed back into him — the screaming, the flinching, the way Sieun had swallowed his hurt and said nothing. Now, here it was again. That same look, that same ache reflected back at him.

He couldn’t bear it.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Suho turned and limped out. The quiet clack of his crutches against the floor echoed in the room. He didn’t dare look back. He couldn’t.
Sieun didn’t stop him. Didn’t follow. He stayed rooted in place, frozen, shoulders heavy, hand still half raised until at last it lowered, slow and lifeless.

 

(ʘᗩʘ’)

 

The living room was dim, lit only by the bluish glow of the television. Outside, the rain had softened into a light patter, its rhythm steady and distant against the window glass.
On the couch, Baku lay sprawled across Gotak’s lap, head tilted back in easy trust, Gotak’s fingers absently threading through his hair. The sight should have been ordinary, but to Suho, it twisted something deep in his chest. The ease between them, the natural closeness — it stirred a gloom in him heavier than before.
He must have looked strange, because the moment he stepped into the room, all three pairs of eyes flicked toward him. Their gazes lingered, not mocking, not judgmental, but weighted with a quiet sympathy that only made his chest tighten further.
And then, Baku grinned.
“You look fluffy.”
Gotak snorted, not missing a beat. “And soft.”
Juntae adjusted his glasses, his voice mild, almost deadpan. “And warm.”
“Overall comfy,” Gotak added with a smirk, tilting his head.
Suho blinked at them, momentarily thrown. His pout faltered, slipping just slightly, unwilling but cracking under their teasing rhythm.
Baku leaned forward, putting on a mock-serious face. “Can I hug you?”
Suho shot him a weak glare. It had no weight behind it, and that only made Baku grin wider.
Gotak leaned back with a theatrical sigh, smirk tugging at his lips. “Why would he let you? There’s only one person who would get to do that.”
The words struck Suho like a stone tossed into deep water. His chest clenched, breath hitching. He wished it were true. God, he wished it. That he belonged solely to Sieun. That Sieun would claim him so openly. But the truth was harsher — all he did was hurt him. Push him away.
His body sagged slightly, the fever dragging at him again. His eyes slipped back toward the hallway, aching, waiting for Sieun to appear, to guide him back, to anchor him.
But the memory of Sieun’s face — frozen, hollow — burned into him. The same face from last night, the same silence. Shame clawed up his throat, thick and choking.
Why do I keep hurting him?
All Sieun did was care for him. Feed him, steady him, stay beside him. And in return? Panic. Jerks. Sulks. Silence.
How much time does he even get to study these days? Suho thought bitterly. He used to spend hours at his desk, always working, always learning. Now… now all his time is wasted on me.
Yes. Wasted. Because all Suho did was pull him down. Force him to swallow his own exhaustion. Hide his own pain.
The thoughts spiraled, tightening like a vice.
Until a voice cut through.
“All you need to do…” Baku said, unusually soft, “is take the initiative.”
Suho blinked, startled. His head lifted slowly.
Juntae’s voice followed, quiet but sure. “Don’t say anything that feels too heavy. Just do what you can.” He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “You two are different. Always have been. You don’t need rehearsed apologies. Just be honest. If he’s misunderstanding you, clear it. If you’re misunderstanding him, let him clear it for you.”
Gotak nodded firmly, eyes steady on Suho. “Exactly. Don’t shut each other out.”
Suho froze. The words pressed into him, sinking deeper than he expected. For the first time all evening, something shifted in his chest — not relief, not entirely, but comfort. Fragile, but real.
When he looked at them again, they weren’t mocking him. They were smiling, warm and soft, their expressions light in the dim room.
Juntae reached for the remote and clicked the TV off. The bluish light faded, leaving the room in the hush of rain and shadows. “Should we sleep?” he murmured, voice calm, gentle.
Suho’s lips parted. His heart thudded once, hard.
And then Juntae, with a small knowing smile, tilted his head toward the hall.
“Let’s go to your Sieun.”

They moved together, feet muffled against the tatami, the faint creak of the old floorboards swallowed by the hush of rain pressing against the windows. The air in the hallway was cooler than the living room, the kind of chill that sank through thin fabric and brushed against the skin. Every step forward tightened something in Suho’s chest.

Halfway down, his voice slipped out, softer than he meant, as though he were speaking to himself.

“Why do you guys always sleep in the bedroom when we have this big living room?”

Baku’s yawn was loud, theatrical, his arms stretching wide. “Because you two sleep in the bedroom.”

Gotak didn’t even hesitate. “Exactly.”

Suho blinked, frown tugging faintly between his brows. “…So what?”

Baku smirked, glancing at him sidelong. “I want to sleep near my parents.”

The word snagged in Suho’s mind like a burr. Parents. It should’ve meant something, but his thoughts stumbled, slid past it, and kept running. His heart was too busy racing ahead, leaping into the bedroom before his body even crossed the threshold. He was already rehearsing words, fumbling half-apologies in his head — I didn’t mean it, I was scared, I just wanted you close — but every version felt clumsy, weak, not enough.

By the time they reached the door, every imagined sentence scattered like sand slipping through his fingers.

The bedroom was darker than he expected. The overhead light was off, shadows thick in the corners. Only the small yellow lamp on the low table was left on, its glow soft and hazy, tinting everything with warmth that felt cruel against the cold hollow in his chest.

And there he was.

Sieun.

Already changed into his nightclothes, body curled under the blanket on his futon. His back faced them, shoulders hunched ever so slightly, his profile hidden. The blanket covered him neatly, tucking him away from view.

Facing away from Suho.

Suho’s breath stuttered.

A shiver crawled down his spine, his skin prickling cold despite the blanket still draped around his own shoulders.

They always went to bed together.

Not side by side — not touching — but always together. It had been unspoken, a rhythm they had never once broken. If Sieun was busy washing dishes, Suho would wait, stretched out on the couch with his eyes stubbornly on the clock until Sieun finally came. If Sieun studied until his eyes blurred, Suho would sit with him, nodding off beside his desk, waiting for him to finish. It wasn’t a rule. It wasn’t spoken. It was simply their way.

Their silent pact.

Until last night.

Last night, Suho had been too angry, too raw. He’d refused to speak, his pride building walls between them. He’d turned his back, gone to bed without him, leaving Sieun in the quiet. He’d broken it first.

And now… tonight… it was Sieun.

Not waiting. Not sitting with him. Not even pretending.

Already lying down. Already asleep, maybe. Already turned away.

The blanket looked like a wall between them, firm and absolute.

Suho’s throat closed, his chest seizing around a breath that didn’t come.

The sight carved into him like ice.

Because this was losing. Not in an argument, not in shouting. This was what it looked like to lose Sieun — in the small, ordinary rituals that stitched their lives together. In the absence where Sieun used to wait for him. In the back turned against him.

His knees weakened. His chest ached. His mind screamed that this was wrong, that he couldn’t let it be like this, that he couldn’t bear this silence.

And it terrified him more than any fever, more than any wound, more than anything else.

Because if Sieun stopped waiting… maybe that meant he’d already started walking away.
Suho’s chest was a storm.
Every inhale felt jagged, shallow. He stood frozen at the threshold of the room, his crutches biting into the tatami under his weight, but he barely felt them. His eyes were locked on one thing — Sieun’s back.

That blanket. Neat. Tucked. Turned away.
The rise and fall of his shoulders, faint beneath the soft yellow lamp.
The silence surrounding him, heavier than the sound of the rain pressing against the glass.

No. Not like this. He never—he never sleeps first. He always waits. Always.
The thought clawed through him like glass shards. His pulse hammered in his throat. His chest burned with panic.

Why tonight?
Why after everything?

The pact — that unspoken rhythm between them — it was broken.
Last night, Suho had shattered it with anger, with silence. His pride had made him cruel, had left Sieun awake and alone.
But tonight… tonight it wasn’t Suho who broke it.
It was Sieun.

And that was so much worse.

Gotak’s voice cut through the stillness, low and lazy. “...Is he asleep already?”

Suho’s heart lurched at the question. His breath caught.

Gotak stepped forward, leaning down to glance at Sieun’s turned figure. His whisper carried back, careless. “Yeah. He actually is sleeping.”

The words hit Suho like a blow to the chest. His stomach twisted so violently it made his knees weaken. His lips parted, but no sound came at first. Just air. Just panic.

Then Juntae spoke. Soft. Steady. Too steady.
“He must be tired.”

The way he said it — quiet, heavy, with a weight Suho didn’t understand — made something seize inside him. Like Juntae knew more than he did. Like he could see exhaustion Suho hadn’t noticed building, days and nights stretching longer than Suho had cared to ask about.

What does he mean by that? How tired? How long has he been… like this?

Suho’s chest clenched so tightly it hurt. His body moved before his mind could catch up, his voice breaking through the silence with a crack.

“Sieun—”

It came out too raw. Too loud. A call. A plea. Almost enough to stir him.

“Hey, hey—” Baku interrupted immediately, sitting up on his futon, waving his hand. “Let him sleep. He must be tired, man. You can talk to him tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Gotak added, voice firmer, dismissive. “What’re you gonna do, talk to him while he’s sleeping? Come on. Just sleep. It’s not a big deal.”

But it was.
God, it was everything.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

Sieun never sleeps before me. Never.

From the very first night Suho came here, it had always been that way. If Suho was weak, if he was sick, if he was crying silently into the pillow — Sieun stayed awake. Always. Watching. Waiting.

Letting Suho be the first to drift, as if guarding the threshold of sleep so Suho could cross safely.

Maybe Suho had always been the one to surrender first. But Sieun never did. Not until Suho was gone. Not until he could be sure he wasn’t alone.

Never like this. Never already turned away, blanket pulled up, shoulders curled in — before Suho even lay down.

It was wrong. It was terrifying.

The others coaxed him, their voices easy, soft, harmless. But they didn’t know. They couldn’t feel the knife lodged in his chest, the chaos clawing inside him.

Only one did.

Juntae.

His eyes lingered on Suho, sharp and watchful behind the glint of his glasses. He looked at him like he could read every frantic thought screaming under his skin.

Juntae moved closer, crouching by the futon near Sieun. His hand reached out, checking carefully. The pause felt endless. When he finally straightened, his voice was low, sure.

“He really is sleeping. He must be so tired…”

Suho’s chest broke wide open. The guilt flooded in like fire. Did I make him this tired? Did I wear him down so much he couldn’t even wait for me anymore?

The thought strangled him.

Juntae’s voice softened further, gentle but firm. “You can talk to him tomorrow, Suho. He’s not going anywhere.”

Suho’s eyes burned hot. His throat ached with unsaid words. He wanted to scream, You don’t understand. He’s never done this before. It means something’s wrong. It means I’m losing him.

But his voice died in his chest. His lips trembled uselessly.

Juntae’s hand steadied on his arm, grounding him. He guided Suho down toward the bed with quiet insistence. “Lie down. Sleep. You can talk to him tomorrow.”

Suho’s body obeyed, though his heart rebelled. He lay down, heavy with exhaustion and panic, his gaze refusing to shift.

The yellow lamplight painted Sieun’s outline on the futon across the room — back turned, shoulders rising and falling in steady rhythm.

And Suho stared. Unblinking. Unwilling to let the image go.

Juntae’s words echoed faint in his skull, fragile as paper. He’s not going anywhere. He’s not going anywhere…

He clung to them, even as doubt gnawed holes through them, until the weight of exhaustion finally dragged him under.

Still staring at Sieun’s back.

Still afraid that when morning came, the pact — and Sieun — would be gone.

Suho lay on the bed, wide awake, the dim yellow glow of the table lamp blurring at the edges of his vision. His body begged for rest, but his mind would not quiet. His eyes refused to stray from the outline of Sieun’s back. The steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath the blanket should have been comforting, but tonight it cut sharper than any blade.
Maybe—maybe if he just crawled over, pressed himself close, slid under that blanket and fit himself into the curve of Sieun’s back, everything would return to the way it was. Maybe Sieun would turn, maybe he’d look at him again, maybe the awful distance would collapse.
The thought burned in his chest, but his body wouldn’t move. His legs were lead, his chest heavier still. And deep in that hollow ache, a voice whispered cruelly:
You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve him. He deserves better than this. Better than you.
So he stayed where he was, watching, hurting, until exhaustion finally dragged him under.
But even in sleep, there was no peace.

The dream came.

Too bright, too sharp.

In that dream, Suho stood on his crutches, the weight of them digging into his underarms, but the ground beneath him felt steady. The world around him shimmered with color — greens too vivid, skies too blue, the air itself humming with warmth. It was lively, cheerful. Almost mocking.
His friends were there. Baku, Gotak, Juntae … laughing, their voices ringing free. Untouched, unburdened, so full of a happiness Suho felt like he was watching through glass. And there, at the center of it all, was Sieun.
Smiling.
That smile pierced through Suho like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His chest clenched, his breath caught, but for a moment it felt good. Sieun’s smile always did that to him. Rare, precious — a sight that never failed to undo him.
Suho smiled back, tentative, aching. He began to move toward them, one crutch, then the other, slow steps across the painted world.
And then Sieun’s hands lifted. Outstretched. Reaching. Searching for support, for someone to steady him.
Suho’s chest swelled with an instinctive rush of warmth. He wanted to be that support. He wanted to catch him, hold him.

But before he could move, Sieun’s outstretched hands were met not with care … but rejection.
The person he reached for jerked back.
The hands he trusted, the ones he sought for balance, didn’t steady him — they shoved him.
Hard.
Sieun’s body tipped, his footing lost in an instant. His eyes widened for only a fraction of a second before gravity pulled him down.
He fell.
The sound — that dull, unforgiving thud of his body hitting the ground — cracked the bright painted world open like glass. His smile vanished in a heartbeat. And with it, every other smile dissolved. The laughter around them shriveled, cut off mid-breath. The colors bled out of the scene, too vivid one moment, washed-out gray the next, as though even the dream itself recoiled from what had just happened.
And then came the voice.
Sharp. Cruel. Splitting the painted sky like thunder ripping a storm apart.
“Don’t touch me, you monster!”
The words ripped through the air. They didn’t stop there — they tore through Suho too, gouging deep into his skin, his bones, his heart, leaving a wound that burned with shame and horror.
Everyone turned. Everyone stared. Eyes wide, mouths shut, silence thickening until the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
And Sieun…
He was on the ground. His palms pressed into the dirt, shoulders quivering faintly though he made no sound. Slowly — unbearably slowly — he lifted his head. His gaze rose, fixing itself on the one who had pushed him. The one who had spat out that word.
There was nothing in his face.
No fury.
No tears.
No anger to rail against the insult.
Only devastation — a hollow, endless ruin too big for expression, too raw for tears. A quiet collapse of something inside him that could never be put back the same way again.
His eyes dropped. He stared at his palms, dirt smeared into the lines of his skin. For a long moment he only looked, as if seeing them for the first time. Then, with slow, mechanical care, he brushed them off, one stroke after another, like he could erase what had just happened. He pushed himself upright, every movement deliberate, heavy. He dusted his pants with the same quiet precision, as though dignity could be rebuilt piece by piece if only he moved carefully enough.
And then… he looked up.
His eyes found the one who had pushed him.
Found the one who had called him a monster.
Found the boy whose face mirrored his own.
It was Suho.
And in that instant, the devastation in Sieun’s eyes burned straight through him, pinning him in place.
Straight into Suho.

Suho froze. His body turned to stone, the air ripped straight out of his lungs.
Because it wasn’t a stranger who had shoved Sieun down.
It was him.
Not this him — not the Suho standing frozen at the edge of the scene — but another. A twisted double. A cruel echo wearing his face, his body, his voice.
That other Suho had pushed Sieun.
That other Suho had spat the word.
And the sound of it still tore through the air, jagged and merciless.
“Monster.”
The real Suho’s breath hitched violently, his throat closing as the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. The painted world shuddered, collapsing in on itself. His knees trembled, but he couldn’t move.
No. No, no, no—
He tried to cry out, tried to force words past the choking knot in his throat, but his voice died inside him. His body wouldn’t obey. He was trapped, powerless, a prisoner in his own nightmare.
And Sieun was staring.
His devastated, hollow eyes fixed on the figure who had shoved him — but it didn’t matter that it was the other Suho. Those eyes cut into the real Suho too, tearing him apart like a verdict.
It was him. Whether he had done it or not, it was still him.

Panic surged. His thoughts cracked into desperate screams, raging at the false version of himself.
What are you doing? How dare you? How dare you hurt him? How dare you push him down? How dare you call him—

The word caught in his throat before he could even finish, thick and poisoned.

—a monster.

It rang again. In the air. In his skull. In his own voice.
He couldn’t tell anymore if it was the other Suho who had spoken it or if it was echoing from his own mouth.
The word clung to him like a curse. It burned, it branded, it hollowed.
And Suho’s chest caved under the weight of it — breathless, breaking — crushed from the inside out, as Sieun’s gaze stayed locked on him. Silent. Endless. Condemning.

Sieun’s eyes lingered on the other Suho — sharp, unblinking, unreadable. There was thought in them, something heavy and terrible, and Suho could feel it pressing on his chest like a weight. He didn’t know what Sieun was thinking, but he knew it wasn’t good. He knew it wasn’t safe.
Then those lashes lowered. His gaze slipped downward, shadowing his expression. Still thinking. Still silent.

A weak, fractured sound clawed out of Suho’s throat before he realized it.
“No…”

It was barely a whisper, but it shook in the air.

And then Sieun moved.

His hands slid into the pockets of his jacket, slow, deliberate, like a man sealing something away. His shoulders curled inward, then straightened, his frame stiff.
And he turned.
The sight of his back — that simple turn — made panic explode through Suho’s chest like glass shattering. His breath stuttered, his heart lurching violently.
“No…” Suho mumbled again, louder this time, his voice trembling. His chest burned with dread, his entire body begging him to stop, to look back.
But Sieun didn’t stop.
He turned his back fully, the line of his shoulders retreating.
Then came the voice.
From behind him.
From the other Suho.
Cold. Detached. Final.
“Never touch me again.”
The words weren’t loud, but they rang through the dream like thunder splitting a storm. They dug under Suho’s skin, ripped through his chest, sliced him apart from the inside out.

His lungs seized. His knees buckled.

 

“No!” Suho gasped, stumbling forward, his voice cracking into a desperate cry. The sound ripped out of him like he was being gutted alive.
But Sieun didn’t turn. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even flinch.
He just kept walking.
The sight of it — Sieun’s back receding from him, step by step — was worse than any wound Suho had ever taken. It was terror. It was heartbreak. It was everything he feared, given shape and walking away.
His chest heaved, his breath choking in ragged bursts. His whole body screamed with the instinct to run, to grab, to beg. But his legs felt heavy, his throat closed, his voice broke uselessly in his mouth.
And still, Sieun walked.
Away from him.
Away from the world.
Away from everything they were.
“Sieun!” Suho’s voice ripped itself raw as he bolted forward, his crutches clattering, his legs burning. “Sieun, wait! Please!”
But no matter how fast he walked, Sieun only drifted farther. The distance didn’t shrink — it grew. The dream twisted cruelly,
stretching the ground beneath his feet, making every desperate stride useless.
“Sieun!” Suho screamed again, louder, tears burning his eyes. His chest heaved with panic, his lungs searing. “Don’t leave me—please!”
But Sieun never turned back. Never slowed.
His outline blurred, his body fading into the gray horizon of the dream. Step by step until he was gone.
And Suho’s final scream tore itself from the pit of his chest, breaking into pieces.
He didn’t glance back. Not once.
Not at the boy who had shoved him.
Not at the boy who was screaming for him.
Sieun just walked — steady, silent, his shoulders stiff beneath the weight of finality. Every step was deliberate, every step widening the space between them, leaving both Suhos behind as though they were nothing.
“No—please, no—” The sound ripped out of Suho’s throat, jagged and raw. His chest heaved with it, his voice breaking. “Sieun, don’t—don’t go—”
The panic twisted sharp, clawing into his ribs until he thought he might tear himself apart. He turned, fury and desperation knotting into one, and screamed at the other version of himself — that hollow-faced twin just standing there.
“Stop him! What are you doing? Stop him! Don’t just stand there, stop him!”
But the other Suho didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. His face was a mask, empty, lifeless. He only watched Sieun’s back as it receded, as if none of it mattered.
The others — their friends in the dream — were frozen too. Baku, Gotak, Juntae, all of them caught in the impossible sight: two Suhos and a Sieun walking away. Their eyes were wide, their mouths shut, paralyzed as though they were powerless to interfere. Silent witnesses to a collapse.
And still, Sieun walked.
“STOP HIM!” Suho’s scream cracked into a sob, the sound scraping his throat raw. His hands shook on his crutches, his legs stumbling forward, but the distance stretched like the world itself was unraveling. “Beg him for forgiveness—say something—anything! Please! Just stop him!”
But the other Suho remained motionless, a cruel reflection of everything Suho feared in himself. Blank. Cold. Watching, and nothing more.
And Sieun…
Sieun’s figure grew smaller. The yellow light of the painted world dimmed with each step he took, his frame swallowed by the endless gray. Every footfall sounded like a door slamming shut.
Suho tried to chase him, crutches digging into the ground, his lungs tearing for air. But the more he tried, the farther Sieun drifted. The distance stretched unnaturally, impossibly — widening like a wound that refused to close.
“Sieun!” His voice was a ragged scream, high and desperate. “Please—Sieun!”
The figure didn’t pause. Didn’t turn. Didn’t stop.
“No! Please, no—” Suho’s sobs shredded the air, each one cracking him further open. His chest felt like it was caving, every breath a jagged knife. He ran until his vision blurred, until his muscles burned — and still, Sieun slipped farther.
Smaller. Fainter.
Vanishing into nothing.
“Sieun!” His scream collapsed into silence, strangled by despair. “Don’t leave me—please, don’t—”

“No—please—Sieun!”
The scream ripped out of him, raw and tearing, but it reached no one.
Because Sieun vanished.
One step, two—and then nothing. His figure dissolved into the gray, as if the world itself had erased him.
Gone.
And Suho was left standing alone.
The bright colors that had once mocked him drained completely, leaving only ash and shadow. The laughter that had filled the air was gone, leaving silence so thick it pressed into his ears until he thought they’d burst. The ground beneath him shuddered, cracked like glass, splitting open into endless dark.
“Sieun!” he screamed again, but the name only ricocheted back at him, hollow, twisted, unrecognizable. His own voice mocked him, echoing off the collapsing walls until it didn’t even sound like him anymore.
The air grew heavy, crushing his chest. His crutches slipped in the trembling dirt, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. His palms scraped against the cold ground — no warmth, no texture, just emptiness.
And still, there was no one.
No Sieun. No friends. No world.
Just Suho. Alone.
His chest caved as sobs clawed their way up, broken and desperate. He pressed his forehead to the dirt, his voice muffled against the emptiness.
“Don’t leave me…”
His whisper cracked apart.
“Please… don’t leave me.”
But silence answered.
The world had swallowed Sieun whole. And left Suho to drown in nothingness.
“Sieun—”
Suho’s voice cracked, torn into jagged pieces by sobs. His throat burned, his chest heaved, but the name still tore out of him, over and over, raw and desperate.
“Sieun! Please—don’t go—”
But the space where Sieun had vanished stayed empty, dark, swallowing everything whole.
Hot tears blurred Suho’s vision. His hands clawed at the ground, digging into the dirt that felt like ash between his fingers, his body collapsing forward as he cried. The guilt ripped through him, sharper than any blade.
Because it had been his face.
His voice.
His hands that shoved Sieun.
His mouth that had spit out that word.
Monster.
The boy who had waited for him. The boy who fed him, steadied him, cared for him. The boy who had never once left him alone.
And in his dream, Suho had been the one to betray him.
“No… no, please—” Suho sobbed, his palms smearing through the dirt as if he could dig Sieun back out, as if he could pull him from the darkness with his bare hands. His tears fell hot, mixing with the gray dust, streaking his face.
“Forgive me—please forgive me—” The words tumbled from him in broken gasps. “I’ll beg—I’ll fall on my knees—I’ll rub my hands raw if I have to—just don’t leave me—please don’t leave me—”
His body shook violently. Panic tore through his chest like a storm.
“I’ll do anything you want, anything—just don’t go, don’t leave me, please—”
But the silence was suffocating.
And Suho’s horror reached its breaking point.
He needed to wake up.
He had to wake up.
“Please—wake up—wake up—” His own cries collapsed into muffled sobs, his fists pounding into the dirt until his skin burned. “Wake up, wake up, please—I need to wake up—I need to beg him—please—”
The dream around him flickered, shadows pressing closer, crushing in. Suho’s body curled in on itself, wracked with sobs, gasps tearing through his throat like knives. If he didn’t wake now—if he didn’t break free—he was certain Sieun would be gone forever. Vanished. Lost to him for good.

A sound slipped out with his struggle. Soft. Fragile. Barely more than a broken breath.
And that was what pulled Sieun out of sleep.

“…no…”
His eyes flew open instantly. That voice — he knew it anywhere. He would always know it. It was Suho’s.
Even in the haze of sleep, dread surged through him like ice water down his spine. His body reacted before his mind could catch up — already turning, already pushing himself upright, his heart hammering.
Is Suho okay?
The question barely formed before the answer struck him, sharp and merciless.
Suho was not okay.
He lay tangled in his blanket, his face twisted in pure terror. His brows drawn tight, his lips trembling, as though every part of him was trapped inside some unseen horror. His whole body strained against it — muscles taut, chest heaving, like he was fighting shadows no one else could see.
Tears clung to his lashes, spilling hot down his cheeks. His forehead shone with sweat, damp strands of hair sticking to his skin.
His fists were clenched so tightly in the blanket that the knuckles stood out stark, bone-white, shaking with the force of it. The fabric quivered under his grip, as if it might tear. His head tossed side to side, restless, refusing stillness.
And then Sieun saw his eyes. Shut, but moving — rolling frantically beneath the lids, lost in some nightmare he couldn’t escape.
The sight hit Sieun like a knife.
“Suho…” His voice cracked as he whispered the name, low and urgent, already reaching out, unable to stop himself.
Another gasp tore out of Suho, sharp and broken. His breaths were shallow, uneven, each one too fast, too thin, catching in his throat before it could fill his lungs. Panic rippled through his body, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm too wild, too desperate.
Sieun’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt.
He knew.
This wasn’t just a bad dream.
This was worse.
This was another attack.
And Sieun’s chest burned with helplessness — watching the boy who always seemed unshakable, the boy who fought everything and everyone, reduced to this: trembling, gasping, breaking apart in his sleep.
He felt his own throat ache, his hands hovering uncertainly before lowering with care. His every instinct screamed at him to ground Suho back, to hold him steady, to whisper him home. But beneath it all was something heavier — sadness that this kept happening, sadness that Suho carried scars so deep even sleep wouldn’t release him.

“...I’m here,” he breathed, his voice cracking softer than he meant, full of worry that pressed like a weight against his ribs.

Sieun shifted forward, climbing onto the bed — not fully, just half, his knees sinking into the mattress beside Suho. His hand hovered uncertainly over him, trembling with the weight of choice.
He had to wake him. If he didn’t, Suho would sink too far into whatever nightmare held him now, too deep to climb back out. But what if touching him only scared him more? What if it dragged him further into the panic, made it worse?
Still, there was no time.

“Suho…” His voice came low, steady, but urgent underneath. “You need to wake up. You’re safe. Just open your eyes…”

But Suho didn’t stir. His chest heaved with ragged gasps, each breath shallow and broken like his lungs had forgotten how to work. His entire body strained against the nightmare, muscles taut, sweat beading along his temple.
Sieun’s chest tightened. His hand hovered, indecision gripping him, before finally lowering. He tapped Suho’s arm, then his shoulder — featherlight touches, coaxing, desperate. “Suho. Wake up. Please.”
Still nothing.
Juntae stirred from where he was sleeping beside Sieun. He had already been half-awake, eyes opening beneath crooked glasses. He sat up sharply, voice edged with alarm. “What’s going on?”
Sieun didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His eyes didn’t leave Suho’s face, didn’t leave the terror etched into every line. His hand tapped again, firmer this time.
Baku sat up next, rubbing his eyes, his voice groggy but startled. “What the hell—what’s happening?” Gotak’s head lifted, blinking fast, confusion clear.
Juntae’s voice cut in before Sieun could form words. Soft, worried, certain. “I think… I think he’s having another panic attack.”
And Suho’s body only confirmed it — his breaths now sharper, faster, gasping like he was drowning. His fists gripped the blanket, knuckles bone-white, his chest rattling with each broken inhale.
Sieun’s pulse spiked. Panic surged through him. He leaned closer, his hand pressing more firmly now, his voice almost breaking. “Suho. Wake up. Please—wake up—”
And then—
Suho’s eyes snapped open.
For a split second, relief hit Sieun like air after suffocation. Their gazes locked — wide, frantic, tear-glossed eyes staring into his, begging for grounding. That was all Sieun wanted, to anchor him, to steady him—
But his body betrayed him.
Instinct jolted through his veins. His spine stiffened, his hand recoiled before he could stop it. Too fast. Too sharp.
He jerked back.
And Suho saw it.
Saw the recoil. Saw the space put between them. Saw it as if Sieun’s touch had burned, as if his closeness was something wrong, something dangerous.
The raw fear in Suho’s eyes faltered — twisted. Shifted. Hollowed into something darker.
It was heartbreak first, sharp and immediate. Then panic, sharp enough to slice. And underneath it all, horror. Horror that Sieun had pulled back from him. That even Sieun might see him the way Suho feared most.
His breaths stuttered, broken. The tears welled faster, not just from the dream’s ghost but from the reality before him. His face crumpled, his body shrinking in on itself.
And Sieun sat frozen, his own chest twisting, regret already clawing its way up his throat — but the damage was done.
The space between them was no longer just inches. It felt like an entire world.

Suho’s chest collapsed the instant Sieun flinched back.

 

It was only a twitch, a recoil born of shock — but to Suho, it was the world ending. The image seared into him, carving itself into the inside of his skull. Sieun pulling away. Rejecting him. As if Suho’s touch was something foul. As if he was poison.

His mind shattered under it. Thoughts ripped through him too fast, too sharp.
He hates me. He must hate me.
After everything I’ve done — screaming at him, pushing him, making him hide his pain — why wouldn’t he?
I’ve ruined him. And now… now he looks at me the way I once looked at him. Like he can’t stand me near him. Like I disgust him.

The panic turned savage, clawing through his ribs, digging hot and vicious into his lungs. The terror swelled, venomous, until every beat of his heart screamed the same unbearable thought —

What if this isn’t just the nightmare? What if he leaves me in the real world too?

The thought gutted him. Hollowed him out.

A sound ripped out of him before he could stop it — a sob so raw it felt torn from his bones. Loud. Cracking. His body curled in on itself, trembling violently, his throat closing around the flood of air he couldn’t seem to catch.
“Sieunah—” His voice cracked, splintered, breaking apart in the middle of his cry. “I’m so sorry—”

The words poured out broken, tripping over themselves, jagged with terror. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Suho—” Sieun’s voice cut through, quick, urgent, but so laced with confusion it only twisted the knife deeper.

But Suho couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His sobs doubled, spilling harsh from his chest, choking him on his own gasps. His lungs clawed for air but every breath snagged halfway, sharp and shallow, rattling as if the panic itself was suffocating him.
“Please—” He heaved the word out between sobs, body writhing with desperation. “Don’t—don’t leave—” His lips trembled around the plea. “You can’t—leave me—”

And then the name broke out of him again, raw and pleading, his voice collapsing around it. “Sieunah, please—!”

Again. And again. The name slipped from him like prayer, like curse, like the only thing tethering him. Each repetition cracked his throat raw, the syllables splintering, tumbling out between hiccupped gasps.

His hands clawed blindly at the blanket, knuckles white, fabric trembling in his grip. His entire body shook with it — the desperation, the terror, the anguish — until tears streamed hot and fast down his cheeks, unchecked, unstoppable.

Sieun stared, frozen. His own chest twisted hard, the word leave burning in his ears like acid.
Leave? What is he talking about?

The question cut deeper than he wanted to admit, stabbing through his ribs. Fear, confusion, sorrow — it all pressed down on him at once, heavy, relentless. What nightmare has him so convinced I would abandon him? What has he seen that made him believe I could ever walk away?
And still Suho begged.
Begged like a boy drowning, his cries cracking into horror, his body writhing under the weight of the fear that Sieun would disappear the second he blinked.

“Suho…” Sieun’s voice cracked on his name, shaking despite his effort to steady it. But the boy in front of him couldn’t hear.
Because Suho was breaking. Completely.
His breaths came in jagged, shallow bursts, tearing from his chest like knives. Every inhale snagged halfway, every exhale collapsed into a gasp. His lungs rattled violently, fighting and failing to drag in enough air. His face twisted, wet and raw with tears streaming endlessly down his cheeks, lips trembling as broken sobs tore through him.
And all the while, he begged.
“I’m sorry—” The words ripped out like shards, barely coherent between gasps. “I’ll do anything—please—don’t leave me—” His voice cracked harder, the sound scraping from the back of his throat. “I can’t—” And then louder, shriller, desperate beyond reason: “Sieunah!”
His whole body lurched with it. He tried to sit up, arms spreading, reaching blindly. His shoulders shook with the effort, his arms trembling violently as if even bone was giving out under the weight of his desperation. He reached anyway. Reached like a drowning man clawing for something — anything — to anchor him.
The mattress crumpled under his swaying body, his head tossing as he fought to keep himself upright. His sobs split the room, each sound harsher than the last, his chest convulsing with panic. His arms stayed open, pleading, begging without words for Sieun to come closer, to not abandon him, to hold him.
And Sieun’s guard shattered.
Every wall, every defense he had so carefully built around himself crumbled in an instant. For once, his face betrayed everything: worry etched deep into his brows, fear hollowing his eyes, exhaustion dragging at his features, confusion tightening his chest, heartbreak cracking him wide open. All of it laid bare, unhidden.
His throat ached with the force of it, his own eyes stung hot with the threat of tears, his hands trembled at his sides. His chest felt raw, split open, as he watched Suho unravel in front of him — the boy who always fought, who never backed down, reduced to nothing but panic and terror, pleading for him like the world was ending.
And in Sieun’s chest, it was ending. Because nothing had ever hurt him more than seeing Suho like this — breaking apart, and believing he would be the one to leave him.

Before he even realized it, his body was already moving. Instinct overrode thought.
Sieun surged forward, climbing fully onto the bed, arms catching Suho mid-reach before the boy could collapse. And Suho did collapse — instantly, violently — his entire frame folding into Sieun as if every bone had given out. His head crashed against Sieun’s chest, sobs breaking open and muffling into the thin fabric of his shirt. The sound tore through Sieun’s ribs like claws.

“Shhh…it’s oaky” Sieun’s voice shook, breaking apart under the weight of panic. His arms tightened around Suho, pulling him in so fiercely it was as if he could hold him together by sheer force alone. He wrapped him in a grip that bordered on desperate, as though he could physically shield him from the nightmare still clinging to his skin.

Suho clutched back with trembling hands, fists knotting into Sieun’s shirt, clutching so tight it hurt. His entire body shook, convulsed, each sob cutting jagged and uneven through his chest. His gasps were shallow, frantic, half-choked like he couldn’t breathe enough to stay alive.

Sieun lowered his chin against Suho’s damp hair, pressing there as if to anchor him with the frantic beat of his own heart. His pulse thundered so violently Suho could feel it hammering beneath his ear.
One hand rubbed steady, firm circles into Suho’s back — over and over, grounding him, forcing some kind of rhythm into his trembling body. The other hand cradled the back of his head, fingers threading into sweat-damp strands, cupping him protectively, keeping him from slipping further away.

“It’s okay,” Sieun whispered, his voice trembling but urgent, cracking at the edges. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m here. I’m not leaving, Suho—do you hear me? I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”
But Suho only sobbed harder, gasping between hiccuped cries, repeating his pleas in broken fragments — don’t leave, please don’t, I’m sorry, Sieunah— until the words blurred into raw noise.
And Sieun held on tighter. Rocking him gently, whispering again and again, even as his own chest ached with helplessness. Because Suho clung like he would crumble to pieces if Sieun let go for even a second.
And in that moment, Sieun knew — if he loosened his arms, if he failed to hold on — Suho’s whole world would collapse.
So he didn’t let go. Not once.

Little by little, the storm inside Suho began to ebb. His sobs didn’t stop — they still shook out of him, jagged and uneven — but they softened, dulled into ragged hiccups that caught in his throat instead of ripping it raw. His fists, once knotted so tight they’d wrinkled Sieun’s shirt beyond repair, loosened only a fraction. Still, they refused to let go. His fingers clung like claws, clutching at him as if the moment he released even slightly, Sieun would disappear.
His breathing stumbled in starts and stutters. Sharp at first, choking, then faltering into uneven pulls, his lungs fighting to catch up. Slowly, painfully, they began to find rhythm — shallow but patterned — syncing against the steady rise and fall of Sieun’s chest pressed close to his face.
Sieun held him through every second, through every tremor that still ran up Suho’s spine. His arms were unyielding, steel and shelter all at once, locked around him like a promise. He rocked him in a faint, slow sway, not enough to jostle but enough to remind Suho of gravity, of warmth, of presence.
His voice was a low thread in Suho’s ear, soft but unwavering, carrying each word as though it could stitch Suho back together.
“I’m here… I’ve got you. I’m not leaving, Suho. I’ll stay as long as you need me. As long as you want me, I’ll be here.”
The words sank straight through Suho’s panic, soaking into the raw, frantic parts of him like water to a flame. They became the only thing holding him up, the only thing louder than the nightmare still clawing at the back of his mind.
Suho pressed closer, burying his face deeper into Sieun’s chest, muffling the broken whimpers still spilling from his lips. His body trembled, every muscle taut with the leftover terror, but he clung tighter, as if pressing hard enough might fuse them together and make it impossible for Sieun to ever pull away.
Sieun’s hand threaded gently through the damp strands of his hair, palm settling against the back of his head in a cradle. His thumb brushed slowly, steady strokes that grounded Suho back to his body, reminding him: here, not there. With me, not alone.
His other arm stayed locked firm around Suho’s waist, protective to the point of desperation. He held him so tightly it felt like a vow — as if the whole world could try to pry them apart and Sieun still wouldn’t let go.
And though his voice trembled faintly, cracking under the weight of fear and worry he tried to hide, Sieun didn’t falter. He kept murmuring, kept whispering those assurances over and over until Suho’s ragged sobs melted into hiccups and his hiccups into shivers.
And Suho clung, terrified and desperate, like those words were the only tether keeping him from falling apart completely.
Around them, the room was frozen in silence.
Baku and Gotak sat stiff on their futons, bodies tense, eyes wide, their usual banter stripped away. For once, there was no grin tugging at Baku’s lips, no teasing comment hanging at Gotak’s tongue. Both stared, mouths pressed shut, as if the smallest sound would shatter the fragile thread holding Suho together.
Juntae was worse. His hands were clamped over his mouth, fingers trembling against his skin, glasses sliding precariously down his nose. His chest rose and fell too quickly, uneven, as though even from the sidelines he was struggling to breathe. His wide eyes glistened, tracking every movement, every sob, every whispered word.
Sieun had told them before — Suho reacted badly yesterday. That the panic had been rough. Juntae had believed him. He had thought it must have been hard, that it must have wounded Sieun deeply to see Suho like that.
But this… this was beyond what he’d imagined.
This wasn’t just panic. This was Suho unraveling in front of them — screaming, begging, clawing at the air like the world itself was pulling Sieun from his grasp. His voice had cracked until it was barely sound, his tears streaming so freely they soaked into Sieun’s shirt, his body writhing until it collapsed under its own weight.
And Sieun… had been the only one to face this last night. Alone. No one else to steady Suho. No one else to catch him.
The thought made Juntae’s stomach twist painfully. It was bad. Worse than bad. The kind of bad that left bruises you couldn’t see.
But then, just as terrifying as the collapse, came the shift. The moment Sieun’s arms had wrapped around Suho, everything had changed.
The scream in Suho’s throat had broken into sobs, then softened into hiccups. His fists that had been tearing at the blanket loosened, latching instead to Sieun’s shirt with desperate, clinging strength. His gasping breaths, ragged and uneven, began to stumble toward rhythm — syncing faintly, shakily, with the calm rise and fall of Sieun’s chest.
It wasn’t instant. His body still shook, tremors rattling down to his bones, his breaths still hitching every few seconds. But the sharp edges dulled. The wild panic bled slowly into trembling exhaustion, like a storm finally losing its wind.
Juntae didn’t need to be told what caused it. He didn’t know the dream, didn’t see the nightmare. But the evidence was clear. It wasn’t hard to guess.
Suho had dreamed of Sieun leaving him.
And the thought alone had nearly destroyed him.
Suho’s fists clung tighter to Sieun’s shirt, knuckles bone-white, his whole body trembling as broken words tumbled out between jagged breaths.
“Don’t… don’t leave me—” His voice cracked, desperate. “Sieunah, please… I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do anything… just don’t—don’t go…”
Sieun’s chest constricted. His arms instinctively tightened, pulling Suho closer until their bodies pressed flush, his chin resting against damp hair. His voice came low, steady, like a mantra he needed Suho to believe.
“I’m not leaving. I’m right here, Suho. I’m not going anywhere.”
But Suho shook his head violently, clutching tighter, sobs rattling through him. “You—” he gasped, voice splintering, “you flinched. Just now. You hate me. You do—”
“No.” Sieun’s voice cracked, sharper now, firm in its desperation. His palm rubbed slow circles against Suho’s back, grounding. “No, Suho. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I just… I was surprised, that’s all. But I’m here. Do you hear me? I’m here.”
Suho broke then, a sob ripping out of him so raw it shook his whole frame. He buried his face harder against Sieun’s chest, muffling the words but not hiding the ache in them.
“Don’t turn away from me… please don’t turn away… I can’t—”
Sieun swayed him gently, rocking as though steadying a child caught in a storm. “Shhh. I won’t turn away. As long as you want me, I’ll stay. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

From the side, Baku’s voice cut in, barely more than a whisper. “…Holy shit.” He didn’t sound like himself — no grin, no tease, only raw disbelief. “He’s… he’s terrified.”
Gotak’s jaw tightened, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve never seen him like this,” he murmured, quieter than Baku. His eyes stayed fixed on Suho.

Juntae lowered his hands from his mouth, his glasses slipping down his nose. His breath was uneven as he spoke, voice trembling. “He dreamed you left him… didn’t he?” His gaze flicked to Sieun, then back to Suho shattering in his arms. “That’s why… that’s why he’s like this.”

At that, Suho’s head lifted suddenly, wild eyes glossy with tears. His stare locked onto Sieun’s face, pleading, broken.

“I saw you—” His words shook, cracking apart. “You left me. You turned your back. You didn’t even look at me… you just left me there all alone—”

“No.” Sieun cut in quickly, catching Suho’s cheeks in both hands, holding him still, forcing him to see only him. His thumbs brushed trembling tears from flushed skin, his own eyes raw, unguarded. “Look at me, Suho. Look. I’m here. Do you see me? I’m here.”

Suho hiccupped, shoulders heaving. He tried to nod, but his face twisted again, breaking apart. “But in the dream—” he sobbed harder, choking on the words, “… you hated me… I—”
“That wasn’t me,” Sieun said firmly, shaking his head until their foreheads pressed together. His voice lowered, raw, steady, breaking with urgency. “That wasn’t me. That was your dream, not me. I don’t hate you. I never will.”

Suho’s body trembled violently, hands clawing at Sieun’s sleeves like he’d vanish otherwise. “Please… please don’t hate me. I’ll do anything, I swear, just don’t—don’t leave, Sieunah—don’t—”

Baku exhaled harshly from the corner, his voice rough, muttered low. “Shit… is this worse than yesterday?”
Gotak elbowed him sharply, whispering, “Shut up,” but his own wide eyes betrayed his shock.
Sieun slid one hand into Suho’s damp hair, pulling him flush against his chest again. His voice came low, unyielding, a vow pressed into Suho’s skin.
“I’m not leaving. Even if you push me away. Even if you scream at me. Even if you hate me.” His arms tightened, as if daring anyone — even Suho himself — to pry them apart. “I’ll still be here. Always.”
Suho sobbed louder, forehead pressed desperately against Sieun’s chest. “I don’t hate you—I never hated you—” His voice fractured into another sob. “Just… don’t leave me. Don’t leave…”
“Shhh…” Sieun whispered, swaying him again, one hand rubbing slow circles over his back, the other cradling his head. “Then we’ll stay like this. You and me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Silence spread after that, broken only by Suho’s hiccuping breaths and Sieun’s low, trembling murmurs.
The gang stayed frozen in their futons, eyes wide, the reality of what they were seeing sinking heavy into the room. The boy who never cried was begging like a child, and the boy who never showed emotion was holding him like the world would end if he let go.

Suho’s sobs had thinned to hiccups, sharp little stutters that tore through his throat, but his body still trembled like a leaf in the wind. His fists refused to loosen, clutching Sieun’s shirt so tightly the fabric pulled and twisted, as though even sleep might try to tear him away if he dared to let go. His voice wavered weakly against Sieun’s chest, the words breaking apart before they fully formed, half-swallowed by his gasps.

“I thought… I lost you…”

Sieun’s chest constricted, a sharp ache spreading through his ribs. His hand moved instinctively, stroking slowly at the back of Suho’s damp hair, steady, soothing. His voice followed, low, coaxing, steady despite the tremor in his own throat.
“You didn’t lose me. I’m here. Always here.”

Suho hiccupped, his brows pulling tight, his lashes wet and clumped. “I thought… you left…”

“I didn’t leave,” Sieun whispered back immediately, shaking his head against Suho’s crown as if trying to etch the truth into him. He lowered his chin, pressing it lightly to the boy’s hair, grounding him with the weight of contact. “I won’t leave. Not now. Not ever.”

But the words weren’t enough. Suho’s trembling deepened, his body curling tighter against him, and the next mumble cracked apart like glass. “Don’t… hate me…”

The sound hollowed Sieun’s chest. His throat ached, his heart pulling heavy as he rocked him faintly in his arms, the sway gentle and rhythmic. “I don’t hate you, Suho. I couldn’t. Even when you push me away, even when you think I’ll disappear—I couldn’t.” He faltered for the first time, swallowing against the catch in his throat. “You’re… the one I stay for.”

The confession slipped raw and unpolished, but it was true.

Suho whimpered, his face pressing harder into Sieun’s shirt as though to burn the words into his skin, his tears soaking deeper. “Don’t go…”

“I won’t go,” Sieun vowed again, sharper this time, as though force could anchor the words. His arms tightened, locking around Suho with a strength that left no space between them. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight, not tomorrow. Not while you still need me.”

But Suho shook faintly, head buried, voice muffled against his chest. “But you will… everyone does…”

Sieun’s breath hitched, but he didn’t let go. He pressed his lips briefly to Suho’s hair, his hand sliding through damp strands, coaxing, steady. “Not me. I’ll stay. Even if you’re afraid, even if you don’t believe it right now—I’ll prove it. As long as you want me, I’ll be here.”

Bit by bit, Suho’s frantic grip began to ease, though his fingers still curled stubbornly into Sieun’s shirt, refusing full release. His sobs softened into small whimpers, each one followed by a trembling breath that came a little steadier, a little deeper.

His lashes clung to his cheeks, sticky with tears, and his lips pressed against Sieun’s chest as though searching for proof of the heartbeat there.

And Sieun gave it to him — every beat, every whispered assurance.

“Sleep if you need to, Suho,” he murmured, rocking him again, slow, protective. “When you wake up, I’ll still be right here. You won’t open your eyes and find me gone. I promise.”

And though Suho’s eyes stayed closed, though his chest still trembled with the remnants of fear, the tightness of his grip eased by fractions, enough to let exhaustion seep through.

Enough to let the storm inside him dull into restless silence.

 

Little by little, Suho’s body slackened. His sobs had dwindled to hiccuping whimpers, his grip loosening only slightly, though his fingers still knotted stubbornly into Sieun’s shirt as if the fabric itself tethered him to safety. His breaths came unsteady, still shaky, but steadier than before. His lashes clumped together, damp with tears, catching faint glimmers of the lamplight.

Sieun let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his chest finally easing just a fraction. He shifted carefully, one arm holding Suho tight while the other reached for the low table. His fingers curled around the cool plastic of the water bottle. Twisting the cap quietly, he brought it closer, brushing the rim lightly against Suho’s shoulder.

“Suho.” His voice was low, coaxing. “Drink a little.”

A faint shake of the head. Suho only buried himself deeper into him, his voice muffled against his chest. “Don’t… want…”

Sieun’s hand smoothed slow circles over his back, patient. “You need to,” he whispered, softer still. “Your throat’s raw. You’ll feel better. Just one sip. For me.”

The words lingered, steady and careful, weaving into Suho’s frantic chest like threads pulling taut. Sieun didn’t push harder. He only waited, his warmth constant, his heartbeat steady under Suho’s ear.

At last, after a long pause, Suho tilted weakly. His lips brushed the rim of the bottle. Sieun’s hand steadied the base, guiding small sips to his mouth. His other arm never loosened, holding him firm, protective. Suho swallowed slowly, obediently, his brows still furrowed as though the act itself cost him strength.

Sieun angled the bottle gently, never forcing more than he could handle. When Suho shook his head faintly, he stopped at once, setting the bottle aside. With a quiet exhale, he brushed his thumb over Suho’s lip, wiping the stray drop away.

“Better,” he murmured.

A weak hum answered him, low and tired. Suho’s cheek pressed flat against his chest again, as though searching for the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Sieun’s hand slipped into his damp hair, stroking slow, steady. After a moment, he leaned slightly, his voice a murmur meant only for Suho’s ear. “Lie down now. You’ll rest.”

Immediately, Suho stiffened, his grip tightening again. “No…” His voice cracked, faint and trembling, words spilling between sharp inhales. “Don’t… don’t let go…”

Sieun stilled, his chest tightening. “I won’t let go,” he promised, tone steady even as his heart pressed heavy against his ribs. “I’ll still be here. Even if you lie down. I’ll be right beside you.”

But Suho shook his head, stubborn, frantic in the small movement. His arms clutched tighter, his body pressing close, every muscle resisting separation. “You’ll… go. If I let go… you’ll go.”

“No,” Sieun whispered, his hand firm at the back of Suho’s head, grounding him. “I’m not going anywhere. Even if you close your eyes, when you wake up, I’ll still be here.”

But Suho’s breaths quickened again, fear flashing raw in his voice. “You promise and then… you’ll leave… you’ll leave me like in the dream…” His hiccuping sob cracked through the quiet. “Don’t… don’t go, Sieunah—please…”

Sieun closed his eyes, rocking him faintly again, his jaw tight with the weight of hearing that terror. “I won’t go. Not in your dream, not here. I’ll prove it. Lie down if you want, sit up if you want, but I’ll stay. I’ll stay until you don’t need me anymore.”

Suho whimpered, shaking his head, his voice breaking into a whisper. “I’ll always need you.”

Sieun’s throat ached. His hand pressed firmer against the back of his head, his arm tightening until Suho could feel the promise in his hold. “Then I’ll always stay.”

Baku groaned softly from his futon, the sound cutting through the silence that pressed too heavily over the room. His usual grin was gone, his voice stripped of its teasing edge. “Sieunah… just lie down beside him already.” It came low, almost pleading — the kind of plea he would usually bury under sarcasm, but couldn’t now.

Gotak dragged a hand over his face, exhaling hard before glancing at Suho still clinging, still trembling faintly in Sieun’s arms. His voice was gentler than Suho had ever heard from him, softer than when he teased in private moments. “He won’t rest until you do. He’ll only settle once he knows you’re not going anywhere. Just… stay with him, please.” The last word slipped out small, unguarded.

Sieun turned his head, dark eyes flicking toward them. His jaw was tight, lips pressed thin, as if weighing his resolve against the fragile figure in his hold. He stayed silent, but the heaviness in his gaze betrayed the storm inside him — exhaustion begging him to give in, fear of giving too much away, the desperate pull to protect Suho no matter the cost. But beneath it all, worry gnawed at him: What if I sleep here and he gets hurt? What if my arm presses his bad knee in the night? What if he doesn’t have enough space? What if he wakes and pushes me away again…

Then Juntae spoke. His voice was soft, but carried a quiet authority that left no room for retreat. He had been watching the whole time, his glasses abandoned on the table, his hands folded in his lap. “Sieunah,” he said, steady and low, “just do it already. Sleep on the bed just for tonight. That’s all he needs. That’s all he’s asking for.”

The words lingered in the dim air.

For a moment, the room was hushed again, save for the rain pattering steadily against the window — a second heartbeat, fragile and constant.

The others had already shifted back onto their futons, though none truly settled. Baku had rolled onto his side, brow furrowed, sneaking glances when he thought no one noticed. Gotak lay flat, one arm draped over his eyes, though his other hand fidgeted restlessly against the blanket. And Juntae… his posture stayed upright longer than it should have, his worry etched so deep it clung to every line of his face.

They all looked tired. But none of them would sleep.
Not until Suho did.
Not until Sieun gave him what he needed.

Because by now, they all understood — Suho’s calm, his peace, was tethered to one thing alone.

To Sieun.

Finally, Sieun exhaled — the sound sharp, almost like defeat, though it carried more relief than anything. His arms shifted carefully, adjusting his hold, and with slow, deliberate movements, he guided them both down onto the futon.

Suho whimpered faintly at the change, his body tensing as if even the act of lying down might mean being let go. But Sieun didn’t loosen his hold for a second. He kept him steady, his embrace constant, lowering them together as though the world itself might crumble if he didn’t.

The blanket rustled, pulled up and over until it cocooned them both in soft warmth. The dim light from the small lamp painted them in a muted glow, the rain outside steadying into its own rhythm.

Suho curled in immediately, instinctive — like his body knew where it belonged without needing to think. His head found Sieun’s arm, using it as a pillow, before shifting closer still, tucking himself into the crook of Sieun’s neck. He pressed in there, fitting himself under Sieun’s chin as though the spot had been carved just for him.

His breath hit Sieun’s skin in warm, uneven bursts — shaky, broken still from sobs, but already steadier than before. Each exhale softened against the pulse at Sieun’s throat, grounding him in ways words never could.

Sieun’s arms locked around him, one circling firm across his back, the other holding the curve of his shoulders. The embrace was unyielding — not the fragile comfort of earlier, but a vow written in the strength of his grip. I won’t let go. Not now. Not ever.

He shifted once more, adjusting the blanket until no draft could reach them, then let out another slow exhale, this one heavy, quiet, almost pained. Suho tightened against him at the sound, burrowing closer, as though his very body was answering the unspoken promise: don’t let go.

And so Sieun didn’t.

The room settled into silence again — a silence so fragile it felt like it might shatter if anyone breathed too loudly. Only the patter of rain against the glass remained, steady, constant.

And beneath it, Suho’s breathing. Still uneven, still broken at the edges, but slowing, calming… finding its rhythm again.

Baku turned onto his side, his back facing them. But not before his eyes lingered one last time, catching the fragile shape of Suho curled in Sieun’s arms. The look he gave — brief, fleeting — carried more softness than he would ever admit aloud.

Gotak shifted closer beside him, their shoulders brushing in the dim, and let out a long sigh into the dark. No jokes, no teasing — just the kind of silence that came when laughter had no place.

Juntae reached for his glasses, sliding them carefully onto the low table. His gaze stayed fixed on the pair for a moment longer, his features caught between worry and quiet understanding. Only when his chest eased slightly did he lie down himself, though his body stayed tense, restless.

But Sieun did not lie down to sleep.

His eyes stayed fixed on the small glow of the bedside lamp, the muted yellow light washing over the room. His mind replayed it all — the sharp sound of Suho’s sobs, the raw panic in his voice, the shattered whispers of don’t leave me that had clawed into the air like they might tear it apart.

Every word weighed on him, heavy, pressing into his ribs like stone. The nightmare had shown too much — Suho’s fear of abandonment, the guilt that poisoned him, the way he saw himself as something unworthy, something to be hated.

And Sieun… he couldn’t stop hearing it. Couldn’t stop feeling it.

Beside him, Suho shifted faintly. A small, unconscious move, but his body pressed in closer, arms tightening, clinging as though even sleep might try to steal Sieun away.

Without hesitation, Sieun’s arms pulled him tighter. His hand rubbed slow circles across Suho’s back, steady, grounding, the motion as much for himself as it was for Suho.

His chest ached with exhaustion, his mind heavy with thoughts he couldn’t voice. But one truth stayed clear, cutting through the weight.

For now, Suho was safe.

And Sieun would not let go.

 

He lay still, his arms tight around Suho, listening to the faint, uneven breaths slowly even into something softer. His hand never stopped its rhythm against Suho’s back, but his mind… it wouldn’t rest.
This was the third time.
The third time he’d watched Suho break like this.

The first time… he still didn’t know what had triggered it. That day at the picnic, Suho had slipped away, gone pale and shaking when nobody noticed.
And later, when Sieun asked — worried, insistent — Suho had brushed it off. Changed the subject. Pretended nothing had happened. And Sieun… he’d let it go. He hadn’t wanted to push.
Just yesterday, the second time… he knew. God, he knew.
Because it had been his fault.
The fight he’d picked, the bruises he came home with. Suho had seen the bandage on Sieun’s temple, and before Sieun could even think, he’d spat out words he regretted the second they left his mouth — I don’t regret it. Shameless. Cruel. He still didn’t understand why he had said it. Why he had wanted to sound so unshaken when all he had felt was hollow. The look on Suho’s face then — the tremor in his chest — Sieun would never forget it.
And now… the third time.
He had no idea what had caused it. Nothing had happened tonight — not that he’d seen. Yet Suho had shattered again. Screaming. Begging.
Two panic attacks in twenty-four hours. His chest clenched hard. That wasn’t good. It wasn’t just stress, wasn’t just exhaustion. This was something that needed attention. Medical attention. Professional help. And Sieun knew it.
But still… what was happening inside Suho’s head? What was tearing him apart from the inside, dragging him down this far?
He wanted to ask. God, he wanted to beg Suho to tell him. To share it. To let him in. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t force him, wouldn’t risk pushing him further into a corner.
So he’d wait.
That was all he could do.
Because Suho — for all his stubbornness, for all the walls he threw up — he always spoke when he was ready. When he couldn’t carry it anymore, when it cracked through on its own. One day, he’d tell him what happened that first time. One day, he’d explain what haunted him.
Until then, Sieun would stay here. Quiet. Holding him.
He lowered his chin to rest lightly on Suho’s hair, eyes fixed on the dim lamp glow. His own body begged for rest, but his mind stayed sharp, circling the same thought:
Whatever this is… Suho can’t keep shouldering it alone.
And when he’s ready… I’ll be here.
Always.

Sieun’s thoughts wouldn’t still. They twisted tighter with every second he held Suho trembling in his arms, his hand drawing the same slow circles over his back because it was the only thing he knew how to do.
But was this enough? Could he really handle this alone?

Two panic attacks in less than twenty-four hours — That was dangerous.

His mind darted uselessly. Do we need to tell someone? Do I need to call his rehab guide? The one who managed his shoulder and knee therapy — would panic attacks fall under their care? Or was that different? Would it even be allowed without Suho’s permission? The questions piled and tangled until they suffocated him. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.
Maybe I can look it up… He imagined opening his phone, typing into a search bar, scrolling until his eyes burned. But the thought rang hollow — what good would a random article online do against this? What website could teach him how to stop Suho from gasping for air in his arms?
Should I ask someone? Juntae’s parents? They were adults. They’d know better than him. But the idea felt like betrayal — sharing Suho’s pain without his consent. His father? Sieun’s chest clenched so tight he nearly stopped breathing. No. His father wouldn’t understand. He never had.
And Baku, Gotak, even Juntae — they cared, yes, he knew they cared. But would they know anything more than he did? Or would they just look at him with the same helplessness he already felt dragging him under?
The doubts circled him like vultures. What’s the right step? What if I miss it? What if I make it worse?
The more he thought, the more he realized the truth: he didn’t know enough, not about this. Not about Suho’s scars, the invisible ones that carved themselves deeper each night. And the not-knowing, the helplessness, pressed like stones against his ribs until he could barely breathe.
And still, his hand rubbed circles on Suho’s back, because it was the only thing he could do while his mind drowned in confusion.
Until—

“…I’m pathetic.”

The words were faint, barely more than a breath, but they split the silence like glass shattering.
Sieun’s whole body stilled. His thoughts — the questions, the plans, the desperate circling of what to do — all broke apart in an instant. His chest seized, twisting so sharply it almost hurt. Because Suho had said it. Out loud. And Sieun knew how rare that was.
His hand never faltered, though. It kept moving, steady, tracing those slow circles over Suho’s back — the only anchor he could give. But inside, everything trembled.
He bent closer, his ear near Suho’s mouth, waiting, hoping there would be more. But nothing followed. Just silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. The kind that made Sieun’s ribs ache with the weight of what had been left unsaid.
His throat worked before he found his voice. When it came, it was quiet. Careful. “Why?”
The word hung between them, gentle but piercing, like a hand extended in the dark.
And Sieun could feel it — the others had heard. The room had gone still, breaths held back, as if no one dared to move. Their presence pressed at the edges of the moment, silent witnesses to something they weren’t sure they were meant to see.
Every instinct in Sieun screamed to shield Suho. To protect him from their eyes, from their pity, from anything that might chip further at the fragile boy trembling in his arms. He wanted to close Suho off in his embrace completely, to make sure no one else could see this — the cracks, the brokenness Suho thought he had to hide.
But another truth cut deeper: if Suho didn’t speak now, he might never speak again. The words would rot inside him, festering until they poisoned him further. There wouldn’t be another chance like this.
And these people… Baku, Gotak, Juntae… they weren’t strangers. They weren’t enemies. They weren’t the kind of people who would use Suho’s weakness against him. They were his friends. His real friends. They would never think less of him. If anything, they would only reach back, offer help, offer warmth. Unconditionally.
Sieun tightened his arms around him, pressing Suho closer, his own jaw tight as he whispered in his mind a vow he couldn’t say out loud: Even if you call yourself pathetic, I’ll never see you that way. Never.
If Suho’s voice cracked further, if he mumbled something Sieun missed in the haze of exhaustion — it wouldn’t matter. Because the others were here too. They could remember, remind him, piece together anything his weary mind slipped from his grasp.
So he held Suho closer still, steadying the tremble in his shoulders with the firmness of his arms, waiting with quiet patience for him to answer.

Sieun didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only held Suho steady, his hand firm at the back of his head, waiting. If Suho gave him silence, he would accept it. If he gave him words, no matter how broken, Sieun would listen to every single one.
It came slowly, in fragments, each one rasped out between shaky breaths.
“I… push you away…”
Sieun’s eyes blinked open wider, his body taut. His hand paused for the briefest second before resuming its slow rub along Suho’s back.
“And I… I pull you back when you try to leave…”
The words cracked, frayed, spilling out raw.
Sieun blinked again, sharp and unblinking now, drinking in every syllable like they were knives being pressed into him one after the other. He could feel the weight of the room shift — heavy, stunned. And he wasn’t imagining it when he heard a breath hitch nearby. Juntae. Quiet, quick, pained.
Suho pressed his face deeper into his chest, his voice muffled but still piercing. “It’s me… I’m the one who pushes you away… but it’s also me who begs you not to leave…” His shoulders trembled, tears wetting Sieun’s shirt anew. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore…”
The silence after felt too big, too loud. Suho’s whisper broke it like glass:
“I’m so pathetic.”
Sieun’s chest tightened so violently it almost hurt. He stared down at the boy clinging to him, his mind roaring. Pathetic? Is that how Suho truly saw himself? The same boy who had fought for everyone but himself. Who had endured, who had carried his pain in silence until it split him open like this.
His throat burned with words he couldn’t shape yet. The ache in his ribs deepened. Because this wasn’t just fear speaking — this was how Suho believed he was.
And Sieun… he didn’t know what to say. What words could possibly be enough?
Sieun’s arms stayed locked around him, but inside, he was unraveling. He hoped — desperately — that one of the others might step in, say something to ease Suho, to lighten the weight crushing his chest. But the fear kept him still. What if they said the wrong thing? What if Suho realized everyone was listening and shut down completely? This… this needed to come out. It was for Suho to say.
And Suho did.
“I had a dream… a nightmare…” His voice rasped against Sieun’s shirt, each word trembling like it cost him everything.
Sieun’s eyes fluttered shut, his heartbeat climbing.
“In it… I pushed you…”
The words froze Sieun’s breath. He felt his chest twist sharply. Pushed him? Why would Suho— His hand instinctively rubbed slower, steadier, grounding him, but inside he whispered a silent plea: Please… don’t say it. Anything but this.
Suho’s voice cracked as it continued. “I shoved you away… and you fell…”
For a second, Sieun’s entire body stilled. His stomach lurched, like the floor had disappeared under him. Why? Why would Suho dream something like that? Why imagine hurting him? A cold dread sank through him.
“When you stood up…” Suho’s whisper wavered. “…you turned away…”
No. The word pounded in Sieun’s head, violent and desperate.
“And you left,” Suho whispered, quieter than ever, his whole body trembling. “You left without even glancing back at me…”
Sieun didn’t know what he was feeling anymore. A thousand things all at once — grief, panic, fury at the idea, heartbreak so raw he almost couldn’t breathe.
A sound broke the silence. A sigh — Baku, muffled but heavy, as though even he couldn’t bear hearing it.
Suho’s voice fractured further. “And I was screaming to stop you… I was begging… but you were too far gone…”
Sieun’s hands trembled where they pressed against Suho’s back. It was going exactly the way he feared, tearing straight through him.

Suho went on, each word hollowing the room. “Our friends… they looked so helpless… not sure what to do…”
“God…” Gotak’s voice slipped out, raw, cracking into the silence.
Sieun shut his eyes tighter. He wanted to block it out. He wanted to rip the memory of that dream straight from Suho’s head so he’d never feel this way again.
“I knew…” Suho whispered, barely audible now. “I knew it was a dream. I needed to wake up… but I couldn’t… I sat there, crying… begging… gasping for breath… but I couldn’t wake up… I couldn’t…”
Sieun’s chest constricted painfully. His throat ached.
“Until…” Suho’s voice trembled, breaking on the word. “…until I heard a voice. A voice calling me.”
Sieun’s heart stopped.
“It was you.”
And just like that, Sieun’s breath caught sharp. His arms instinctively tightened, his chest burning so violently he almost gasped.
Suho’s next words fell into the silence like stones into water.
“So yeah…” His voice was low, defeated. “…I’m pathetic. I hurt you. But it’s always you who protects me.”
Sieun’s jaw locked. His eyes stung. He wanted to shake him, to tell him how wrong he was. How utterly wrong. But Suho’s voice, broken and small, wrapped around him too tightly, pressing into every corner of his ribs.

So many thoughts ran wild through Sieun’s head, colliding so fast he could hardly keep up with them. They pressed and twisted until his chest felt too tight, until the air barely reached his lungs.
Why does he think this way? Why does Suho believe I’d ever leave him? Ever turn my back on him?
He couldn’t. He would never. Not in this lifetime. Not in any. The very thought of it made his stomach knot.
But how could he say that? Words had never been his strength. Not when it mattered most. His tongue always felt heavy when the truth demanded to be spoken, his heart always faster than his mouth. How could he possibly explain, lay bare what lived inside him?
His throat ached with the weight of everything unsaid. His chest ached more with the thought that Suho might never know it.
So he said what his heart told him.
His hand lifted, steady despite the trembling in his chest, and slid up to cradle the back of Suho’s head. His fingers threaded slowly through damp strands of hair, combing gently, grounding. The touch was everything he couldn’t voice — careful, steady, real. His voice came quiet, raw, but unflinching.
“You were the only person… who stood up for me… when I was being bullied.” His words faltered but kept going, each one pushed from his chest like it was carved out of him. “You stopped me… when I almost killed Youngbin.” His throat tightened, the memory sharp, the shame still raw. “…You—” He swallowed, forcing it out. “You were the only one who tried to be my friend. When I had no one. I didn’t even know I was lonely… until you came.”
Suho’s lashes fluttered, damp and heavy, his tears clinging to them. His body gave the smallest shudder, but his grip on Sieun’s shirt tightened faintly, like the words were ropes he was catching hold of before they could drift away.
Sieun swallowed again, the sound thick, his voice lowering softer, almost breaking. “…But you made my life happier.”
He stopped for a breath, chest tightening, but Suho said nothing. He didn’t need to. The silence itself was proof enough — proof that he was listening, clinging, breathing in Sieun’s voice as though it was air.
So Sieun continued.
“You did everything… gave everything… to protect me.” His hand moved again through Suho’s hair, slow, deliberate, his palm pressing gently against his scalp. His chest ached with the truth of it, with how much he owed him. “Because of you… now I have Halmoni too. Someone who cares if I ate or not. Someone who worries about me.” His voice cracked there, the words trembling loose. “Because of you, I have people who feel like family. I have friends…” He hesitated, breath shaking. “…Because you showed me how nice it feels. How nice it feels… to have friends.”
Suho heard it all. Not just with his ears but through everything — Sieun’s hand warm against his nape, the firm arm anchoring his back, the faint brush of his breath against his hair. Sieun’s presence surrounded him completely: in his scent, his warmth, his heartbeat against his cheek.
And it felt good. It felt safe. Safe in a way Suho hadn’t let himself believe he deserved anymore.
Sieun’s voice softened further, but its steadiness carried like a vow.
“So no,” he whispered, leaning forward just enough that his forehead touched Suho’s hair, a quiet press that sealed the words. “You’re not pathetic.” His voice shook but held. “You’re one of the bravest people I know.”

Suho froze at first, Sieun’s words echoing through him — You’re one of the bravest people I know.
He tilted his head upward slowly, cheek dragging against Sieun’s chest until their eyes met.

Sieun stiffened instantly, his heart kicking hard. Did he say something wrong? The way Suho was staring — wide eyes, glossy with leftover tears, lips trembling into the faintest pout beneath damp bangs — made his stomach twist with uncertainty.

“…You know other brave men?”

Sieun blinked. The words caught him off guard, his thoughts stuttering.
Wait. What?

From across the room, there was the faintest noise — a sharp inhale, like Baku was about to burst out, only to be muffled suddenly. It felt almost like Gotak had shoved a hand over his mouth in time.

But Sieun barely processed it. His attention stayed fixed on Suho’s glossy eyes.

“Do you?” Suho pressed, his voice a little louder now, his pout deepening.

“…Do I what?” Sieun asked, confused.

Suho shifted, the hurt in his voice too raw for how ridiculous the question was. “Know.”

Sieun frowned faintly. “Know what?”

“Other brave men,” Suho muttered, almost sulking, his bottom lip sticking out further.

Sieun blinked again, completely lost. “What?”

Suho huffed, his small chest rising fast against Sieun’s. He looked genuinely offended now, his damp lashes framing his eyes, his face scrunching up like a child who’d just realized his best friend had other friends on the playground.
“I asked if you know other brave men. Brave men other than me.”

Sieun’s lips parted. Then closed again. Then parted. His brain stuttered between disbelief and the urge to laugh. They had just been talking about nightmares, about abandonment, about raw fears carved into Suho’s chest… and now—this.

Suho’s expression only deepened, his pout growing into a sulk. “Tell me,” he demanded, voice thick and stubborn. “Do you? Do you know?”

Sieun let out the faintest huff of a laugh, a small puff of air he couldn’t hold back. His head tipped to the side as he looked at Suho’s childish face clinging to his shirt like the question was life or death.

“…Yeah,” he said finally, unable to help it. “I do.”

A muffled snort came from somewhere across the room — almost certainly Baku, stifled too late.

Suho froze again. His pout deepened so visibly that even in the dim light, it radiated from him. His eyes narrowed, wounded, offended, like Sieun had committed some grave betrayal by admitting there were others who might qualify as brave.

 

Suho’s lower lip wobbled, trembling like he was on the verge of tears again, though this time it wasn’t fear — it was indignation. His pout pushed forward, round and stubborn, and his voice came out small, shaky, almost like a child about to throw a tantrum.

“...How many?”

Sieun tilted his head down at him, brow furrowed. “...How many what?”

Suho shifted, his damp bangs falling into his eyes, making them look even glossier. He sniffled faintly, his lashes heavy as he narrowed his gaze in mock-accusation. “Brave men.”

Sieun just stared, at a complete loss. His lips parted like he wanted to answer, but nothing came out. He let out a long sigh, dragging a hand down his tired face.

The sigh was too slow. The pause stretched too long.

And Suho’s little pout collapsed into something deeper — his whole face crumpling, like the weight of betrayal had just landed square on his chest. He looked devastated, as though Sieun had just confirmed he was out there listing them, counting them on his fingers.

His chest puffed up with childish outrage. He swatted Sieun’s hand off his waist and huffed, spinning onto his side with all the drama of a sulky little kid. His back was stiff, his arms folded tightly across his chest, shoulders hunched in exaggerated offense.

The pout on his face — still perfectly visible over his shoulder — was practically cartoonish, lips pressed out, brows knitted, cheeks puffed faintly.

 

Sieun blinked, stunned into silence. “...What?”

Suho’s voice came muffled through his sulk, sharp but soft, like a pout disguised as a command. “Shut up.”

“Suho-ya…” Sieun sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair in helpless disbelief. His voice softened, almost weary. “What happened now?”

“You still didn’t answer me,” Suho muttered, stubborn as a stone, refusing to glance back at him. His pout deepened further, his nose wrinkling in wounded offense. “Who. Who are the other brave men you know.”

He looked like a little boy sulking because his best friend made a new friend at school — innocent, jealous, offended all at once. And though his words came pouty, his body trembled just faintly, as though underneath it all he was still scared, still fragile, still just desperately wanting Sieun’s attention all to himself.

 

Sieun exhaled slowly, then gave in. His voice was calm, steady, almost resigned. “…Seo Juntae.”

From the corner of the room, Juntae stiffened. His eyes widened behind his glasses, his posture going rigid.

Suho’s pout twitched instantly, his brows furrowing. His lips pushed forward as he blinked up at Sieun with glossy, wounded eyes. He didn’t say anything yet, but the sulk deepened — his face scrunching like a child told his favorite toy wasn’t only his.

“He once stole my phone,” Sieun continued, tone matter-of-fact. “But later, when I confronted him, he stood up against his bullies. He didn’t run. He didn’t hide. He’s brave.”

Somewhere in the dim room, Suho heard a faint intake of breath — maybe from Juntae himself — but he barely noticed. His own pout wobbled, his chest tightening.

“I also know Park Humin,” Sieun went on, his voice softening at the memory. “He protected my school. Eunjang. Still does. He didn’t have to… but he did. That makes him brave too.”

Suho’s pout faltered just a little. He blinked slowly, the jealousy not vanishing but bending, dented by the fact that he knew Humin too. That Humin was their friend. The tiniest tremble caught his lip, like he didn’t want to admit the words had made sense.

“And…” Sieun paused only a moment before finishing, “I also know Go Hyeontak. He’s reckless, and loud, and sometimes makes me want to hit him… but he always runs headfirst if it means protecting the people around him. That kind of courage… I can’t ignore it.”

At that, Gotak visibly flinched from his futon. He tried to mask it with a shift of his blanket, but his ears turned crimson in the lamplight. Beside him, Baku smothered a laugh into his pillow, but the curve of his mouth gave him away. Juntae ducked his head lower, adjusting his glasses unnecessarily, his cheeks tinged pink.

And Suho…

Suho’s pout trembled, then reformed even deeper. All the names. All three. They were his friends too. Not strangers. Not outsiders. Their friends.

He puffed out a small, shaky huff, his glossy eyes narrowing at Sieun in mock offense. He looked like a sulky child who’d just realized his favorite person had been sharing their time with others all along.

His lip wobbled, his pout caught between jealousy and reluctant softness. He wanted to be mad, to keep sulking — but the names Sieun spoke made it impossible. Because every one of them was theirs.

Sieun exhaled again, glancing down at him. “…So yes. I know three brave men other than you.”

Suho huffed again, offended and softened at once, his pout clinging stubbornly even as the edges faltered, the jealousy in his eyes tangled with something warmer.

 

Silence stretched — thick, heavy — until Suho’s pout bloomed back across his face like a storm cloud rolling in. His lips pushed forward, trembling faintly, brows drawn tight in exaggerated offense. He said nothing, not a word. Just sulked. The pout grew more dramatic by the second, his little sniffles only adding to the picture — like a child punishing someone by sheer force of sulking.

Around them, the others struggled. Juntae’s lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders shaking as he fought down the ghost of a smile. Baku had his fist shoved against his mouth, his cheeks puffed as if the laugh was physically clawing its way out. Gotak tipped his head back, biting his lip, ears burning red, trying and failing to school his expression.

But then Suho moved.

Slowly. Deliberately. He turned back toward Sieun.

For a moment, he only looked at him. His glossy eyes, wide and stubborn, shone in the lamplight, lashes damp. He looked wounded and demanding all at once — the picture of someone too proud to beg but too desperate to stay away. Waiting.

When Sieun didn’t move — frozen between confusion and disbelief at how the night had flipped so suddenly — Suho made the decision for him.

His hand shot out, catching Sieun’s wrist. His grip was weak, trembling from exhaustion, but the pull was stubborn, almost forceful in its insistence. He tugged, clumsy but determined, and guided Sieun’s hand back against his own waist.

Firmly. Possessively. As if to say: This belongs here.

His pout softened just slightly then, lips still pushed but quivering at the edges, his glossy eyes flicking upward to catch Sieun’s.

“I’m sorry,” Suho whispered.

The words cracked — fragile, breaking — but they sank like stones in still water. Heavy. Real. Deeper than Suho probably even realized himself.

And the way his hand refused to let go of Sieun’s wrist, holding it there against him, said more than the apology ever could.

Suho’s lashes fluttered, damp and heavy, his small pout still trembling on his lips. And then Sieun’s voice — quiet, low, steady, without even the hint of hesitation:

“…But you are the bravest among them.”

The effect was immediate.

The tension in Suho’s body drained as if Sieun had unlocked something inside him. His chest, which had been tight and trembling, loosened with a shaky exhale. His glossy eyes softened, the panic melting away into something fragile, vulnerable — relief. His lips quivered once, then curved into the faintest, most fleeting line of peace, like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite know how.

And almost instinctively, without thought, he leaned forward. His forehead pressed against Sieun’s chest, nose burying into the fabric, his whole body curling smaller, closer, nuzzling like a child seeking shelter. He pressed in deep, as if he could soak in every ounce of reassurance Sieun had given him, as if Sieun’s words could stitch him whole again.

From the futons, the silence broke. A chorus of muffled groans — soft, half-hearted, but unmistakably there.

Baku flopped dramatically onto his back, both hands tucked under his head, though his face was too serious for once. “Seriously? Just like that?”

Gotak dragged his palm down his face, his voice muttering low. “Bravest among us, huh? Thanks a lot.” But his ears were flushed, betraying the pout beneath his gruff tone.

Even Juntae, who rarely faltered, exhaled a laugh that slipped too heavy, caught somewhere between fondness and disbelief.

But Suho didn’t hear them. He was too far gone, too buried in Sieun’s chest. Relief wrapped around him like a blanket, and he let it, too tired and too comforted to care about anything else.

Sieun heard. He noticed. But he didn’t care. The faintest smile ghosted over his lips — small, almost invisible, but real. He let their little complaints fade into the air, unimportant compared to the boy in his arms.

His hand moved again, steady and gentle, sliding through Suho’s damp bangs, smoothing them back before rubbing slow, soothing strokes across his scalp. Again and again, a rhythm as steady as breathing, as grounding as a heartbeat.

His chest tightened, his throat thick, and then his voice broke the quiet again. A whisper, a promise, as he bent his head lower into Suho’s hair.

“I will always be here,” Sieun murmured, his words carrying the weight of a vow. “Until the day you don’t need me anymore… you’ll always find me near you. With you.”

He didn’t see the way the others had stilled again, but they were listening.

Baku lay on his back now, arms folded beneath his head, his expression shadowed in the dim light — not mocking, not teasing, just quiet, serious. Gotak lay with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed as he stared at the ceiling. Juntae lay curled on his left side, glasses on the table, his eyes lingering far too long on the two forms tangled together.

But Sieun’s focus was elsewhere.

Suho shifted faintly at those words, a broken whimper slipping past his lips as his fingers curled tighter into Sieun’s shirt, clutching it like a lifeline. His lips parted, his throat working as if the words were there, trembling on the edge of escape. I need you my whole life.

But they never made it out.

The steady thrum of Sieun’s heartbeat beneath his ear, the warmth of his chest rising and falling, the soothing rhythm of his hand moving over his hair — it was too much. Too safe. Too heavy with comfort.

And so, before the words could fall, exhaustion claimed him.

His lashes fluttered once, twice, before sinking shut. His face slackened against Sieun’s chest, and the fight that had held him rigid all night finally bled out of him. His small body sagged fully into Sieun’s embrace, surrendering completely. The tiny pout that had lingered on his mouth melted away, his lips softening into the faintest, fragile curve of peace. His breathing steadied, shallow but even, warm against Sieun’s collarbone.

Sieun’s chest tightened, a mixture of relief and ache. Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted the edge of his sleeve and brushed it across Suho’s damp cheeks, wiping away the last stubborn trails of tears. His touch lingered a moment longer than necessary, warm palm cupping Suho’s cheek with a gentleness that bordered on fragile. He smoothed back damp bangs from his forehead, tucking them softly aside so Suho’s face was no longer hidden.

Suho didn’t stir. He only burrowed closer, curling instinctively into the circle of Sieun’s arms, pressing his weight as though he wanted to disappear inside him.

And Sieun let him.

His arms tightened immediately, instinctively, wrapping around Suho with an unyielding hold. He anchored him closer, one arm locking firm across his back, the other hand never leaving his hair — combing, stroking, steady, as though repeating a vow with every movement. A promise not spoken but felt: I’m here. Even in your sleep, even in your dreams, I won’t let go.

The room, which had felt so heavy with storm just moments ago, finally settled. The air softened. The faint sound of rain pattered steadily against the windows, filling the silence with a calm rhythm.

For the first time that night, Suho was at peace.

Safe in Sieun’s arms.

And Sieun held him like he was the most fragile, most precious thing in the world — as if loosening his grip even for a moment might shatter everything.

Notes:

So, I hope you liked the chapter! 💜 This one took me the longest to write and the longest to proofread. I really wanted to capture Suho’s fragile state right now — he’s insecure, struggling with his self-worth, and his negative thoughts sometimes make him hurt Sieun unintentionally. Losing two years of his life isn’t something easy to move on from.

Back in high school, Suho was always busy with multiple part-time jobs, and he never really had the kind of love and care he’s now experiencing with Sieun. That’s why all these emotions he’s discovering — love, jealousy, possessiveness, care — feel so intense. He’s not weak, but the combination of his past fights, his coma, and the years he lost are still messing with his head. With the right care and support from Sieun and his friends, he will get better.

As for me… I think I am a liar!?😅 I said there would be just 2–3 chapters before we switch to the present, but it looks like there will be at least 2 more. I’ve already written a lot for the current/past plot, and maybe I’ll add those parts later — maybe after Sieun returns from his trip. I’m still figuring it out. But I promise the next chapter is one you’ll really like. There’s a surprise in it… though it might make you a little mad too. So, it’s both a good and bad thing.

Please let me know all your thoughts — your feedback really motivates me to keep writing and posting updates faster. 💌 You can also read this story on Wattpad under the title “All The Ways, They Guard Him.” I thought it fit better, since in their own ways, everyone is guarding each other.

I hope you’re all doing well. Stay safe, take care, and happy reading! 💜

Chapter 44: The Future We Whispered

Summary:

Haunted by spiraling insecurities, Suho begins to doubt if he’s broken beyond repair. With Sieun’s quiet reassurance and the gang’s steady support, he learns he is already enough — and dares to picture the future he longs to share with Sieun.

Notes:

Hey my lovely people,
I hope you’re all doing well. 💖 This chapter is really special to me, and I tried something a little different this time. While writing, I listened to a few songs that carried me through the emotions of the scenes. One of you mentioned in the previous chapter how much you loved the song I shared, so I thought — why not share my playlist for this chapter too? 🎶 Of course, you can listen to your own favorites while reading, but here are the ones that shaped my mood while writing. Some are even Hindi songs!

This chapter means so, so much to me because too much is happening — and you’ll understand once you read it. I poured my whole heart into these scenes. Especially the ending, where they’re all lying together — it’s one of those moments that shows just how deeply Suho’s feelings for Sieun are growing, and what makes his love for him so profound. It also gives a glimpse into why present-day Suho is so completely in love with present-day Sieun.

Honestly, what amazes me is that even though I wrote it, I still got emotional while proofreading 🥺 One second my heart was racing, the next it was breaking for Suho, and then it melted at how pure Sieun’s care for him is — how he never gives up despite everything he’s been through. Meanwhile, Suho’s love for Sieun keeps deepening, yet he’s not quite brave enough to confess. Listening to Na Milay (The Best Part loop) while editing gave me too many feels — it still does as I write this note.

I’ll say it again: this chapter is another piece that emphasizes why Suho is so in love with Sieun, and what makes Yeon Sieun so special. I really poured my whole heart into this one, and I hope you feel it too.

💌 Ending thought: Suho and Sieun are made for each other.

Playlist for this Chapter

Na Milay – Best Part Loop
Gifts To Your Future Self
You Are Heavenly
Violin Sky – Light In The Dark
Music To Watch Boys To
NASTY IMPXTR – Best Part (Slowed Loop Insomnia)
West Coast (Slowed Fever Dream, Laying by the Beach)

(Gifts To Your Future Self)

 

“Do you trust me?”

The question came quiet, steady, but something in Sieun’s tone made the room pause.

Suho blinked, startled. He was curled on the couch, blanket draped over his shoulders, while the others sat scattered around. Baku leaning against the armrest, Gotak sprawled on the floor, Juntae perched upright with his hands folded. All of them watching. But Suho only saw Sieun.

 

And when Sieun crouched down in front of him, his dark eyes fixed and unflinching, Suho didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” he said immediately, without even a heartbeat of thought. Because it didn’t need one. The answer was obvious, instinctive. He trusts Sieun with his life.

But the weight in Sieun’s gaze made his chest tighten. What was this about? Why did it feel like the air itself was holding its breath?

So Suho stayed quiet. Waiting. Listening.

“I’m sorry…” Sieun started, his voice low. “But I had to talk about you.” His lips pressed tight before he added, “To your guide. And… to my dad.”

 

Suho blinked, his head tilting faintly. Talk about him? His stomach knotted. Talk about what?

Sieun pressed on, eyes flicking away only for a second before locking back onto his. “I know I should’ve spoken to you first. I know. But I didn’t want to waste more time.”

The words carried a finality, an urgency that Suho couldn’t quite understand. His mouth opened, then closed again. Finally, he managed softly, “...Okay.”

Because if Sieun said it, if Sieun thought it was necessary … then it had to be true. His chest still ached, confusion prickling at the edges, but his trust didn’t waver.

 

“What did you need to talk about?” Suho asked finally, his voice small, hesitant.

Sieun drew in a deep breath, his shoulders rising. He glanced once at their friends; quiet, tense, waiting. Then back at Suho, steady.

 

“Actually…” His throat worked as he swallowed. “I think—”

He paused, then inhaled deeper, forcing the words out.

 

“You broke down three times until now,” he said, the words careful but weighted. “And the way you were — the way you gasped for breath, like you couldn’t pull in air…” His jaw tightened. “I think it needs medical attention.”

 

The words hung there, heavy, sharp as glass.

Suho froze.

His heartbeat stuttered, his mind a blur of medical attention? him? His lips parted, but nothing came out, his breath catching faintly in his chest.

 

Suho blinked, his lips parting faintly at Sieun’s words. “...Medical attention?” His voice wavered, the syllables fragile. “For me?”

 

His friends glanced at one another, but no one spoke. The silence pressed heavy.

Sieun shifted slightly closer, crouched in front of him, careful. His hand rested lightly on Suho’s knee, not gripping, just… there. Steady. “I’m not saying anything’s certain,” he began, his voice low, even. “But… Suho-ya …. What happened last night… the way you couldn’t breathe, the way you shook…” He paused, eyes dipping briefly before meeting his again. “It looked like we needed to get it checked … It … It looked like panic attacks.”

 

Suho froze, a faint crease forming in his brow. Then he shook his head, quick, almost desperate. “No. No, I was just—scared. You all… overreacting. I was fine.” His voice broke on the last word, betraying him.

 

“You weren’t fine,” Sieun said softly, not pushing, just steady. “You couldn’t catch your breath. You were gasping, Suho. That’s not just… being upset.” His thumb brushed lightly against the fabric of Suho’s pants, grounding him. “It’s not normal. And I don’t want to ignore it if it might be something more.”

 

Suho’s voice trembled, each word scraping raw against his throat. “So… so you think… something’s wrong with me?” His eyes flicked down, unable to meet Sieun’s. “That I’m not a normal person anymore… that I need to be fixed…”

 

The air cracked sharp at those words.

 

“No.” Sieun’s voice came fast, urgent, before the thought could spread further. His hands shot forward, closing firmly around Suho’s fists where they twisted in the blanket. He held them tight, grounding, as if he could crush the doubt away with sheer certainty.

 

His eyes were wide, unblinking, his tone fierce but trembling with care. “No, Suho. Don’t you ever say that. You are normal. You’ve always been normal. You’re Suho.” His grip softened just slightly, his thumbs brushing over the ridges of Suho’s knuckles, slow and steady. “You’re my best friend.”

 

Suho’s lips quivered, his lashes lowering to hide the damp shine in his eyes. “…But I break down… like that… in front of everyone. I scream, I cry, I can’t even—” His words cut off, strangled. His chest rose and fell too fast. “That’s not normal, Sieun. That’s pathetic.”

 

Sieun shook his head, hard, leaning in close enough that Suho had no choice but to hear every word. “Pathetic? You? No. What you went through—what you’ve been carrying—it would crush anyone. Do you understand me?” His voice softened, lower, but still firm as stone. “The way you keep fighting, even when it hurts… that isn’t pathetic. That’s strength.”

 

Suho’s breath hitched, his lips parting, but no words came out.

 

Sieun’s fingers moved to cradle his hands tighter, almost encasing them. His chest ached, but he forced his voice to steady, every word deliberate. “Getting help doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you. It doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means… you deserve to feel better than this. You deserve peace, Suho. And I want that for you.”

 

Suho blinked, finally lifting his head. His eyes were glossy, wide, still trembling with shame, but Sieun met them head-on, his own gaze unwavering.

 

“You’re still you,” Sieun whispered. His lips quirked faintly, almost a smile. “Stubborn. Annoying. Brave. The one who never gives up on anyone. That’s who you are. Panic attacks don’t take that away. Nothing ever will.”

 

Suho’s throat closed, his voice breaking as he whispered, “…Then why do I feel so… weak?”

 

Sieun’s grip tightened, his forehead lowering until it touched Suho’s, firm and unyielding. “Because you’re human,” he said simply, voice barely above a whisper. “And being human doesn’t make you less, Suho. Not to me. Never to me.”

Suho’s lips trembled, his forehead still pressed to Sieun’s. The words Sieun had spoken were warm, steady, wrapping around him like a shield — but the shame still gnawed, still whispered that he wasn’t enough.

 

“I don’t know if I can…” Suho’s voice broke, quiet as a confession. “…I don’t know if I can do it.”

 

Sieun pulled back just enough to see his face, both hands cupping his cheeks. His thumbs brushed the dampness under his eyes with infinite care. “You don’t have to do it alone. You’ll never have to. I’ll be with you the whole time.” His voice was so soft it almost cracked. “You don’t have to be strong by yourself anymore.”

 

From the side, Juntae finally spoke, his tone steady but gentle. “Suho… this isn’t weakness. Getting help isn’t weakness. It’s just another kind of strength. A smarter kind.”

 

Gotak shifted, his usual bravado absent, his voice low. “We know you had to fight through worse. If this is what you need to fight through now… then we’ll be behind you. Always.”

 

Baku let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. For once, his grin didn’t show. Instead, he said quietly, “You think we’d ever let you do this alone? Don’t be an idiot.” His eyes flicked toward Suho, soft in a way he’d never admit. “We’ve got you.”

 

Suho’s gaze darted between them … their faces unflinching, not pitying, just there. His chest ached, heavy and fragile all at once.

 

And then his eyes went back to Sieun.

 

Sieun was still holding his face, still looking at him like he was the most important thing in the world. His voice came again, softer this time, coaxing. “You don’t have to decide everything now. Just… try. That’s all I’m asking. Try … for me.”

 

The plea in his tone was subtle, but Suho heard it. Felt it.

His chest cracked open. His throat worked, trembling, and his hands lifted slowly — clutching Sieun’s wrists where they cupped his face, grounding himself in that touch.

A breath shuddered out of him.

“…Okay,” Suho whispered, his voice breaking, fragile but real. “…I’ll try. For you.”

 

And the way Sieun’s eyes softened at that — the relief that flooded them — it almost made Suho cry again.

 

ヽ(●´ε｀●)ノ

 

Suho didn’t quite know how it all began.
He only remembered fragments — like someone dropping puzzle pieces he wasn’t sure how to put together.

He had seen Sieun once, standing stiffly near the rehab center’s office, talking quietly with his guide. Suho had been finishing his stretches, pretending not to notice, but his eyes kept flicking up. Sieun’s face wasn’t blank the way it usually was in front of strangers. It was serious, heavy, intent. He leaned in close, listening to every word, nodding once, asking something else.

And later… he saw him again. With his dad.
It wasn’t a short talk. They stood apart from the others, voices low, longer than Suho had ever seen the two of them talk in his life. His dad’s arms were crossed, his face unreadable, but Sieun… Sieun’s voice didn’t waver. His hands moved slightly as he spoke, his posture tense but firm. He looked like someone who wouldn’t leave until he had an answer.

Suho hadn’t asked.
He hadn’t dared.

Because when Sieun came back to him, when those dark eyes found his, Sieun only said what he needed to say. That things were arranged. That help was ready. That Suho wouldn’t have to do it alone.

And for Suho… that was enough.

 

Ó⁠╭⁠╮⁠Ò

 

The appointment itself felt strange. Not scary, not cold like the hospital corridors Suho had grown to hate, but unfamiliar all the same.

The office was small, softly lit, with muted colors and bookshelves against the wall. A notepad and pen rested on the desk. The doctor wasn’t rushed, wasn’t stern. Their voice was calm, steady, and gentle in a way that made Suho’s chest ache.

They asked him questions. Not just about what happened last night — but about before. About the first time, weeks ago at the picnic. About the second time, when he’d seen Sieun hurt, and his chest had felt like it was breaking apart. And now, the third.

 

“Can you describe what happens before it starts?” the doctor asked softly, not pushing, just leaving the words open for him to fill.

 

Suho’s hands twisted in his lap, his shoulders tense. His voice was barely above a whisper. “…It feels like something’s wrong. Like… like I’m losing him.” His throat bobbed. “And then I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. My head won’t stop racing. I start crying, and no matter what I do, I can’t stop.”

 

He swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “…It feels like I’m dying, even though I know I’m not.”

His eyes lowered, shame burning hot — until he felt it. A hand. Warm. Steady. Pressed against his knee.

Sieun.

He hadn’t let go once since they’d walked in.

 

The doctor nodded, writing gently. “And this has happened more than once?”

“…Three times,” Suho admitted. His voice cracked. He didn’t dare look up — not at the doctor, not at anyone — only sideways, to where Sieun sat beside him, listening so intently his jaw had gone tight.

 

There were more questions. About his sleep. About whether he ever woke up gasping. About the nightmares. About the tightness in his chest, the fear of being left behind. About how long each episode lasted. Sometimes Suho faltered, words sticking in his throat, but the doctor never rushed. They waited. Patient.

 

And every time Suho’s voice wavered too much, Sieun’s thumb brushed against his knee, quiet encouragement that said: you can do this.

 

When the evaluation ended, the doctor’s voice was kind, careful.

 

“What you’ve described… fits the pattern of panic attacks,” they said gently. “They’re very frightening, but very real. They can come with shortness of breath, chest pain, dizziness, crying, even the feeling that you’re about to die. And they can come from anxiety — sometimes from fears you don’t even realize you carry.”

 

Suho’s chest hollowed. Panic attacks.
The word pressed down heavy, foreign, like it didn’t belong to him. His lips trembled. “So… something’s wrong with me,” he whispered. His voice shook. “…I’m not normal anymore. I need to be fixed.”

 

“No.” Sieun’s voice came so suddenly, so sharply, it startled him.

When Suho looked up, Sieun’s eyes were wide, fierce, and hurting all at once. He reached forward, both hands catching Suho’s tightly, holding on as if Suho might slip away otherwise.

“No, Suho,” he said again, quieter now but no less steady. “I told you … You’re normal. You’re you.” His grip tightened.

 

Suho’s breath trembled, shame warring with the sting in his eyes.

 

The doctor added gently, “Panic attacks don’t define who you are. They only mean your body responds to fear in an intense way. But it can get better. With support, therapy, and coping strategies — you can manage this. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

 

And through it all, Sieun never let go of his hands.

 

Once they left the clinic, the air outside was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain that had fallen earlier. Suho stepped out slowly, his crutches clicking against the pavement, each movement careful but weighed down.

 

His head was lowered, his bangs shadowing his eyes. He hadn’t said much since the doctor’s words — panic attacks, anxiety, therapy. The terms swirled around his head, heavy and sharp, too big to fit inside him.

 

Beside him, Sieun walked in silence. Not pushing, not rushing. He stayed close, so close their arms brushed now and then, steadying without making it obvious.

 

They reached a bench under the shade of a tree. Sieun stopped there, turning slightly. “Sit for a bit,” he said quietly. Not a command, not even a suggestion — just a soft offer.

Suho nodded, lowering himself carefully onto the bench. His hands twisted against his crutch handles, restless.

The silence stretched.

 

Finally, his voice cracked through it, small and raw. “…So it’s true.”

Sieun blinked, waiting.

 

Suho’s throat bobbed. “Something is wrong with me.” The words fell like stones. He stared at the ground, shoulders tight. “I can’t even breathe right. I… I fall apart over nothing. I’m pathetic.”

 

“No,” Sieun said instantly, firmly.

 

Suho flinched at the strength in his voice. His eyes darted up, wide, only to find Sieun crouching in front of him, at eye level. Those dark eyes were steady, unyielding.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Sieun said, softer now but no less certain. “Your body reacted. Your mind reacted. That doesn’t make you broken, Suho.”

Suho’s lips trembled. “…But—”

Sieun reached forward, gently prying one of Suho’s hands free from the death grip on his crutch. He held it, warm and grounding. “Listen to me. You’re not weak. You’re not pathetic. You’re the strongest person I know.” His thumb brushed across Suho’s knuckles, slow and reassuring. “Even strong people get hurt. Even strong people need help.”

 

Suho’s lashes lowered, dampness gathering there. “…But it feels like… I’m less. Like I need to be fixed.”

 

Sieun shook his head. “You don’t need to be fixed. You’re already enough.” His voice softened further, breaking at the edges. “Getting help doesn’t change who you are. It just means you’ll have more tools, so it won’t hurt as much.”

 

Suho’s chest shook with a quiet breath. The tightness in his throat hadn’t eased completely, but Sieun’s words slipped through the cracks, warm and steady.

 

He whispered, “…And you’ll stay?”

 

Sieun’s eyes softened. He squeezed his hand tighter. “I told you already. I’ll always be here. Until you don’t need me anymore.” His lips pressed into a faint line, and then he added, quieter, almost trembling, “Even then, I’ll still want to be here.”

 

Suho blinked hard, the tears spilling over before he could stop them. His other hand reached out shakily, clutching Sieun’s sleeve.

And Sieun didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, wrapping both arms around Suho where he sat, pulling him against his chest. Suho sagged instantly, his forehead dropping onto Sieun’s shoulder, his body trembling but lighter than before.

“You’re not alone,” Sieun murmured into his hair. “Not now. Not ever.”

 

( ´-｀)

 

The door creaked open and the familiar scent of home wrapped around them. Suho stepped inside slowly, leaning heavier than usual on his crutches, and immediately Juntae moved closer, slipping a steadying hand under his arm.

 

“Careful,” Juntae murmured, his tone soft, guiding him over the threshold like he was afraid the step itself might trip him.

 

Suho gave the smallest nod, his lashes lowered, but the corners of his mouth twitched faintly.

 

From the kitchen, voices carried over — clattering pans, muffled bickering.

 

And then Sieun sniffed, his eyes narrowing faintly. “…The kitchen isn’t on fire.”

 

Two heads popped out instantly — Baku, hair messy from steam, and Gotak, apron hanging lopsided across his chest. Both glared.

 

“Excuse me?” Baku said, pointing a wooden spoon like a weapon.
“We made dinner,” Gotak added, clearly offended.

 

Sieun raised a brow. “And he can eat it?”

 

Both looked equally scandalized, mouths falling open in unison.

 

“Of course he can!” Baku barked. “We followed Juntae’s notes—”
“—and didn’t burn anything,” Gotak said quickly, though his ears turned pink.

 

Suho blinked at the exchange, watching them squabble like children caught red-handed. A small smile tugged at his lips.

 

Juntae, still steadying him, caught the shift and relaxed a little too. “See? You’re already smiling. That’s good.”

 

Suho ducked his head, the smile fragile but real. His voice was soft, almost shy. “…Thank you.”

 

The tension in the room eased instantly, the bickering quieting as if the sound of those two words was enough to still them.

Baku puffed up his chest dramatically, spoon still in hand. “Dinner — made with love!”
Gotak shoved him lightly. “Don’t ruin it with your face.”

 

Sieun sighed, shaking his head, but Suho’s smile lingered, small and warm, as the gentle noise of his friends surrounded him.

 

For the first time since the nightmare, since the fear, he didn’t feel quite so heavy.

 

For the first time, he felt… home.

 

Before Suho could step further inside, Sieun’s hand closed gently around his wrist. “Come on,” he said simply, steering him away from the living room.

 

Suho blinked. “Huh?”

“Wash up first,” Sieun replied, his tone firm but calm. “You’ll feel better.”

 

Suho wanted to protest — he don't want to — but the way Sieun’s grip was steady yet careful silenced the words. He let himself be guided down the hall, into the bathroom, where Sieun turned on the tap and waited until the water ran warm.

 

“Here.” A towel was pressed into his hand. “Slowly. Don’t rush.”

 

Suho nodded, cheeks warming faintly. By the time he was done, Sieun was already there again, taking the towel, folding it neatly, and leading him back toward the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world.

At the table, the smell of food filled the room — rice steaming, vegetables glistening, a pot of soup still warm. Baku and Gotak hovered by the counter like overexcited children waiting for praise.

Suho paused, but before he could move, Sieun slipped past him and began plating food — setting out bowls with quiet efficiency, spooning rice and soup without a word. When he reached Suho’s place, he slowed, adjusting the portion just right. Not too much, not too little.

Only then did he set the bowl down, pulling out the chair. “Sit.”

Suho obeyed, lowering himself slowly, his cheeks pink at the quiet attention. “You… didn’t have to…”

 

“I did.” Sieun’s answer was simple, final.

The others gathered quickly, taking their seats around the table. But the moment Suho picked up his spoon, the fuss began.

 

“Careful, it’s hot,” Gotak said, leaning forward unnecessarily.
“Do you want me to blow on it for you?” Baku added with a grin, earning himself an elbow to the ribs.
Juntae adjusted his glasses, smiling softly. “Eat slowly. Don’t push yourself.”

Suho blinked at them all, his lips parting. “I—I can eat on my own, you know.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun watching you get spoiled,” Baku teased.
“You look like a little prince,” Gotak chimed in.

 

Suho pouted faintly, lowering his head. His spoon clinked against the bowl as he ate quietly, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.

 

Sieun, sitting beside him, reached over without looking and set a glass of water by his hand. “Drink between bites.”

 

The warmth spread through the room — the soft chatter, the teasing, the clinking of dishes. And right in the middle of it, Suho sat shy and quiet, his cheeks pink, his smile small but real.

Wholesome. Gentle. Safe.

For once, he let himself be fussed over.

 

When lunch ended with bowls emptied and the smell of steam still hanging in the air, Suho shifted, ready to help, but before he could even push his chair back, three voices cut in at once.

 

“Sit down.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Not happening.”

 

Suho froze, blinking between them. “...I was just—”

Baku leaned across the table, wagging a spoon like a sword. “You’re royalty today. Royals don’t do dishes.”

 

Gotak crossed his arms, chin lifting. “Correction — you’re royalty every day. But especially today.”

 

Juntae calmly plucked the bowl from Suho’s hands before he could argue, stacking it neatly with the others. “Let us. You always overwork yourself.”

 

Suho’s ears heated. “You’re exaggerating.”

 

Baku gasped theatrically. “Exaggerating?! Excuse me, Your Highness, did you hear that? The prince thinks we exaggerate!”

 

Gotak groaned dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Blasphemy. After all the royal treatment we give him.”

 

Juntae only sighed, though his lips curved faintly. “Ignore them, Suho. Just rest.”

 

Suho ducked his head, bangs slipping over his eyes to hide the smile tugging at his lips. Still, his shoulders relaxed, his fingers curling shyly in his lap.

When Sieun finally stood, Suho glanced up — only to feel a hand brush briefly over his hair, smoothing his fringe aside. “Don’t move,” Sieun murmured quietly, before joining the others in the kitchen.

 

The touch burned warm long after he left.

 

From the living room, Suho listened to the clatter of dishes and the mix of voices. Baku and Gotak bickered over who washed better, Juntae reminded them both of the correct way to stack, and Sieun’s quiet baritone threaded between them all, steady and grounding.

It was… warm. Too warm.

 

By the time they returned, Gotak stretched his arms wide. “Couch time for our prince.”

 

Baku immediately plopped onto it, patting the seat beside him. “Come on, Suho. Softest cushion, just for you.”

 

Suho blinked. “You guys are ridiculous—”

 

“Ridiculously devoted,” Baku cut in.

 

Juntae was already pulling a blanket from the stack. He draped it carefully across Suho’s shoulders before Suho could even refuse. “Don’t fight it. You’ll just lose.”

 

Suho bit his lip, face warming. Slowly, shyly, he curled onto the couch, blanket around him.

 

Baku grinned wide. Gotak hummed approvingly. Juntae’s eyes softened behind his glasses.

 

And Sieun — Sieun settled quietly at the armrest beside him, close enough that Suho could feel the anchor of him there.

 

The rain tapped gently against the window, and Suho, surrounded by the noisy devotion he’d never admit he loved, finally let his eyes drift shut.

 

The TV flickered across the room, casting shifting light over their faces. Some movie Baku had insisted on — loud, messy, half-action, half-comedy — but Suho barely followed the plot.

His eyes, instead, kept betraying him.
Sliding sideways.
Through the fringe of his bangs.

To Sieun.

The way the glow from the screen kissed his profile, catching on his lashes. The way his shoulders slouched in calm, but not in weakness — Sieun had always looked like he carried storms in silence, and yet, sitting there, he looked… soft. Calming.

Suho swallowed, ducking his chin. He told himself to watch the screen. But his gaze betrayed him again, peeking through his bangs. Just one more glance.

And then Sieun turned.

Their eyes met.

Heat shot through Suho’s cheeks like fire. He snapped his head back toward the TV, heart stuttering. Shit. Shit. His ears burned.

And then — fingers.

Fingers brushing lightly across his forehead, combing gently through his bangs.

Suho stiffened, goosebumps rising across his arms. He turned slowly, wide-eyed, to find Sieun leaning in, hand steady, gaze unreadable.

 

“You know what…” Sieun said, voice low, even, like he’d been thinking for a while. “Let’s just try it.”

 

Suho blinked. His brain stuttered. Try what?!

Before he could form words, Sieun was already rising to his feet.

 

“W–wait—!” Suho’s voice cracked as he reached out, grabbing at the blanket around him. “Where are you going?”

 

From the couch across the room, Baku’s grin spread ear to ear. “Ooooh, where’s Prince Suho’s knight running off to?”

 

Gotak leaned back, dramatic hand on his chest. “Don’t tell me he’s finally confessed to the hairdresser that he’s in love—”

 

Juntae snorted into his hand, pushing his glasses up with his knuckle. “This is… I can’t—” He shook his head, laughing quietly.

 

Suho flushed harder, burying half his face in the blanket, glaring at them through the narrow gap. “Shut up!”

 

But his heart pounded louder than all of them, following Sieun’s steady steps toward the other room.

 

The room had barely settled back into its noisy calm when the sound of footsteps returned.

Suho blinked.

 

Sieun walked in carrying… a comb. Scissors. A spray bottle. A cloth slung over his arm. A folded napkin.

 

The room froze.

 

Baku sat up first, pointing dramatically. “Don’t tell me…”

Gotak’s jaw dropped, leaning forward. “Are you really about to—”

Juntae adjusted his glasses, his eyes widening. “Woah…”

Suho’s heart skipped a beat. He blinked again, lips parting. “…What?”

 

Sieun didn’t falter. He crouched back in front of him, placing the cloth neatly over Suho’s shoulders, fastening it carefully at the back of his neck. His movements were calm, precise, like he’d thought this through.

 

“I did watch a YouTube video,” Sieun said simply, as if that explained everything.

Baku choked on a laugh, grabbing Gotak’s arm. “Oh my god, he’s serious.”

Gotak smacked his forehead, whispering, “Prince Suho’s about to get a royal haircut.”

Suho sat stiff, blinking between the scissors, the spray bottle, and Sieun’s unreadable expression. Is this… really happening?

Sieun pulled a chair. Helped Suho to settle on it.

 

“Don’t move,” Sieun said quietly, steadying Suho’s chin with his hand. “I’ll just level it. Nothing dramatic. Trust me … I won’t hurt you.”

 

And that was the thing.

Trust.

 

No one had to tell Suho about that. Not once in his life had he doubted Sieun’s hands on him. Not in fights. Not in bandages. Not in nights like these.

 

So he nodded, barely a breath. “…Okay.”

The gang groaned all at once.

“Ohhh my god, he’s letting him—” Baku buried his face in a pillow to muffle his squeal.

Juntae sighed, shaking his head but smiling softly. “Of course he is.”

Gotak muttered, “He trusts him more than the doctor who stitched him up, huh?”

 

Suho’s cheeks burned, but he stayed still, heart hammering as Sieun lifted the spray bottle, misting gently over his bangs.

 

The cool droplets tickled against his forehead. He shut his eyes on instinct.

 

Then Sieun’s fingers brushed through his damp hair, combing carefully, untangling, smoothing. His touch was steady, patient, tender in a way that made Suho’s skin prickle with goosebumps.

 

And when the first soft snip of scissors came, Suho’s breath hitched—then steadied.

Because if it was Sieun, he could trust even the blade near his skin.

The first soft snip fell, a strand sliding down past Suho’s cheek onto the cloth.

The room collectively leaned forward.

 

Baku’s whisper was way too loud. “Oh my god, it’s happening.”

Gotak elbowed him. “Shut up, you’ll make him mess up.”

“I don’t mess up,” Sieun muttered, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration, his comb gliding carefully through Suho’s hair.

Juntae exhaled softly, lips twitching. “He sounds like he’s about to perform surgery.”

 

Suho squeezed the cloth wrapped around him, heat crawling up his neck. The sound of scissors was sharp, crisp, but Sieun’s fingers followed every cut—steady, grounding, brushing damp strands aside with featherlight precision.

 

“Keep still,” Sieun murmured, tilting Suho’s chin up just slightly with two fingers. His touch lingered for a second too long, firm but gentle. “Almost done with this side.”

Suho’s breath caught. His eyes darted away, bangs falling again into his lashes. He couldn’t look at Sieun straight on like this—not when his face was so close, not when he could feel the warmth of his hand against his skin.

 

Baku squealed into his blanket. “WHY is this romantic?”

Gotak smacked him with a cushion. “Shut up! You’ll distract him—”

Snip. Snip. More strands fell, landing on the cloth, on Suho’s lap.

Sieun brushed them away with his knuckles, careful not to touch too much, but every accidental graze made Suho’s pulse jump.

 

“Hmm,” Sieun hummed under his breath, spraying another mist across Suho’s hair. “Turn a little.”

Suho obeyed instantly, shy, tilting his head as told.

 

“You’re like a puppy,” Gotak muttered, biting back a grin.

Baku added, muffled through his sleeve, “A spoiled one. Groomed like royalty.”

 

Suho’s ears went red. He wanted to snap at them, but the words tangled in his throat, especially when Sieun combed through his bangs again, fingers slow, precise, brushing against his forehead.

 

“...Almost,” Sieun murmured, concentration never faltering. “Hold still. Just a little more.”

 

Juntae leaned his chin on his palm, voice softer than the others. “He’s… actually good at this.”

 

And Suho realized, beneath all the teasing, everyone was watching carefully, quietly. But not at his hair. Not really.

 

At Sieun.

 

At the way he bent close, so careful, like each snip mattered. Like Suho mattered.

And Suho’s chest swelled hot, his lips parting, heart trembling at the thought— this wasn’t just a haircut. This was Sieun. This was care.

 

The final snip fell. Sieun leaned back slightly, comb running gently through Suho’s bangs one last time before setting the scissors aside. His expression was calm, focused, almost unreadable — but there was the faintest lift at the corner of his lips.

 

“Done,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand off Suho’s forehead. “Look.”

 

Suho blinked, slowly lifting his head as Juntae handed him a small mirror. For a second, he just stared — at the neat, soft cut framing his face, the way his bangs no longer fell heavy into his eyes but curved lightly, effortlessly. His own reflection startled him.

 

Baku whistled low. “Holy shit.”

 

Gotak let out a laugh, eyes sparkling. “He doesn’t look like Suho anymore. He looks like… an idol.”

“Or a model,” Baku added quickly, smirking. He nudged Gotak with his elbow. “Give him an earring and a little lipstick, and he could debut tomorrow.”

 

Suho’s ears turned red instantly. “W-what—shut up—”

 

Sieun blinked, pausing mid-motion as he reached to fold the cloth away. “…Is that a good thing?”

 

The room went quiet for a beat. Juntae stifled a laugh behind his hand, Gotak grinning wide, Baku practically rolling on the futon.

 

Suho, however, whipped his gaze toward Sieun — wide-eyed, flustered. The blunt innocence of the question knocked the air out of him.

He fumbled, his lips trembling before puffing into the faintest pout. “Y-you… don’t just ask that—” He looked away sharply, bangs brushing his cheeks, heat crawling up his neck.

Baku groaned dramatically. “He’s blushing. Oh my god, he’s blushing so hard—”

Gotak leaned forward, grinning. “Forget the earring. Forget the lipstick. Just look at him like this — he’s already finished product.”

 

Sieun tilted his head, studying Suho quietly. His hand lifted without thought, brushing lightly across Suho’s freshly cut bangs. “…It suits you,” he said simply, softly.

 

Suho froze. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks. He tried to glare, tried to turn away, but his lips tugged upward in the smallest, most betrayed smile.

And the gang erupted again, voices mixing with laughter, teasing loud enough to drown out the rain outside.

But all Suho could feel was Sieun’s fingers in his hair.

 

The laughter lingered, faint and warm in the air, when Baku suddenly propped himself up on his elbows. His grin spread slow and mischievous, eyes glinting as they landed on Sieun.
“Oi. Cut mine next.”

 

Gotak snorted, immediately jumping on it. He flicked his bangs with a dramatic toss of his head. “Yeah, me too. Give me that fresh look. Level me up, make me handsome.” He tilted his chin smugly. “No, actually—idol-worthy. Like Suho.”

 

The words hit Suho like a slap.

His head whipped toward them, his eyes wide, his lips parting in outrage before his brain could even catch up. “What—no!”

 

The sound cut through the room sharper than intended. Everyone froze.

 

Suho blinked once, twice, heart pounding. He hadn’t planned to say it — but the thought of Sieun leaning that close to someone else, Sieun’s careful fingers combing through someone else’s hair, Sieun giving that same tender attention to anyone but him — it shot through him like fire. It was wrong. It was unthinkable.

 

“This is… this is mine,” his mind screamed.

Baku broke the silence first, eyes narrowing playfully, his grin stretching. “...Why not?”

Gotak leaned forward too, sensing blood. “Yeah, Suho-ya. Don’t hog him all to yourself.”

 

Suho flinched, caught like a child with a stolen toy. His face heated instantly, ears burning pink. “I-I’m not hogging— I just—” He stumbled over his words, hands twitching uselessly in his lap. His lashes lowered, hiding the panic and pout that twisted together on his face. His voice shrank, muttered and defensive. “It was… supposed to be just once. Just mine. You guys don’t even need it.”

 

Baku gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “Oh, wow. He really said mine.”

 

Gotak elbowed him, laughing. “We do need it. Look at us. Our hair’s tragic compared to him now. If Sieun doesn’t save us, we’ll never get girlfriends.”

 

“Or boyfriends,” Baku added with a smirk.

“Exactly.” Gotak nodded solemnly.

 

Juntae, who had been quiet all along, pushed his glasses up quickly — but not before the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed him.

 

Suho sat there, pouting hard, heart thrumming like thunder. His thoughts spiraled. They don’t get it. They don’t understand what it meant — Sieun brushing my bangs back, his hand steady at my neck, the scissors glinting while he leaned close enough for me to hear his breath. That was mine. It was special. It wasn’t supposed to be shared. Not with anyone. Just me.

 

His chest squeezed tighter, jealousy swirling so raw it almost hurt. His lips parted, his brain racing for something, anything, to stop this nonsense.

 

And then, panicked, he blurted:

“I… I need a bath.”

 

The words landed like a rock tossed into water. Everyone blinked.

 

Suho’s face burned hotter, but he forced the rest out, stumbling, his voice cracking at the edges. “And… and Sieun has to help me.”

The room went dead silent.

Then—

Baku exploded first, doubling over with laughter so violent he nearly rolled off his futon. “Oh my god, oh my god, he really said that!” He wheezed, clutching his stomach.

Gotak slapped his thigh, tears pricking his eyes. “He’s unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable!” He bent forward, laughing so hard he almost toppled onto Baku.

Juntae coughed sharply, trying to hide his own laugh behind his hand, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

Suho’s ears were scarlet. His fists curled tight in his lap, and he refused — absolutely refused — to look at them. He stared at the blanket pooled around his knees instead, wishing it would swallow him whole. His pout quivered, but he pressed his lips shut tight.

 

He didn’t notice Sieun watching him quietly.

 

Sieun blinked once. Twice. His face gave away nothing — calm, composed, as always. But his ears… faintly red, betraying the silence he held.

 

And then, finally, Sieun stood. Smooth. Decisive.

“…Let’s go then.”

The laughter choked instantly.

Baku’s mouth snapped shut mid-wheeze. Gotak froze, eyes wide. Even Juntae blinked, his laugh cutting off like someone pressed a switch.

 

Suho’s head jerked up, stunned, lips parting in disbelief. “W-what?”

Sieun didn’t hesitate. He simply extended his hand down toward Suho, gaze steady, calm as though the request hadn’t been ridiculous at all. “You said you needed help. Let’s go.”

 

The others stared like they’d just witnessed the impossible.

And Suho — flustered, red-faced, his heart pounding so loud it drowned the rain outside — slid his hand into Sieun’s without a second thought.

Because this was his. Only his.

 

Sieun didn’t say a word as he guided Suho down the hallway, their hands still linked. He pushed open the bedroom door, motioning him gently inside.

“Sit,” he said quietly.

Suho obeyed without thinking, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. His heart was pounding, his face hot. Only when Sieun turned toward the bathroom did reality crash back in.

God. I actually said that. Out loud. In front of everyone.

His palms went clammy. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, groaning silently. Embarrassment prickled through every inch of him.

And then, to make it worse, his thoughts drifted as his eyes lifted again. The soft lamplight spilled across the balcony doors, curtains drawn just enough to hint at the wide terrace beyond. The faint clink of pipes carried from the bathroom where Sieun was running the water. How wealthy do his parents even have to be…? he thought, almost dizzy. A big apartment, a balcony, and even a bathtub just for their high school son… who lives here like it’s nothing.

He nearly laughed at himself, nervous and awkward. What am I even thinking about right now…

The bathroom door opened again. Sieun stepped out briefly, his sleeves pushed up, his expression calm as always. “Come.”

Suho’s stomach flipped. He pushed himself up, shuffling obediently, until Sieun’s hand caught his arm, steadying him, and guided him inside.

The warmth hit him instantly — steam rising faintly, carrying a soft, flowery scent that filled the small space. Sieun crouched beside the tub, testing the water with his wrist once more, as if absolute precision mattered.

“Still fine,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Suho’s throat bobbed. That scent — not just the soap, but Sieun’s own. Clean, familiar, grounding. It made his pulse race.

Then Sieun stood and turned toward him. His hands came up slowly, gently, brushing at Suho’s shirt. “Arms up.”

Suho froze. But he did as told. His arms lifted hesitantly, and Sieun tugged the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric brushed away, leaving Suho bare to the warm air, his skin prickling with goosebumps.
Sieun was so close now Suho could count his lashes. Could feel his breath, light and even.
He didn’t dare blink.
And then came the pants.
Sieun’s gaze stayed carefully averted, his eyes turned slightly away even as his hands worked at the waistband, sliding the fabric down with patient care. Suho squeezed his eyes shut, heat burning all the way to his ears.

This. This was what always undid him — the respect. That even this close, even helping him in something so vulnerable, Sieun never once looked where he shouldn’t. Never once crossed a line.

It was humiliating, and comforting, and devastatingly intimate all at once.

And then he was being guided forward, Sieun’s steady hands helping him step carefully into the tub. The water rose warm around his legs, his waist, his chest, wrapping him in heat. Suho sank down slowly, leaning back against the porcelain, exhaling a shaky breath.
The water caressed every ache in his muscles. The faint floral scent curled in the air. And Sieun — Sieun standing just nearby, arms folded, calm and solid like an anchor — Sieun’s presence was its own kind of comfort.

The tub was larger than most — not one of those cramped, shallow ones where knees stuck awkwardly out of the water. No, this one stretched wide, deep enough that Suho could sink in without feeling crowded, the porcelain cradling him smooth and cool beneath the heat. When he leaned back, the rim curved high, supporting his shoulders, and there was still space at his sides where the water rippled gently instead of sloshing over.

The edges were broad enough to hold little things — bottles neatly lined on one side. Steam curled lazily toward the ceiling, catching the dim light and turning it golden.

It wasn’t extravagant, not like a spa, but it felt too big, too generous for an ordinary high school apartment. A tub built for comfort, for soaking long and slow, not just rushing through a quick rinse. And Suho, half-submerged in the warmth, felt small inside it — not in a bad way, but in a way that made him realize there was room here. Room for him to breathe, to relax, to be cared for.

And with Sieun standing near, arms folded, his reflection caught in the water’s shifting glow — the bathtub felt less like porcelain and more like a sanctuary.

Suho let his head tip back against the tub. His lashes fluttered. The warmth pressed close, too close. And before he knew it, his lips moved, blurting, “I wish there were scented candles…”

The words echoed in the steamy air.

Suho’s eyes flew open. His breath caught. Why… why did I just say that?!

He jerked upright slightly, horrified, cheeks blazing. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, desperate to take it back.
Sieun blinked at him. Silent. Expression unreadable.
And Suho — utterly mortified, his blush racing down to his collarbones — wanted to disappear into the water forever.
For a second after Suho’s clumsy words slipped into the steam, silence stretched, too thick to breathe through. He wanted to sink beneath the water, vanish before the shame strangled him. His ears burned scarlet, his throat dry and tight.
But then Sieun tilted his head, thoughtful, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his tone was calm, almost casual, but laced with a quiet sincerity that made Suho’s stomach twist.

“…I think we do have those.”

Suho blinked. “W–wait, what—”

Before he could say more, Sieun had already turned, moving with the kind of certainty that didn’t allow space for Suho’s panic. The bathroom door clicked softly shut behind him.
Suho’s mind exploded.

What the hell was that?! Why did I say that? Candles? Really? Who even says something like that in someone else’s house, in someone else’s bathtub— He gripped the porcelain edge, knuckles white. He must think I’m ridiculous. But he… he actually took me seriously? He’s going to get them? Oh god. Oh god.

Every second stretched unbearable. The water lapped softly at his chest, steam curling around his damp bangs, but all he could hear was the violent hammering of his heart.
Then the door creaked open again.
Sieun returned, calm as ever, a small lighter glinting in one hand and something tucked under his arm.
Without a word, he began arranging candles along the tiled ledge and the back edge of the tub. Simple, plain, but steady. He crouched to strike the lighter, coaxing each tiny wick to life. One by one, small flames bloomed, casting amber ripples across the walls.
Finally, he reached for the switch.
The overhead bulb blinked out.
And the room changed.
The harsh light gave way to shadow and glow, the candles flickering soft gold across the tiles. Their flames shimmered on the bathwater’s surface, fragile and alive. A delicate scent unfurled — floral, faintly sweet — weaving itself into the warm steam until the air itself seemed softer.

Suho’s breath caught, trapped in his chest.
And Sieun — crouched there, leaning close to light the last candle — was transformed.

The flame brushed across his features, gilding him in molten gold. His jaw, sharp in daylight, softened under the glow. His lashes cast long shadows across his cheeks. His skin seemed to hold the light itself. And his eyes — wide, brown, steady — caught the fire and held it, turning into glass and ember all at once.
Suho couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Heat rushed through him, violent and dizzying. His skin prickled, goosebumps rippling even though the water was steaming around him. His mouth dried, his throat tight, his pulse thundering. He felt feverish, restless, every nerve lit up with something he couldn’t name.
His eyes slipped lower before he realized it — to Sieun’s throat, the slow bob of his swallow illuminated by the glow. To the pale line of collarbone revealed where his t-shirt had slipped. The thin cotton hung loose, dipping low enough that Suho could see skin, smooth and close, and the sight made his entire body flush hot.

Too much. Too close. Too—

Then Sieun looked up.
And it ruined him.

Those eyes caught the light, turned molten, shining straight into his. They were so beautiful it hurt, so unbearably tender and sharp at once that Suho thought his chest might split apart. He’s so pretty. God, he’s so—

His lips parted soundlessly. He swallowed hard, lungs burning, heart racing out of control.
Sieun’s lips parted slightly too, breath soft, his gaze steady. His voice came low, careful. “…Is this okay?”

Suho couldn’t think. Couldn’t form words. His tongue was useless, his mind blank but for the fire in those lashes, that glow spilling into him like it had nowhere else to go.
So he nodded. Slowly. Helplessly.
And Sieun smiled.
Small. Faint. But real.

It barely curved his lips, barely moved his face — and yet it shifted everything. Broke through the tension hanging in the air like a held breath, and in its place left something softer. Something vulnerable.

It said, without needing to say anything at all: Then I’ll stay.
But the next moment —
He stood.
And turned.
And Suho’s chest caved.

“Call if you need anything,” Sieun said over his shoulder, back already to him. His voice was even. Detached. Like none of it — the candles, the nearness, the silence trembling between them — had ever happened at all.

And it hurt. More than Suho expected.
A quiet ache bloomed under his ribs. Hollow and sharp. He wasn’t ready for the distance. For that careful wall Sieun always built the second things felt too close.
He didn’t want him to go.
He didn’t want the room to feel cold again, didn’t want to be alone in the leftover heat of something half-finished.
The embarrassment from earlier — the shyness, the awkwardness, all the nervous noise in his head — it was gone. Burned away, drowned in the flickering quiet of candlelight and bath steam and the way Sieun had touched his hair like it mattered.

Suho sat forward, heart thudding.

“Aren’t you… going to shampoo my hair?”

His voice cracked around the edges. Came out too fast. Too raw. But it landed.
Sieun paused at the doorway.
Turned.

His eyes met Suho’s, unreadable. “...Hm?”

Suho swallowed hard, forcing his throat to work.

“You… cut it.” His voice was steadier now, but barely. “Don’t I need to shampoo it after? To wash it out?”

It sounded almost innocent. Logical, even. But the words carried something heavier beneath. Something quiet and pleading, something that sounded a little like please don’t go.

For a moment, Sieun just stood there.
Silent.
Then something flickered in his eyes — a hesitation, like he was holding back whatever he really wanted to say. Suho felt it. The weight of it. The choice he didn’t voice.

But all Sieun said was, “...Right.”
And he moved, slow and deliberate, toward the shelves near the sink.
Suho let out a breath, long and shaky, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly as the tension loosened.

He watched as Sieun scanned the cabinet. His eyes darted across bottles, fingers grazing labels. It should’ve been nothing. Just a simple movement, a casual task.
But Suho couldn’t stop looking.

Sieun’s frame was small, lean — always had been — but there was something quietly captivating about the way he moved. Like he didn’t know anyone was watching. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at.
And that made it worse.

He rose onto the balls of his feet, stretching to reach the top shelf.

And Suho’s breath hitched.

The motion tugged his t-shirt higher, fabric rising inch by inch. Suho’s eyes moved before he could stop them — drawn helplessly, hungrily.

First: the slim taper of his waist, where the shirt clung and lifted. Skin appeared — soft-looking, tinged warm by candlelight. Then the curve of his lower back, the faint hollow just above the hips. His spine moved subtly with the stretch, delicate and smooth.

The light kissed his skin there. Glowing. Like honey.
And Suho couldn’t look away.
Then lower.
The waistband of Sieun’s sweatpants dipped with the reach, riding low, hugging the curve of his body.

Suho’s eyes landed on the shape of him — the subtle, perfect roundness just beneath the fabric. His hips.

And his heart slammed.
His face flushed instantly, heat crawling up his neck and settling deep in his chest. His stomach turned over once — hard — then dropped entirely, breath catching in his throat.

It was instinct. Not even desire, not yet — not in a way he could name. Just a pull. A sudden, unstoppable gravity that made his entire body go still.

He felt it all at once.
The soft slope of skin.
The way the light loved him.
The curve. The quiet. The unknowingness of it — how Sieun had no idea how he looked right now, no clue what he was doing to Suho just by existing in front of him like that.

How can someone be this perfect?
The question roared through Suho’s head, wild and disbelieving. Like it didn’t make sense, like it wasn’t fair.
Because it wasn’t just that Sieun was beautiful — though he was. It was that he was unaware of it. Unreaching. Unposed. Not trying to be anything, and still managing to make Suho feel like the floor had been pulled out from under him.
His pulse pounded in his ears. His fingers curled tighter on the rim of the tub. The water lapped gently around his body, but he barely felt it — his skin was already burning.

His gaze refused to move. Couldn’t.

And deep in his chest, something cracked open.
He didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t dare name it. But it was there. Real and aching and loud inside his ribcage.
He just sat there, watching him.
Wanting.
And not even sure what he was wanting for.

Once Sieun had the bottle, his fingers curling around the neck of it, he turned back.
He didn’t say anything.
Just walked quietly over and set it beside the tub.
He leaned down to place it gently on the edge — and the motion pulled his shirt up again, higher this time. The fabric bunched at his ribs, loose and soft, dragging against his skin. And Suho’s eyes… dropped. Again.
But this time, the dip of fabric revealed something new.
The lower edge of Sieun’s chest — smooth, glowing a rich brown-gold in the light, like warm earth touched by flame. The curve of it was soft, clean, subtle. A single line of muscle disappeared beneath the shirt. Skin so close Suho could almost feel it — could imagine what it might be like under his palm, how warm, how smooth.
His mouth went dry.
He wanted—just once—to touch it. Just once. Just to know.
He didn’t even understand where the thought came from. It shocked him, left him breathless. But it was there. Loud. Real.

And then Sieun straightened, his face unreadable again. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just accidentally unraveled Suho without a single word.
He stepped back, standing straight, giving Suho space — like a hairdresser would, like a caretaker might.
But not like… whatever this was.

Suho leaned his head back, spine sinking deeper into the tub. The water sloshed gently around him. His eyes fluttered closed, and he let out a sigh — long, slow, dragged from somewhere deep inside his chest.
His heart was racing. His skin was too hot. His mind kept spinning with thoughts he didn’t recognize.

What the hell am I even thinking?

He knew Sieun was watching him. He could feel it — that stare, low and steady. The way Sieun always looked at things like he was figuring them out, like he wanted to understand them before they could slip away.
But this time, it wasn’t comforting.
This time, it set something on fire inside him.

A low throb pulsed through his body — not painful, but present. It made his breath shallow. His chest lifted and fell again, and this time, his sigh came out differently.

A little slower.
A little deeper.
Almost like… pleasure.

He didn’t plan it. It just happened — like his body was responding to being seen, like something buried wanted to rise.

And he heard it — the change in Sieun’s breathing. A tiny catch.

Suho opened his eyes just barely, lids heavy.

Sieun’s arms were still folded, but his eyes had widened slightly — not in fear, not even surprise — just alert. Like something had shifted and he didn’t know how to name it.
And Suho — God — Suho felt something weirdly satisfying about that. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But it stirred something low in his belly.

He arched his neck slightly, slowly, just enough to stretch the tension from it, and let out another soft sound.
This one was closer to a moan.
Quiet. Involuntary. Almost lazy.
His body was relaxed, stretched out under the water, his chest rising with the heat, steam clinging to his skin. And still, Sieun didn’t move.
So Suho did.

He dipped a hand into the water. Scooped some in his palm.

And then, slowly — so slowly — he let it fall over his own chest. Warm droplets trailed over his collarbones, down the middle of his sternum. He sighed again.

He could feel the stare now. Heavy on him. Searing.

Sieun wasn’t speaking.
He must be shocked.

Suho didn’t dare look up yet — he just let the water trace him, let himself be seen. Something about it made his stomach flutter and tighten, made his fingers itch with nerves and want.

What the hell was he doing?
And why did it feel so good?
He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.
When he finally looked — just a glance — he caught Sieun in the corner of his eye. Still standing there, still watching.
But now—
Now he looked confused.
His pretty, dark eyes were wide. His mouth slightly open like he didn’t know what he’d walked into.

Then, all at once, Sieun looked away.
He turned and moved to the window.
Pulled out his phone.
Pretended to check something. Tapped the screen. Didn’t say a word.

And Suho—

Suho’s heart fluttered.
It was so stupid, but it did.

Because he knew. He knew Sieun wasn’t just ignoring him. He was giving him space. Giving him that strange kind of privacy. Like he understood Suho was feeling something and didn’t want to interrupt it.

And that… that was too much.
Too kind.
Too generous.

Suho stared at him, offended and flattered all at once.

How dare he turn away? How dare he act like Suho wasn’t right here trying to get his attention?
He didn’t think — just moved on instinct.

His hand dipped into the water again, quick this time, and then he flicked it — a splash, light but deliberate — right at Sieun’s back.

It hit with a soft smack against his shirt.
Sieun froze. His phone paused mid-tap.

Slowly, he turned.
Eyes wide.
Mouth parted.
Suho didn’t say anything.
Just met his eyes.
And tilted his head slightly toward the shampoo bottle, still untouched beside the tub.

The message was clear:
Well?

And then — as if nothing had just happened — he leaned back again, eyes half-lidded, like royalty expecting to be pampered.

But inside?
Inside he was on fire.

He felt stupid. Brave. Powerful. Embarrassed.
He felt good.
His skin buzzed with something hot and reckless, something that didn’t want to hide anymore.
He couldn’t name it.

But he knew this much:
He didn’t want Sieun to look away again.

Sieun moved slowly, almost too carefully, as if testing the air. He came closer to the tub, his shadow falling over the steam. For a moment, he just stood there, thoughtful, then quietly bent to fold his pants neatly up to the knees.

Suho’s pulse stuttered. His body shifted forward instinctively, as though making space, though there was plenty already. When Sieun finally lowered himself onto the edge of the bathtub, his legs settled on either side of Suho, bracketing him in. The water rippled at the subtle movement.

Suho’s breath hitched. The closeness made his skin feel too hot — and it wasn’t the bath. His chest rose and fell faster, the steam catching in his throat.

Without a word, Sieun reached for the shampoo bottle. The soft pop of the cap sounded loud in the quiet. He squeezed a dollop into his palm, rubbed his hands together, then leaned in.

And then — fingers.

Suho almost jolted at the first touch, but Sieun’s hands were steady, firm yet gentle, threading into his hair with practiced patience. His fingertips massaged slow circles against Suho’s scalp, lather blooming between the strands. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, as though Sieun was determined not to rush, not to disturb the fragile quiet hanging between them.

The scent rose — clean, fresh, faintly floral — curling through the air with the steam. Suho closed his eyes before he could stop himself, his lips parting in a shaky breath.

It wasn’t just shampoo. It wasn’t just a wash. It was Sieun’s hands — careful, methodical, tender in a way that made Suho’s chest twist and his throat tighten. Each pass of those fingers was grounding and undoing at once, dragging him deeper into warmth he didn’t know how to handle.

The water lapped softly at the porcelain. The only sounds were that and the quiet rhythm of Sieun’s breath, close enough that Suho could feel it ghost faintly over his damp forehead.

And Suho thought, dizzy and aching, that this — this was dangerous. Because how could he sit still when Sieun touched him like that?

 

Sieun’s fingers threaded through Suho’s hair, lathering slowly, his movements patient and methodical, like he was trying not to rush, not to break the quiet.
But the quiet was already broken.
Not by sound — but by something else. Thicker. Heavier.
It was in the way Sieun’s thighs pressed faintly against Suho’s shoulders as he worked, the cotton of his sweatpants warm from skin and proximity. It was in the way his knees bracketed Suho’s body like invisible restraints, not holding him down, not touching — but there.
And Suho could feel him. Every shift. Every twitch. Every subtle change in pressure when Sieun adjusted his weight slightly — when his heel pressed firmer against the rim of the tub. When his thigh flexed just a little as he leaned forward to reach Suho’s hairline.
The lather foamed against Suho’s scalp, silky and cool, contrasting the heat crawling under his skin.
His breath came soft.
Barely there.
But inside, he was burning.
God, he thought, why does this feel so… intimate?
It was just hair.
Just shampoo.
But no one had ever touched him like this — not in this kind of silence, this slow, thoughtful care. There was something about Sieun’s hands, the way they traced along his scalp, the pads of his fingers dragging through foam, smoothing it through strands. It wasn’t casual.
It felt intentional.
Like he was taking his time.
Like he wanted to.
And then Suho became aware of something else.
The thighs.
Sieun’s.
Pressing lightly against his upper arms, framing him on either side. Not hard, not aggressive — but firm. Quiet. Close.
They weren’t thick. Not like his own. But there was muscle there, lean and taut beneath soft skin. He could feel it just from the way they responded to balance — the tension when Sieun shifted a little forward, the subtle give when he leaned back.
Suho’s eyes stayed half-lidded, blinking slow, the steam of the bath curling into his lashes.
He wanted to reach out.
Just… let his hand fall. Casually. A brush. Accidental.
See if his fingers would find that tension beneath the cotton — that shape.

Are they thick or thin? the question came again, useless and relentless.
He imagined it.
His hand skimming the inside of Sieun’s thigh, feeling for the curve of muscle. Just enough pressure to feel it through the sweatpants. He wondered if it would be warm. If Sieun would twitch, freeze, say nothing. Or say his name, softly, like a warning. Like a question.
Suho’s heart pounded louder in his chest.
Then—
Another thought.
Sudden. Shameful. Too loud.
Is he bigger than me?
The question shocked him. Made his whole body still.
He stared straight ahead, blinking. Shampoo slipped down the side of his cheek, a slow trail catching on the curve of his jaw.

No — I’m bigger. I have to be. He’s smaller than me. Slim. Narrow.
But then… what if he wasn’t?
What if Sieun was soft-looking but hiding something? What if under those sweatpants, under all that quiet, he was—?
Suho swallowed thickly.
And even if he wasn’t bigger — even if Suho still had that — his mind whispered something worse:
It’s probably prettier than mine.
Of course it was.
Everything about Sieun was clean and fine and unbothered — the kind of beauty that didn’t try to be anything, and somehow was everything.
Suho’s fingers twitched under the water.
He bit down on his lip and hated himself for it — but God, he wanted to see it.
Just a glimpse.
Not to touch. Not yet. Just… to look.

If I turned around right now, he thought, just a little—

Would he see at least the outline?
Would the fabric give him away?

Would he be able to make it out through the softness of the sweatpants — that subtle shape, that quiet curve, pressed against the fabric?

And then his thoughts darkened even further.

Would Sieun let me?
Would he notice?
And if he noticed, would he say anything?
Would he pull away?
Would he freeze?
Or — would he just… let it happen?
Would he pretend he didn’t see?
Would he forgive it?
Would he whisper Suho’s name?
Would he press closer?

Suho’s stomach flipped violently, heat pooling low.
He felt breathless. Starved for air.
He wanted to turn.
Just a little.
He wanted to glance back, just once.
He wanted to see what Sieun looked like in this light, like this — behind him, legs braced around him, arms in his hair, unknowingly driving him insane.
He wanted to know how far this could go before it broke.
Before one of them said something they couldn’t take back.
Before Suho reached.
Before Sieun stopped him — or didn’t.

Fuck, Suho thought, chest heaving faintly.
He wanted to see it.
And he wasn’t sure he’d forgive himself if he didn’t try.

And then—

“Ow—ow, ow—shit—”

The shampoo slid straight into his eyes.
That did it.
That was the crash.

A sharp sting, instant and brutal, lighting up his vision with white-hot irritation. Suho jerked upright, splashing water over the edge of the tub as his hand flew to his face.

“Ow, fuck, ow—”
“Suho—?”

Sieun’s voice snapped through the fog. Clear. Sharp. Immediately alert.

“Hey, hey—hold still—”

Hands found his shoulders, firm but gentle, steadying him. Then one hand reached behind him, angling the showerhead down. Warm water surged overhead.
Suho winced, blinking hard as it rushed down his face, his eyes squeezed shut.
The sting was awful. Blinding.
“It burns,” he croaked, breath hitching.
“I know,” Sieun said, low and focused, his hand on the back of Suho’s neck now, steadying, grounding. “Keep your eyes closed. Tilt your head—yeah—just like that.”
And just like that—
Everything else disappeared.
The thoughts. The spiraling. The heat in his belly. The dangerous curiosity.
All of it gone, ripped clean from his chest and replaced by this — by warm water running down his cheeks, by shampoo stinging in his eyes, by Sieun’s touch, calm and firm, guiding him through it.

God, Suho thought, what the hell was I just—
Was he really thinking about his best friend’s dick?
Jesus Christ.

His whole face flushed, even under the water.
Even with his eyes shut tight, he could feel it — that mortified heat flooding through his neck and ears and cheeks. Red-hot. Undeniable.

What the fuck is wrong with me.

He felt Sieun shift closer, water still running over his head in warm, controlled streams, his hand now curled just under Suho’s chin, tilting his face upward.
“You okay?” Sieun asked, soft. Close.
Suho blinked carefully, eyes still watery, vision blurry.
And then—
Sieun’s face. Right there.
Close enough to see the frown between his brows. His mouth slightly parted, breath brushing Suho’s cheek. His dark eyes searching Suho’s face, worried. Present.
And suddenly, weirdly—

Suho felt good.
Like he was being cared for. Held. Not just physically, but entirely. Like all the ridiculous thoughts from before had melted into something smaller, quieter, just a heartbeat and a breath and warm water.
He giggled.
Short, soft. A little breathless.
Then again, slightly louder.
Sieun blinked. His frown twitched upward.
“You’re laughing?”

Suho covered his face with one wet hand, half-hiding, half still rinsing. “My eyes are burning,” he said through another small giggle, “and I think I almost died.”

Sieun let out a small huff of a laugh, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Right. Tragic. Shampoo-related accident. We’ll hold a memorial.”

Suho giggled harder.
Because a minute ago, he was seconds away from maybe feeling up his best friend’s thigh.
And now he was red-faced, dripping water, giggling like an idiot while Sieun cupped his jaw and rinsed his hair like they were in some tender-ass slow drama.
It was absurd.
And it felt so good.
So safe.
So stupid.
He didn’t stop laughing — just kept grinning like a maniac, while Sieun finally turned off the water and shook his head like he couldn’t quite believe this was real life.
Sieun gave him a look — somewhere between amused and exhausted. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re dying.”

Suho froze for half a second.
Then blinked.
Then smiled again, softer this time.
Because what?

When the bath was over, Sieun moved with quiet care. His hands never hurried, never rough. He helped Suho out of the tub slowly, steadying his weight, his arm firm against his back. The air outside the steam felt cooler, but before Suho could shiver, a soft towel was already being wrapped around him.
Sieun dried him carefully — not just patting, but lingering, methodical, making sure no damp patch was left. His movements were so gentle that Suho found himself closing his eyes, leaning into each touch without meaning to.
When he was dressed again — clean nightclothes, soft against his skin — Sieun guided him to the bed and sat him down. The faint hum of the blow dryer filled the room, warm air brushing against his scalp, but what Suho melted under wasn’t the heat. It was Sieun’s hand, firm and steady, combing through his hair as he worked.
Fingers slid through damp strands, separating them, smoothing them. Again and again. The sensation was addicting — grounding, soothing, intimate. Suho’s shoulders slumped, his lips parted faintly, his lashes low. Every time Sieun’s fingertips grazed his scalp, shivers spread down his spine in a way that was more comfort than chill.
When his hair was dry, Sieun crouched again, balm tin in hand. He rubbed it between his palms before pressing warm hands against Suho’s bad knee. His touch was careful but firm, massaging in circles, easing the stiffness. Suho’s chest ached, overwhelmed by the quiet devotion threaded into every motion.
Afterward, Sieun tucked him in. Pulled the blanket over his shoulders. Adjusted the corners so no draft would slip in. And then, as always, his hand came to Suho’s forehead — a habit he couldn’t break — checking, double-checking, that the fever hadn’t returned.
Finally, Sieun straightened. His voice was soft. “Sleep. I’ll be back after a shower.”
Suho wanted to wait. He wanted to keep his eyes open, wanted to see him come back into the room. But the warmth was too much — the blanket, the scent of soap, the lingering feel of Sieun’s hands in his hair. The care wrapped around him until his eyelids grew too heavy.
And just like that, Suho slipped under.
This time, though, it wasn’t a nightmare.
It was a dream.
A dream he wanted to hold on to, a dream he wanted to make real.

 

(You are heavenly)

 

The dream clung to Suho like warm steam, thick and intoxicating. He knew it wasn't real, the familiar tiles of their bathroom floor cool beneath his bare feet, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls. He was in the bathtub, water lapping just below his navel, but he wasn't alone. The presence behind him was as real as the frantic hammering of his own heart against his ribs. Sieun.

He felt the solid warmth of Sieun’s thighs pressed against his back, bracketing him in. Sieun was sitting on the ledge of the tub, legs spread wide on either side of Suho’s body, effectively caging him.

He was dreaming like last night, he knew it … but this time, Suho didn't fight the dream. He didn't try to scream himself awake. He craved it. He needed more.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, craning his neck to look over his shoulder.
Sieun was looking down at him, brow furrowed slightly, confusion etched onto his pretty features. His dark eyes searched Suho's face, questioning this unusual stillness, this lack of panic.

What are you doing?

The unspoken question hung heavy in the humid air.

Suho met his gaze. His own eyes felt heavy-lidded, his thoughts syrupy slow. A deep, unfamiliar heat coiled low in his belly, spreading outwards like liquid fire. His mouth flooded with saliva, yet the thought of water repelled him. He was thirsty for something else entirely.

Then, like a cold splash amidst the heat, shame crashed over him. He was utterly bare, skin slick and gleaming under the candlelight, completely exposed to Sieun who was fully clothed – wearing soft grey sweatpants and a thin white long sleeves t-shirt that clung slightly to his chest. The vulnerability should have been humiliating, paralyzing.
Instead, it made Suho’s heart pound harder, faster, a wild drumbeat against his ribs. He felt his blood surge, thick and insistent, downwards. There was no denying it now, no hiding it beneath the water. His cock stirred, twitched against his thigh, then began its inevitable ascent, rising with swift urgency until it stood thick and proud from the water's surface, straining upwards towards the man caging him.

A soft, desperate sound escaped Suho’s lips. He didn't think. Driven by the heat, the shame, the overwhelming need, he turned further, leaning his face against Sieun’s nearest thigh. The soft cotton of the sweatpants was warm against his flushed cheek. He inhaled deeply, breathing in Sieun’s familiar scent – clean laundry, a hint of cedarwood cologne, and something uniquely him – a scent that made Suho dizzy.

He nuzzled his face into Sieun’s thigh, the friction both grounding and maddening. Above him, Sieun gasped sharply. His body tensed, but crucially, he didn't pull away. He didn't break the cage his legs formed around Suho.

Encouraged by the lack of retreat, a reckless surge of bravery flooded Suho. He tilted his head up slightly and pressed his lips against the taut muscle of Sieun’s inner thigh, right where the folded sweatpants ended. A kiss. Feather-light, tentative, yet scorching in its intimacy.
Sieun sucked in another sharp breath. “S-Suho…?” His voice was rough, thick with shock and something else – something that sounded dangerously like arousal.

That sound shattered Suho’s last shred of hesitation. His hands, trembling violently now, lifted from the water. Drops cascaded onto Sieun’s sweatpants as Suho’s fingers found the loose waistband. He hooked his thumbs into the soft material – sweatpants and underwear together – clinging to the swell of Sieun’s hips.

He looked up again, locking eyes with Sieun. Sieun’s eyes were wide, pupils blown dark with an emotion Suho couldn't fully name, but his lips were slightly parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He wasn't stopping him.
With a final surge of desperate courage, Suho pulled.
The fabric slid down Sieun’s hips smoothly, gathering just below them. And there he was.
Freed.
Sieun’s cock sprang free.
Suho stared, mouth dry despite the saliva pooling under his tongue. Thick glory. The thought echoed in his mind, primal and awed. The dream pulsed around them, heavy with unspoken desire and the frantic beating of two hearts as Suho remained frozen for a heartbeat, captivated by the sight before him – Sieun exposed, pretty, and utterly still above him. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the quiet drip of water. What happened next hung suspended in the candlelit steam, charged with electric possibility.

The humid air crackled with tension, thick as the steam rising from the bathwater. Suho watched, mesmerized and offended, as Sieun remained frustratingly, beautifully soft. His own cock throbbed against his hipbone, an insistent ache demanding attention, a stark contrast to Sieun’s maddening calm. How dare he? How dare Sieun sit there, porcelain skin glistening, dark eyes wide with a confusing mix of shock and something else Suho couldn't quite name – without being instantly, painfully hard just from Suho’s proximity? Just from Suho’s desire? It felt like an insult to the electricity humming between them.

Sieun was too innocent, Suho reasoned, a desperate justification. Too pure to imagine the filthy scenarios Suho replayed in his head. Well, Suho would fix that. He’d make Sieun lose that infuriating composure. He’d make Sieun burn.

His hand snaked forward again, knuckles brushing the warm water before closing the distance to Sieun’s thigh. He saw Sieun tense, a slight hitch in his breath, but Suho’s focus was lower. His fingers trailed upward, tracing the line of Sieun’s inner thigh, unbearably slow, until they found their target. Not the shaft yet, but the vulnerable tip, the flushed, delicate slit.

With deliberate slowness, Suho dragged the blunt edge of his fingernail across that sensitive opening.

Sieun jolted. A full-body flinch, water sloshing violently over the rim of the tub. His head snapped back, hitting the tile with a soft thud, a choked gasp escaping him.

Power. Raw, intoxicating power surged through Suho, hotter than the bathwater. He did it again. And again. Dragging his thumb pad firmly, relentlessly over Sieun’s exposed slit, feeling the tiny tremors starting to wrack Sieun’s frame. He watched Sieun’s balls tighten, drawing up slightly, dangling taut beneath his shaft which was… oh yes… finally beginning to stir. Not hard yet, but no longer soft. A twitch. A promise.

“Fuck…” Sieun breathed out, ragged and low. He was fighting it, Suho could see. Fighting the sensation, fighting the rising heat. Sieun forced his head forward, straining against the pleasure-pain radiating from his groin. His doe eyes locked onto Suho’s, wide and bewildered and darkening.

“Suhoya…?” His voice was rough sandpaper. “The fuck are you doing?”

That nickname. That sweet, intimate nickname spoken in that broken, aroused tone. It slammed into Suho’s gut and shot straight to his neglected cock. A guttural moan tore from his throat, loud and shameless in the steamy bathroom. The sound seemed to echo, amplifying his own desperate need.

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough to just tease. He needed Sieun to feel. To feel the wildfire Suho felt. To drown in it.

Suho surged forward through the water. He didn’t hesitate. Eyes locked onto Sieun’s stunned gaze, he leaned down. His tongue darted out, impossibly light, a fleeting, teasing lick right across the sensitive slit he’d been tormenting.

“Hah! Fuck!” Sieun’s curse was sharp, his hips jerking involuntarily off the bottom of the tub, head snapping back against the tile again. A full-body shudder wracked him.
Suho felt drunk on it. The taste of clean skin and water, the choked gasp, the sight of Sieun arching helplessly under his mouth. He did it again. And again. Tiny flicks of his tongue, focused solely on that hypersensitive point, each touch precise and maddening. He lapped gently at the bead of moisture welling there – clear and slick – tasting salt and heat and Sieun.

Sieun dissolved. His breaths came in ragged gasps now, chest heaving. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment before forcing themselves open again, locking onto Suho with a desperate intensity that stole Suho’s breath. He was fighting to watch. Fighting to stay present even as Suho unravelled him with nothing but the tip of his tongue.

Fuck. That look – the determination mixed with utter surrender in Sieun’s eyes – it was the most erotic thing Suho had ever seen. His own neglected cock pulsed violently; he could feel precum slicking his stomach. He could come untouched right now, just from seeing Sieun like this, just from tasting him.

But no. Sieun first. He wanted to worship Sieun first. To wring every drop of pleasure from him.

He gave one more teasing lick to the weeping slit, then changed tactics. He opened his mouth wider. Warm breath ghosted over Sieun’s heated flesh just before Suho took him in. Not deep. Just the swollen head. Just enough for his lips to form a tight seal around the crown, his tongue pressing firmly against the frenulum as he sucked lightly.

And pulled off.

The wet pop sounded obscenely loud.

“Yaah! Suho…!” Sieun’s voice shattered, high and wrecked. His hips stuttered forward, chasing the lost heat. “W-what are you…?”

That broken sound… it was heavenly. It was his doing. He had reduced Yeon Sieun to this gasping, trembling mess. Suho’s soul felt like it was on fire, burning with possessive lust. He should feel gross, right? Tasting another man? His best friend? But the thought was laughable, drowned out by the roaring need. He wanted to do everything dirty, depraved, and perfect to Sieun. He wanted to own him in this steam-filled space.
He leaned in again, intent on taking more this time, wanting to swallow Sieun down, to make him scream—

But Sieun moved. Fast. One hand shoved against Suho’s shoulder, not roughly, but with startling firmness. His cock slipped from Suho’s grasp, bobbing heavily in the water, flushed and glistening.

Panic and raw need flared in Suho’s chest. A desperate whine escaped him before he could stop it, primal and needy.

“N-no...” he rasped, his voice thick with desire and frustration. His hand shot out under the water, fingers scrambling blindly, trying to recapture what he’d lost. “Sieun-ah… please… give it to me…”

The plea hung in the humid air, raw and vulnerable. Suho’s eyes were wide, pupils blown black with lust and a flicker of fear that Sieun might truly pull away. The power dynamic hung suspended, teetering on the edge as Suho reached, fingers brushing Sieun’s hipbone in his desperation.

Sieun’s eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the dark irises, glazed over with a haze of lust that mirrored the steam curling off the bathwater. His breath hitched, ragged and shallow. "S-Stop it..." he choked out, the words scraping his raw throat. "We... we're friends..."

"Shut up," Suho snarled, the sound guttural, desperate. His own release moments before was a distant tremor compared to the volcanic need erupting again. He felt raw, exposed, humiliated by his premature climax, and that humiliation twisted into a sharper, hungrier edge. "Give it back to me," he demanded, surging forward through the water, ignoring the slick mess still clinging to his own stomach. "I need to feed... Sieun-ah... you need to feed me..." His voice cracked on the plea.

A shuddering moan ripped from Sieun. "Fuck... you are so hot..." he gasped, the admission torn from him, helpless against the sight of Suho’s flushed skin, swollen lips, and eyes burning with pure, undiluted need.

"Yes!" Suho hissed, frantic. "Yes, and desperate for you... only for you..." He leaned in, mouth open, tongue extended like an offering, panting slightly. A starving dog presented with meat.

"Fuck... Suho..." Sieun groaned, the sound long and low, vibrating with overwhelmed arousal. He hadn't pulled away entirely; his hand was still loosely curled around the base of his own cock, which stood rigid and flushed, bobbing slightly as his hips gave an involuntary twitch. He bounced the thick length once, lightly, against his palm, a torturous tease. "...You need this?"

"Yessss!" Suho whimpered, the affirmation dissolving into a needy whine. "Yess... give it to me.... Give it to me!" He stretched his neck, pushing his face forward, tongue fully extended and quivering. A silent, desperate plea.

"Fuck, Suho..." Sieun breathed, a strangled laugh caught in his throat. "...You look like a puppy."

Puppy. The nickname, drenched in lust and helpless affection, detonated in Suho’s core. A full-body shiver wracked him, his neglected cock giving another painful throb against his hipbone. Sieun’s puppy. He moaned long and low, the sound vibrating against Sieun’s thigh. He wriggled his tongue insistently. Feed me, Master.

Sieun shifted forward, his own control fraying. He guided the slick, flushed head of his cock towards Suho’s waiting mouth. Not offering penetration, not yet. Just the slightest pressure. The swollen crown slapped wetly against Suho’s outstretched tongue.
It was enough. Suho’s lips instantly sealed around it, sucking hard, hollowing his cheeks. He took whatever Sieun offered – the sensitive head, the bead of precum welling at the slit – swallowing it down with frantic little sucks and licks. He could feel Sieun’s pulse hammering against his tongue.

The pleasure-pain in Suho’s own cock was unbearable. With a choked cry around Sieun’s shaft, his free hand flew down and cupped himself hard. He squeezed his own aching length through the water, moaning obscenely around the cock filling his mouth. The vibrations made Sieun gasp and buck.

Sieun was lost now. His head tipped back against the tile, throat working as ragged breaths tore from him. He tried to force his eyes open, to watch the obscene spectacle of Suho sucking greedily at just his tip, but his eyelids fluttered shut, overwhelmed. He was a gasping, trembling mess.

It wasn't enough for Suho. Possessiveness surged. He wanted more. He wanted Sieun wrecked. His right hand abandoned his own throbbing cock and shot out under the water, finding Sieun’s balls. He didn't just cup them; he squeezed. A firm, deliberate pressure, rolling the heavy sac in his palm as if trying to milk Sieun dry right there. Sieun cried out sharply, his body arching, spine lifting off the tub floor.

Still feeling unanchored, needing Sieun to use him, Suho grabbed Sieun’s wrist – the one not holding his cock – and dragged it roughly to his own damp hair. He forced Sieun’s fingers to tangle in the wet strands. "M-more..." Suho managed to slur around the cockhead in his mouth, tugging Sieun’s hand insistently against his scalp.

Sieun gasped, the sound breaking into a sob. "Y-you... you're killing me..." The vibration of Sieun's voice traveled straight down Suho’s throat, making his own cock jerk violently in his neglected grasp. He was teetering on the edge again, desperate to cum.

Sieun seemed to sense it. Through the haze of his own pleasure, his eyes cracked open, focusing blearily on Suho’s tortured expression. "Suhoya..." he rasped, voice thick. "...You... you wanna cum?"

 

Suho nodded desperately against Sieun’s cock, his jaw working in frantic little sucks. Tears of frustration and overwhelming need pricked at his eyes. Yes! But then he forced himself to pull off just enough to mumble thickly, saliva connecting his lips to Sieun’s glistening head: "Y-you... first... you..." He dived back down, swallowing as much of the tip as he could take.

Sieun cursed, a low groan ripped from his throat as Suho’s hot mouth worked him relentlessly. “Fuck…” His hips jerked involuntarily against Suho’s face. “My puppy… wants me to cum first…” The words were thick, strained, his fingers tightening almost painfully in Suho’s damp hair.

Suho whimpered around Sieun’s cock, the vibration sending another shockwave up Sieun’s spine. He was achingly close himself, the coil in his belly pulled impossibly tight. He clenched his thighs, fought the rising tide, focusing solely on the thick heat filling his mouth, the salty-sweet taste of Sieun’s pre-cum coating his tongue. Hold on… just hold on…

Sieun’s breath hitched. He leaned down, his lips brushing Suho’s sweat-dampened temple. His whisper was rough velvet, laced with promise and surrender. “Okay, baby… okay… I’ll cum first…” A sharp tug on Suho’s hair punctuated his words. “I’ll cum first… so you can find your own release…” He surrendered completely then, throwing his head back with a gasp, abandoning himself to the exquisite torture of Suho’s mouth. “Fuck… this feels so good…”

Tears pricked Suho’s eyes, a mixture of overwhelming sensation, frustration at his own desperate need, and a fierce, burning desire for more. He wanted Sieun rougher, wilder. He pulled his hands from where they’d been gripping Sieun’s hips. His right hand slid down, cupping Sieun’s heavy sac, fingers gently rolling the tight balls. His left hand wrapped firmly around the slick base of Sieun’s cock, squeezing possessively.

Then, with a wet, obscene pop, Suho pulled his mouth free. Sieun groaned at the sudden loss, his cock twitching angrily, flushed dark and glistening. Suho stared at it, panting, his own arousal a throbbing ache between his legs. He tilted his head, eyes hooded and dark, inspecting Sieun’s hardness like it was a forbidden treat, deciding where to bite next. Which side of the candy to suck…

He dove back down with a desperate hunger, swallowing Sieun whole again. This time, he pulled. His cheeks hollowed fiercely, his throat working, creating a powerful suction. He sucked hard, rhythmically, relentlessly, like he was trying to physically drag Sieun’s climax out of him. His left hand pumped the base in tandem with his mouth, his right hand massaged Sieun’s balls.

Sieun shattered. He was a moaning, trembling mess above Suho. “S-Suho! Fuck! Yes! Just like—ahhh!” His hips bucked wildly, uncontrollably. His leg, braced against the tub’s edge, jerked forward in a spasm of ecstasy.

His knee slammed hard into Suho’s straining shaft.

“Ngh!” Suho jolted violently, his eyes flying wide. A white-hot bolt of pure, electric pleasure-pain shot through him. His body locked rigid, every muscle tensing impossibly tight. His mouth fell open around Sieun’s cock in a silent scream.

Sieun gasped, horrified. “Oh my god! Suho! I’m sorry! Did I—?” He froze, his apology dying on his lips.

He stared, mesmerized, as thick, pearly ropes of cum erupted from Suho’s untouched cock. They arced through the humid air, splattering against Suho’s trembling stomach, his thighs, the bathwater with soft, wet sounds. Rope after rope pulsed out, a testament to the unbearable tension finally snapping.

Sieun watched, breath caught, eyes dark and wide with awe. Understanding dawned – the accidental touch, the overwhelming stimulation, the sheer proximity. He saw the shock, the overwhelming release etched onto Suho’s face. He said nothing, just stared, captivated by the sight of Suho coming undone beneath him.

The bliss faded quickly for Suho, replaced by a hot wave of mortification and sharp offense. He’d wanted Sieun to cum first! He’d been trying so hard! And now… this. He glared up at Sieun, his eyes blazing with frustration and lingering shame beneath the sheen of tears. His lips were swollen, glistening.

Sieun tensed, seeing the glare. “Wha—? It happened by mistake! I didn’t mean—” He started to pull back slightly, concern warring with the intense arousal still thrumming through him.

Before Sieun could finish his sentence, before he could retreat an inch, Suho attacked.

With a low, guttural sound of pure defiance and desperate need, Suho surged forward. His swollen, slick lips crashed back onto Sieun’s cock. He took him deep, deeper than before, swallowing him to the root with a ferocity that bordered on violence. His hands clamped back onto Sieun’s hips, anchoring him, pulling him impossibly closer. He sucked with renewed, frantic intensity, his tongue swirling, his cheeks hollowing savagely. It was messy, desperate, fueled by frustration and a fierce determination to finish what he started.

Sieun cried out, a raw, broken sound. His hands flew back to Suho’s hair, fisting it tightly, holding on as his hips pistoned forward, driving his cock deeper into that wet, demanding heat. “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck! Suho! Yes!” His control evaporated completely under the relentless assault. His back arched, his thighs trembled violently. He was seconds away from oblivion, pulled under by Suho’s furious, beautiful mouth. “My perfect… greedy… boy…”

Suho wanted it rougher. Needed it. Fueled by Sieun's tears and broken words, he doubled down. Both hands went to work on Sieun now. His right hand maintained its possessive squeeze and roll on Sieun’s balls. His left hand abandoned Suho's own need entirely and wrapped firmly around the base of Sieun’s shaft, holding it steady like the hilt of a precious weapon.

Sieun dissolved into a continuous stream of moans and fragmented curses. His body was taut as a bowstring, every muscle straining. His grip on Suho’s hair was bordering on painful now, but it was perfect.

"P-Puppy..." Sieun gasped, voice high and thready. "...You n-need to stop..."

But Suho had heard it again. Puppy. Sieun’s puppy. Sieun’s dog. And a dog serves its master. Suho doubled his efforts. He sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks until they ached. His right hand squeezed Sieun’s balls firmly – a demand for surrender. His left hand stroked whatever length wasn't in his mouth and the sensitive skin of Sieun’s inner thighs.

He pushed deeper, taking Sieun as far as he could into his throat. The head bumped against the back of his palate. He gagged slightly but held it, sucking fiercely.

He could feel it then. The telltale vibration thrumming through the cock in his mouth, the way Sieun’s entire body coiled impossibly tighter. Sieun cursed again, a guttural sound ripped from deep within.

Suho held on tight. Master is close. He sucked relentlessly, pulling hard with every withdrawal of his head. Cum for your puppy.

“P-Puppy… stop it…” Sieun gasped, the plea strangled. He pushed weakly at Suho’s shoulder, tried to squirm backwards in the tub, water sloshing wildly. “Suho-yah… Suho… puppy… stop it…” His voice was high, thready, utterly wrecked. He shoved harder at Suho’s shoulder, his movements growing more frantic, less coordinated. “If you d-don’t stop… I’m gonna—!”

Yes. Suho’s mind screamed. Yes, Master. Cum. Give it to me. Let me have it. That was all he wanted – Sieun’s release, deep inside him. Let him swallow it down like the desperate, devoted dog he was. Sieun’s pleas were fuel, his struggles meaningless against Suho’s sheer, single-minded determination.

“Suho-ya… Suho… puppy… stop it…” Sieun begged again, his voice cracking.

When Suho only doubled down, sucking harder, taking more into his throat, Sieun acted. This time, it was deliberate. His foot, seeking purchase in the water, found Suho’s cock – half-hard, sensitive from his first release and throbbing back to life under Sieun’s attention.
Sieun pressed down firmly, the sole of his foot grinding against the shaft, forcing it to full, aching hardness against the porcelain tub floor.

Suho faltered. A choked cry vibrated around Sieun’s cock as intense pleasure-pain shot through him. His rhythm stuttered, his eyes watering. But he didn’t pull away. He overcame it, locking his jaw, anchoring himself by gripping Sieun’s hips tighter under the water. He wouldn’t let his Master escape. He wouldn’t.

Sieun groaned, a sound of utter defeat mixed with unbearable need. His hands clutched in Suho’s head, fingers tangling brutally in the wet strands, not pushing him away this time, but holding him down. He forced Suho deeper onto his cock, burying him to the hilt. “I’m sorry, puppy,” Sieun gasped, the apology raw and breathless against the tile. “I’m s-sorry—!”

Then it hit him. Sieun’s release tore through him like a seismic wave. His back arched violently off the tub floor, a guttural shout ripped from his throat that echoed off the bathroom walls – “Fuck!” His entire body convulsed, hips pistoning shallowly into the tight heat of Suho’s throat. Hot, thick pulses flooded Suho’s mouth, coating his tongue, hitting the back of his throat.

Suho held on, swallowing convulsively, determined to take everything Sieun gave him. Sieun’s hands were vises on his skull, holding him immobile. Sieun’s foot still pressed relentlessly against Suho’s trapped cock, grinding down with each helpless thrust of Sieun’s hips as he came. The dual sensations – the overwhelming fullness in his throat, the insistent pressure on his cock – shattered Suho completely.

His own climax hit him like a lightning bolt. His eyes flew wide in stunned shock, his mouth falling open around Sieun’s still-spurting cock. Thick ropes of white pulsed from him again, untouched, spilling into the churning water beneath him as he trembled uncontrollably.

Sieun finally slumped back, gasping like a drowning man. He slowly released Suho’s head, his foot sliding limply off Suho’s softening cock. He stared down, dazed, at the mess Suho had made in the water between them. “Fuck…” he breathed, voice utterly shattered. “…Look at you…”

Suho coughed weakly, pulling back slightly, Sieun’s cock slipping wetly from his bruised lips. He felt spent, hollowed out, utterly claimed. He made a feeble noise, trying to lean forward again towards Sieun’s softening length.

 

But Sieun moved. He shifted back further in the tub, putting a small distance between them. Suho whined low in his throat, the sound pitiful and needy.

Then Sieun leaned forward again. Not for closeness. His expression had shifted – gone was the dazed ecstasy, replaced by a stern intensity that made Suho freeze. Sieun held his hand out, palm up, right under Suho’s chin. His voice was low, rough from screaming, but brooked absolutely no argument. “Spit.”

Suho blinked, confused for a second. Then he understood. He leaned forward and obediently spat the remaining mouthful of Sieun’s release onto Sieun’s waiting palm. It landed thick and pearly white.

Sieun looked at the mess in his hand for a moment, his jaw tight. Then he brought his other hand up and swiftly wiped it clean on Suho’s own wet chest before sinking back into the water to rinse his own hand. The action was efficient, almost dismissive.

Suho whined again, louder this time, a desperate sound of protest at the loss.

Sieun just looked at him, his dark doe eyes unreadable in the steam. He seemed exhausted, bewildered… and something else simmering beneath.

Suho didn’t hesitate. Driven by a new wave of desperate need – not just lust now, but a profound craving for connection, for reassurance, for Sieun – he surged forward through the water. His hands went straight for the waistband of Sieun’s soaked shorts. “Come inside,” he mumbled, tugging frantically at the fabric.

“Wha—?!” Sieun started, but Suho was already peeling the grey sweatpants down his legs and flinging them over the side of the tub with a wet slap. Before Sieun could react further, Suho grabbed his arm and pulled him bodily closer into the center of the tub. Then his hands went to the hem of Sieun’s wet white t-shirt. “Off,” he demanded softly but insistently, pulling it up.

 

Sieun tilted his head back slightly, watching Suho with that same intense, unreadable gaze as the shirt was dragged off and discarded. He didn't resist.

Now naked together in the lukewarm water, Suho immediately pressed himself against Sieun’s chest. He burrowed his face into the crook of Sieun’s neck and shoulder with a sigh that was almost a sob. His arms snaked around Sieun’s torso, clinging tightly. “I want to do more…” Suho murmured against Sieun’s damp skin, his voice small and thick with spent emotion.

Sieun’s breath hitched audibly.

Suho tilted his head back slightly to look up at Sieun’s face. His eyes were huge, dark pools reflecting the dim bathroom light and pure adoration. “Next time…” he whispered, a tiny, wicked smile playing on his swollen lips. He leaned in closer still, until his lips brushed Sieun’s ear. His next words were a feather-light breath, but they carried the weight of a vow: “…you should just fuck me.”

Sieun gasped sharply, a full-body jolt running through him. Suho felt it and giggled softly against his neck – a sound of pure, dizzy triumph. “Next time,” he repeated contentedly, nuzzling back into Sieun’s chest like a satisfied cat finding its favorite spot. He inhaled deeply, breathing in Sieun’s unique scent – soap, sweat, steam, and something fundamentally him. “Feels so good…” he mumbled drowsily. He reached up blindly and pulled one of Sieun’s hands onto his damp hair.

Sieun’s fingers automatically sank into the strands. He was silent for a long moment, staring down at the crown of Suho’s head where it rested against him. The steam swirled around them, the only sound their slowing breaths and the soft drip of water. Finally, his voice rough but quiet, almost hesitant: “But if we cross that line… we aren’t friends anymore.”

Suho went very still against him for a second. Then he lifted his head again. He met Sieun’s searching gaze directly. There was no hesitation in his eyes now, no playfulness, only raw conviction burning in their dark depths. “Then I don’t want to be,” he stated simply. His voice was low but firm. “Because I want to cross this line.” He held Sieun’s gaze for another heartbeat, letting the terrifying truth hang heavy in the humid air between them.

Then he smiled again – small, sure – and buried his face back into Sieun’s chest with another contented sigh and a soft sniffle against his skin.

Sieun blinked rapidly. He looked stunned, adrift in the aftermath of pleasure and Suho’s devastating declaration. His hand remained resting on Suho’s head, fingers lightly carding through the wet strands almost absently as he stared into the swirling steam, trying to process the irrevocable step they had just taken… and the chasm Suho was determined they jump into next.

And then morning came. Where his dream ended.

When Suho woke, the first thing he registered wasn’t light or sound, but sensation — a strange heaviness, a faint stickiness clinging to his skin.

A thick, intimate wetness clinging to his skin inside his pajama pants. Cooled now, but undeniably there. Suho’s eyes snapped open, staring at the familiar ceiling of his room. Dawn light filtered through the curtains, pale and unforgiving.
Then, the dream slammed into him.
Not like a memory, but like a physical blow. The candlelit steam. Sieun’s thighs caging him. The shocking hardness in his mouth. The overwhelming heat. The desperate, furious sucking. The accidental knee… the explosive, humiliating release… and then his own furious attack on Sieun’s cock….

He groaned, rolling onto his side and burying his face in his pillow. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and… him. The scent mingled horribly with the phantom smell of Sieun’s skin, Sieun’s arousal from the dream.

He’d come in his sleep. While dreaming about Sieun. About that.

A wave of scalding shame washed over him, followed by a deeper, more terrifying realization. This wasn't just a random fantasy. This was visceral, physical proof of the effect Sieun had on him. Proof he couldn't deny or rationalize away. He liked Sieun. So much. Too much. The intensity of it, manifesting in a sticky, embarrassing mess while he slept, was horrifying. It felt ridiculous, juvenile, and yet terrifyingly potent.

How? How am I going to hide this?

Panic surged, sharp and urgent, cutting through the lingering haze of the dream and the shame. Sieun always checked on him in the mornings, often before Suho was even fully awake. He couldn’t let him see this. Couldn’t let him smell this. The evidence was damning, a silent scream of desire Suho wasn't ready to voice.

He scrambled out of bed, taking his crutches, wincing as the damp fabric clung unpleasantly to his skin. He could feel the dried residue pulling. Disgusting. He went to the bathroom, practically ripped off his pajama bottoms and underwear, balling them up instantly, hiding the incriminating white streaks against the dark fabric. He shoved them deep into his laundry hamper, burying them under yesterday’s t-shirt.

His skin felt tacky, unclean. He grabbed the box of wet wipes – remnants of a bad cold last winter – and frantically scrubbed at his stomach, his thighs. The coolness was a shock, a harsh contrast to the remembered heat of the dream and the feverish panic now gripping him. He scrubbed harder, wiping away the physical proof of his subconscious betrayal, trying to erase the phantom sensation of Sieun’s skin, Sieun’s taste. His movements were jerky, desperate.

 

(Fourth of July slowed reverb)

He was still catching his breath, still staring at his trembling hands, unsure what to do next. The shame clung to him as thickly as the stickiness beneath his clothes. He needed to shower, to scrub it off, to bury the evidence — his ruined pants already shoved deep into the laundry hamper, hidden like a crime. His skin was red, raw from the hasty wiping, but his chest burned hotter than that.

Then came the voice.
“Suho? You awake?”

It was soft, warm, muffled slightly by the bathroom door, but unmistakable. Sieun.

Suho froze, every nerve in his body snapping taut. His heart slammed against his ribs like a caged bird. Heat flooded his face.
No. Not now. Not like this.

The dream was still too close, still clinging to him, and with it the phantom taste, the phantom touch, the memory of what he’d done. If Sieun looked at him now… if Sieun saw his face, if he somehow sensed the frantic cleanup, the guilt would be plain.

He jolted, fumbling with the lock until it clicked. A barrier. He turned his back to the door, pressing a hand against his chest, breath jagged.

“Mmh. Go away,” he forced out, voice thick, feigning sleepiness. Too sharp. Too dismissive.

The silence outside stretched thin, and panic gnawed at him. To mask it, he reached for the faucet, twisting it hard. The shower hissed to life — the water biting cold. The shock made him flinch, a curse ripping out of him before he could stop it.

“Suho?” Sieun’s voice sharpened, worry cutting through the wood. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Nothing!” Suho shouted back, too quick, too harsh. His throat burned with it. “You can go!”

Another silence. He hated it.

Then Sieun spoke again, softer, closer to the door. “Why did you lock it? What if you—”
“I’m fine, Sieun!” Suho cut him off, too loud, desperate. “Go away. I can handle it.”

The lie shook as it left him. His fingers clenched against the cold porcelain.
This time, the silence was longer. It stretched so much Suho could hear the water pounding, the ragged thump of his own heartbeat.
Then, at last, Sieun’s voice came again, quiet. Almost too quiet.
“…Call me if you need anything.”

And Suho’s chest cracked open with regret.

It wasn’t the words themselves. It was how they sounded. The faint sigh buried beneath them. The way Sieun’s voice — usually steady, certain — carried something else this time. Something thinner. Hurt.

The doorknob never turned.

Only the soft sound of footsteps retreating down the hallway, leaving Suho alone with the cold water and the weight of his own shame.

The moment Sieun’s footsteps faded, something inside Suho snapped.

The water beat against his skin, cold and merciless, but it couldn’t wash away the sound of Sieun’s voice. That soft sigh. That quiet hurt.

His knees buckled, and he slid down against the tiled wall, the cold seeping through his spine as he crumpled onto the shower floor. His palms covered his face, hot tears breaking free, mixing with the spray until he couldn’t tell which was which.

“Why…” His voice cracked, broken into the rushing water. “Why do I always hurt him?”

Every memory of the past days clawed at him — flinching away from Sieun’s hand, leaving him frozen. Screaming at him in panic. Making him worry, making him sad. And now this. Locking the door. Shouting at him like he was the enemy when he was the only one who’d stayed.

“I keep… I keep doing it…” Suho’s chest hitched, his words coming out in gasps. “He deserves better. So much better than me.”

The tears wouldn’t stop. His body shook with them, every sob dragging sharp through his ribs. He pressed his forehead to his knees, curling in tighter, his hair plastered to his skin by the icy water.

He thought of Sieun’s face — the way it had lit in the candle glow, the way his hands had touched him so gently, the way his voice had promised, I will always be there until the day you don't need me anymore.

And all Suho could do in return was push him away. Again and again.

His nails dug into his arms, his voice rising, hoarse. “I like him so much… so much it hurts, and all I ever do is—” His throat closed, the words breaking into another sob. “I ruin everything. I hurt him. I hurt him every time.”

The shame burned hotter than the cold could numb. He bit down on his knuckle to muffle the sound, but it still slipped out — ragged, helpless cries swallowed by the hiss of the shower.

Alone in that locked bathroom, Suho’s heart screamed what his lips never dared to say out loud:
“I’m the worst.”

And still, he sobbed, because no matter how much he liked Sieun, all he could see were the ways he kept breaking him.

When Suho wrapped the towel around his waist, it felt too flimsy, too fragile against the storm still raging in his chest. His damp hair clung to his shoulders, each drop of water falling like an echo in the silence, too loud, too sharp.

But at least the fear had loosened its grip. The fear of being discovered. The terror of Sieun knowing.

He had scrubbed the evidence away, buried his shame in the thin fabric of his underwear, washed it down until nothing remained but the sting on his skin. His fingers were raw, red, itching from how harshly he had worked the soap, as though he could erase not just the marks but the truth of what he had done.

It was clumsy. Desperate. But it was enough. Enough to hold together the thin thread of his dignity. Enough to keep Sieun from seeing the cracks.

So Suho stepped forward, clutching the crutch tighter, pretending the storm wasn’t still inside him. Pretending he was clean. Whole. Intact.

His clothes were folded neatly on the bed — Sieun’s touch, no doubt. He moved slowly, almost dragging his feet, and when he looked up, he saw him.

Sieun was by the window, his slim frame outlined in the faint light outside, shoulders still, hands loose at his sides. He hadn’t turned when Suho came out. He just stood there, gazing through the glass, his profile sharp and unreadable.

Suho’s throat closed. His lower lip trembled as he sat on the bed, clutching the edge of the towel like it could keep him from unraveling.

“...Do you want me to leave?” Sieun’s voice came at last, quiet, even.

The panic rose too fast. “No—” Suho blurted, his voice cracking. “No… don’t go.”

Sieun didn’t answer. Didn’t move. He only stayed there, still, looking out at the world as if his thoughts were far away.

And Suho sat there staring at his back, his chest aching. What was he thinking? Was he remembering how Suho had shouted at him? How he always push him away? Did he finally realize Suho wasn’t worth the trouble?

The silence that followed was heavy. Suho squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't block out the previous voice: Sieun’s voice when he’d turned away. He had sounded troubled. Hurt. Confused by the sudden, cold dismissal after… whatever strange intimacy had flickered between them recently, culminating in last night's dream-fueled desperation.

A fresh wave of shame washed over Suho, different from the embarrassment of the sticky sheets. This was sharper. He’d hurt Sieun. To hide his own messy, complicated feelings and his literal mess, he’d pushed him away. Ignored him. Brutally.
He curled into a tighter ball, the clean sweatpants feeling like a flimsy shield. The sticky mess was cleaned up, hidden away. But the mess inside him – the confusing desire, the overwhelming shame, and now the guilt for hurting Sieun – that felt infinitely harder to fix. And it was bubbling over, threatening to spill out in ways he couldn't control, just like the dream. He buried his face back in the pillow, wishing the morning light would swallow him whole.

The silence stretched — heavy, almost suffocating — until Sieun finally spoke. His tone was calm, flat, as if he were analyzing something far removed from them.

“Do you know why people remember pain more than peace?” he asked, eyes fixed on the darkened window. “It’s because balance is quiet. It doesn’t leave marks. But imbalance… it shatters, it lingers, it makes a louder sound.”

Suho blinked, his lips parting, unsure if he was supposed to answer. His throat worked, hoarse. “…What?”

Sieun’s reflection in the glass barely moved as he continued. “When a glass sits still on a table, no one thinks about it. But if it tips once—just once—that moment stays sharper in memory than all the hours it stood steady.”

Suho frowned, his chest clenching, still lost. “…And what does that mean?” His voice broke small, like he was afraid of the answer.

Only then did Sieun shift, exhaling faintly. “It means… you keep staring at the times you tipped. You never notice how many times you stayed upright.”

His tone wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even meant as comfort. It was just matter-of-fact, like pointing out something obvious.

But Suho’s vision blurred, tears spilling before he could stop them. Because he understood. Because Sieun had said it like it was theory, like it wasn’t about him at all — and yet it was. All of it was.
And it undid him.

Suho’s breath hitched, his shoulders trembling as his hands fisted into the sheets. He bit down hard on his lip, trying to swallow it back, but the tears slipped free anyway, warm against his cheeks.
He hated how much sense it made. Hated how Sieun could say something so plain, so detached, and still make it feel like the ground was being pulled out from under him.

“…But what if…” Suho’s voice cracked, weak, desperate. “…what if I tip too many times?” His gaze stayed low, fixed on his knuckles, pale and trembling. “What if that’s all you ever see?”
For a long moment, Sieun didn’t move. His reflection stayed steady in the window, unreadable. Then, after a pause, his voice came again, quiet.

“A glass that tips and doesn’t break is still strong,” he said simply. “Stronger, maybe, than one that’s never moved at all.”

Suho froze. His tears came faster, spilling unchecked now.
Sieun didn’t turn. He didn’t soften his tone, didn’t reach for him, didn’t make it sound like comfort. He just said it like fact, like he was talking about something else entirely.
But Suho felt it all the same. Felt it lodge deep in his chest, felt the ache in his ribs loosen just a little.
His lips trembled. His voice broke small, almost inaudible. “Why do you always… say things like that…?”
Still facing the window, Sieun’s lashes lowered faintly. “Because you keep forgetting.”
And that was it. Plain, matter-of-fact.
But to Suho, it felt like being held.

 

:⁠-⁠(

 

(Violin Sky - Light In The Dark)

 

Suho was falling again.
Over and over.
The padded floor rattled beneath his body with every collapse, the dull thud echoing in his ears. His palms stung raw from catching himself too late, too often. His knees trembled violently, aching with each failed attempt, his shoulder muscles burning until they quivered like wires about to snap. His breath came ragged, tearing its way in and out of his lungs, chest heaving as sweat trickled down his temples and slid into his lashes. The salt burned, blurred his vision, turned the whole room into a shifting haze of white walls and unforgiving bars.
Every failed step felt heavier than the last, every stumble like an admission of defeat.
He wanted to walk again. God, he wanted to run again. To feel the rush of wind past his ears, to race down a street without hesitation, to stand tall without feeling like his body was betraying him. But right now it was nothing but falling. Falling and falling, as if the ground itself was determined to remind him of everything he’d lost.
His chest tightened. His throat burned raw, humiliation and fatigue curling together. His mind began to whisper cruel things, venomous and insidious. Maybe this is all you’ll ever be now. Maybe you’ll never stand like before. Maybe you’ll never catch up. Maybe you’ll always be broken.

This session was brutal. More brutal than any before. His arms shook like paper under strain, his legs refused to obey the signals his brain screamed at them, and for one terrifying heartbeat Suho thought about just staying down. About giving in. About letting the weight crush him and admitting what he was too scared to put into words.

But then—
“Suho.”

That voice. Calm, steady, cutting through the haze like a knife.
He forced his head up through the blur, chest hitching, and there was Sieun.
Not reaching down to haul him up. Not hovering to catch him. Not pitying him. Just standing there, close but not too close, his arms folded lapping over each other, his face unreadable but sharp, his eyes locked on Suho with a steadiness that burned hotter than any touch.

“You can do it.”

The words were simple. Bare. But they cracked something in Suho’s chest.
Sieun didn’t help him stand. Didn’t rob him of the fight. Instead, he anchored him by existing, a lighthouse on the edge of his storm, a point Suho’s drowning body could drag itself toward.
When Suho’s hand slipped uselessly against the bar, when his breath came in a desperate, choking gasp, Sieun’s voice was there, firm. “Breathe. Reset. Try again.”
When Suho’s leg buckled and panic surged hot and brutal in his chest, Sieun crouched low, his sharp gaze locking with his. “It’s okay. One more time. You’ve got this.”

And when Suho finally managed it — a step, trembling, uneven, but a step nonetheless — Sieun’s lips curved. Just faintly. Barely there. But it was real. His chin dipped in a nod, his voice low but weighted with something Suho couldn’t mistake.
“That’s it. See? I knew you could.”

Something inside Suho ignited.
A spark that had been buried deep under exhaustion and self-loathing flared alive, bright and fierce. That look on Sieun’s face, that sliver of pride in his voice — it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t empty. It was for him. For Suho alone.
He wanted that again.
He wanted Sieun to look at him like that again, to speak like that again, to believe in him that strongly. To be proud of him.
So he tried again.
And again.
Every fall hurt. His palms were raw, his knees bruised, his shoulders screaming, his entire body trembling with fatigue that made him want to throw up. But each time he stood — even if it was slow, even if it was shaky — he found Sieun there. Waiting. Watching. Grounding.
“Good. That’s better.”
“Yes. Right there.”
“Don’t rush. One more.”
Every word was like oxygen. Every nod, every sharp, unwavering look in his eyes, was fuel. It burned hotter than the pain, sharper than the exhaustion, until Suho’s body kept moving even when his muscles begged to stop.
Because Sieun was there.
Because Sieun believed in him.
Because as long as Sieun was watching, Suho couldn’t give up.
He wouldn’t.
Suho had never worked so hard. His body trembled, every muscle screaming, his lungs burning like fire. Sweat slid down his temples, dripping into his lashes, stinging his eyes until the world blurred. His hands were raw from gripping the bars, his knees wobbled under him, but—
But each step had been a fraction steadier than the last. His heel struck firmer, his balance lasted a breath longer, his legs carried him a little farther. Progress so small anyone else might miss it. But not his guide.

“Well done, Suho.” The man’s voice was warm, proud. “You’re progressing. This is real improvement.”

The words sank straight into Suho’s chest, deep and glowing, like sunlight breaking through a heavy storm. For a second, the ache in his body dulled, replaced by something warmer, lighter. And when he turned his head, grinning despite the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, the smile that broke across his face was unrestrained. Wide. Boyish. The kind of smile he hadn’t worn in too long.

He collapsed onto the bench afterward, his chest heaving, his body heavy but his heart still racing. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor until his gaze lifted.
Around the room, others were in their own battles. A boy his age wobbled with every step before finally collapsing, shaking his head in defeat. A woman in her thirties, sweat glistening across her brow, clenched her jaw and pushed herself upright again, determination etched on her face. Another sat slumped on a bench like him, shoulders caved in, staring at the ground as if already surrendering.

Successes. Failures. Small victories. Quiet defeats.
Suho’s throat tightened as the thought slipped in uninvited, gnawing at the edge of his mind: What would happen… if I gave up too?
Would he just be another slumped figure, one of those who didn’t rise again? Would the world forget he had even tried? Would everyone simply… move on without him?
The question dug deep, heavy, dangerous. His fists curled in his lap. His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his overworked muscles.
And then — a cool weight pressed into his hands.
Suho blinked down, startled. A water bottle. The cap already twisted off.
He followed the hand back up, and of course — it was Sieun. Standing close, steady as ever, his dark eyes unreadable but unyielding, his palm still lingering against the bottle as if to make sure Suho took it.

He blinked up to see Sieun standing there, hair damp with sweat that clung in dark strands to his forehead, his gaze calm but unyielding.
“Drink.”

The word was simple, flat — but it carried no room for argument.

Suho obeyed without thinking, the cool rim pressed gently to his lips. He sipped, greedily at first, then slower, feeling the water slide down his raw throat, soothing the burn left by exertion. Each swallow untied a knot in his chest, cooling the fire that had been burning through his body.
When he stopped, he handed the bottle back, almost shyly.
Sieun took it, wordless, and twisted the cap back on with quiet precision. He set it neatly on the bench beside Suho. Then, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded napkin.
He leaned in, close enough that Suho caught the faint, clean scent of him through the haze of sweat. His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, and he dabbed gently at Suho’s forehead. Careful sweeps along his temple. A soft brush at his hairline, where strands clung damp against his skin.
Suho’s throat tightened. His lashes lowered. He couldn’t bring himself to look at him — not when that steady, precise hand moved across his skin like it belonged there.
So his eyes dropped to his lap, his voice leaving him before he had the courage to stop it.

“…What do you think my life would be like if I gave up?”

The napkin stilled.

He felt it — Sieun’s gaze. Heavy, unwavering, pressing against the side of his face. His chest burned under the weight of it. But he didn’t dare turn.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his own shaky breathing and the muffled rhythm of footsteps from others across the room.

Then Sieun’s voice came — low, steady, certain.
“Your life would be happy. Because you’re never going to give up.”

The words struck, sharp and stubborn.
Suho’s lips twitched faintly, a ghost of a smile tugging up as he finally turned, meeting his eyes despite the heat crawling into his cheeks. His brows pulled together in disbelief. “…How do you know that?”

Sieun didn’t blink. His face stayed still, his eyes cutting through him.
“Because I know you.”

The answer landed in Suho’s chest like a weight. It was ridiculous, it was simple, it was unbearably straightforward — and yet it lodged there, leaving his throat tight.
He smiled — small, crooked, fragile. His voice came softer now, pressing anyway. “…But no. Think hypothetically. If I really gave up. If I couldn’t walk again. Then what would happen to my life?”

Sieun didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch.
“Nothing.”

Suho blinked, tilting his head, confusion flickering across his face. “…Nothing?”
“You’d still live a happy life,” Sieun said simply, folding the napkin with mechanical care, as though the motion kept his voice from shaking. “You’d still try new food. You’d still explore new places.”
Suho stared at him, searching his face, as if trying to catch the place where he might crack, where this absurd certainty might falter. “…How?”
Sieun’s reply came fast, immediate, his tone blunt, as though he had already decided this long ago.

“Because I’ll adopt you. And then raise you til you grow old.”

Suho froze.
His eyes widened, blinking once, twice, like he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. The words sat between them — blunt, absurd, so utterly Sieun — that for a full second Suho’s brain couldn’t process them.
And then it broke out of him.

Laughter. Sharp, sudden, unstoppable. It tore free of his chest before he could even think to hold it back, spilling out in waves. His head tipped back, shoulders shaking, his stomach aching instantly from how hard it hit him. He laughed so loudly, so freely, that heads actually turned in their direction — people pausing mid-step, mid-stretch, to look at the boy doubled over on the bench like something had cracked him open.
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, blurring the edges of his vision, but through them he caught a sight that made his chest stutter.
Sieun.
The corner of his lips had lifted, just barely, but enough. A small curl, faint and quiet, but unmistakably a smile.
It knocked the breath out of him.

“You’re—” Suho wheezed between laughs, clutching at his stomach, his voice breaking on the words. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious,” Sieun replied immediately, flat as a board. His brows furrowed slightly, as if he genuinely couldn’t grasp what was funny about it.
And that was it — Suho broke again.
He doubled over, laughter tearing from his chest so hard his face flushed crimson. His voice cracked, uneven, his body shaking as he tried and failed to breathe between fits. Every time he tried to compose himself, his eyes flicked to Sieun’s utterly straight, unreadable expression — and it set him off all over again.
God, he couldn’t remember the last time he laughed like this. Not the polite chuckles. Not the strained huffs. This was real, raw, bubbling up until it hurt and felt good all at once.
Sieun just sighed quietly, letting him go on, but his gaze never wavered. It softened in the way only Suho ever got to see — hidden behind the flat tone, the blank look. His eyes warmed, faint but fierce, as though he was memorizing the sound of that laughter, locking it somewhere deep where no one else could touch it.
Finally, the laughter ebbed, breaking down into breathless chuckles. Suho slumped against the bench, wiping at his damp eyes with the heel of his palm. His chest still rose and fell too fast, his lips curved wide and helpless.
He looked over — and met Sieun’s eyes.
Something tightened in his chest at the way Sieun was watching him. Calm. Steady. Like he’d just proven something Sieun had known all along.
And then Sieun leaned back slightly, his voice low but firm, the kind of voice that didn’t waver.

“You’re brave, Suho. Braver than anyone else here. You keep standing no matter how many times you fall.” His eyes flicked briefly to Suho’s knees, to the faint tremor in his hands, before rising back to his face. “That’s not something pathetic people do.”
The words sank deep.
Sieun continued, “I'm not comparing you with them nor I'm comparing them with you. I could never. Everyone is fighting their own battles. But I want you to know … that you are not pathetic. You are brave. Very very brave.”

Suho’s throat tightened, the smile on his lips trembling, but it didn’t fade. Not this time. The warmth that Sieun’s blunt words carried — the kind of warmth he never admitted out loud but that wrapped around Suho all the same — seeped into him like fire.
And for once, he didn’t push it away.
For once, he let himself believe it.

He kept grinning, his cheeks pink and damp from laughing so hard. He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes, hiccuping out the remnants of chuckles, when something cool pressed against his forehead.

He blinked — Sieun’s hand, napkin folded neatly, dabbing at the sweat clinging to his hairline.

Suho frowned faintly. “Again? You already did that.”

“You’re still sweating,” Sieun said simply, eyes fixed on the task. His movements were slow, deliberate, careful — brushing along his temple, sweeping across his brow as though Suho were fragile glass.

Suho tilted his head, teasing lightly, “What are you, my nurse now?”
Sieun didn’t flinch. “No.” A tiny pause, then: “I’d get fired.”
Suho blinked, caught off guard — and then a laugh burst out of him, louder than he expected. “Fired?!”
Sieun’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly, though his tone stayed even. “You complain too much. Patients like you aren’t good for my career.”
Suho snorted, shoving lightly at his arm. “Unbelievable. You’re the one hovering over me like a mother hen—”
“Correction,” Sieun interrupted, folding the napkin neatly again. “Like someone making sure you don’t collapse on this bench like an idiot.”
That did it — Suho laughed again, clutching his side, his whole body shaking. “You’re impossible,” he managed between gasps, still smiling so wide it made his cheeks ache.
But Sieun just looked at him, quiet, his hand lingering a moment longer against his forehead before pulling back. The tiniest curve touched his lips, almost invisible — but Suho caught it.
And it warmed him more than the water, more than the words.

Suho leaned back against the bench, chest still fluttering with leftover laughter, but softer now. His smile lingered — fragile, curved at the corners, like it had been drawn there without his permission. He couldn’t help it. Whenever Sieun was near, whenever his dry, blunt words cut through his storm and left something lighter behind, Suho always ended up smiling.

He doesn’t even try, Suho thought, watching Sieun tuck the napkin neatly back into his bag. He just… says things. Ordinary things. And I laugh like an idiot because it’s him saying it.

His gaze followed the boy, the way Sieun straightened, collected the empty bottle, the way his expression stayed unreadable — calm, flat, steady. But Suho had learned the tiny differences, the secret tells others would miss: the faint twitch at the corner of his lips, the subtle tilt of his head when something amused him, the way his eyes softened without warning.

God, he was beautiful. Not in the showy, obvious way people usually admired. Not loud. Not dazzling. But in the quiet, unshakable way a lighthouse was beautiful. Always there. Always steady. Always holding him up without needing to say so.

And Suho likedl him. He liked him so much it hurt sometimes.

But he could never say it. Not when Sieun was the one wiping his sweat, handing him water, logging his times like it was second nature. Not when every step Suho managed seemed to need Sieun’s shadow close by.

Sieun moved toward the front desk, pulling out his phone to record the session — entry, exit, progress. He always did it, meticulous, consistent. Reliable in a way Suho wasn’t.

Suho’s eyes stayed on him even then, drinking in the calm slope of his shoulders, the measured way he walked. His chest ached with something warm, something so tender it almost frightened him. I don’t deserve him, Suho thought. And for a moment, he almost believed it was fine. That maybe just being beside Sieun, in any way he was allowed, was enough.

But then—
“Those two,” someone whispered nearby. A laugh followed — light, harmless. “They look good together, don’t they? That boy… Sieun, right? He’s always here with Suho. Always makes him laugh like that.”
Suho froze.
The smile slid right off his face. His chest clenched sharp, sudden.
Because yes, it was true. Sieun did make him laugh. Sieun made him feel alive, like the weight crushing him was gone for just a moment. But the next words didn’t sound sweet anymore. They twisted, warped.
Another voice joined, lower, casual. “Yeah… but it always makes me wonder. How come Sieun’s always with him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… Suho is like this right now. Temporarily disabled. And Sieun’s always here with him, every session. He should be enjoying his life instead.”
By the tone, by the rhythm, Suho guessed they were staff. He didn’t dare turn to see. Didn’t want to know which faces belonged to the voices. Because whatever it was, whatever they were saying — it was true.
The words curdled inside him, thick with pity.

He makes me laugh because I’m pathetic enough to need it.

Suho’s throat dried. His gaze dropped to his knees, to the faint scars still visible under the hem of his sweatpants. His nails dug into his palm, clenched so tightly his knuckles burned.
Sieun could be with anyone. He could be out there, with people who aren’t broken. People who don’t slow him down. He could be laughing for himself instead of wasting every second on me.
The thoughts spiraled fast, cruel, unstoppable.
I can’t even stand without wobbling. Can’t walk without someone ready to catch me. I need help for everything — drinking water, wiping sweat, remembering times. He does everything. He gives everything. And all I do is take, take, take.
His lip trembled, bitten hard until the sting cut through. His chest burned, hot and heavy, like the air had thickened too much to breathe.
The laughter that had filled him moments ago echoed back now, bitter, mocking.
Yes. They looked good together.
But the truth stabbed deeper than any fall he’d taken that day: Sieun wasn’t meant to be tethered to someone like him.
And that hurt more than all the bruises, all the failures, all the pain combined.

 

When Sieun came back from the desk, the first thing he did was look straight at him. Not a glance, not a casual check — his gaze was direct, steady, cutting through like it always did.

“What’s wrong?”

Suho’s breath snagged. His chest tightened.
He shook his head quickly, forcing the smallest smile. “...Nothing.”

But it was too quick. Too practiced. And Sieun knew him too well. The boy’s eyes lingered, sharp, searching, as though he didn’t believe a word. But after a beat, he let it go, silent as always. He didn’t push.

Suho hated that he was grateful. Hated that he also wished, secretly, Sieun would push.

They gathered their things, moving toward the doors. The outside light filtered in through the wide glass, bright and heavy against Suho’s tired eyes. His body dragged, every muscle aching.

“Should we book a cab? I'm a little tired.” Sieun asked evenly, his voice casual, but Suho caught it immediately.
He blinked up at him. He’s saying it for me.

He wanted to argue — to tell him it was fine, that they could just take the bus like everyone else. But his throat closed around the words, his pride already too raw. He simply nodded once, pretending it didn’t sting.

As they stepped outside, Sieun spoke again. “Your guide said something before we left. He told me you’re stronger than you realize. That most people would’ve given up by now, but you keep showing up. He said it’s not just progress, it’s discipline. Willpower.”

 

Suho blinked at him, but the words slipped past like water through shaking hands. His head nodded faintly, but he wasn’t really listening. He couldn’t — not when the weight inside him screamed louder.

Willpower? Stronger than I realize? No. All they see is Sieun dragging me through this. They’re praising me because he’s always beside me. Because they think I’d crumble without him. They’re not wrong.

The thought lodged bitter in his throat.

And then, suddenly —

His shoulder clipped someone’s arm. His balance tipped. His knee buckled, sharp pain jolting up his leg.

 

“Suho—” Sieun’s arm shot out immediately, steady, firm, catching him before he hit the ground.

 

The other person stumbled too, their bag swinging awkwardly against their side. Sieun straightened Suho without hesitation, one hand still gripping his arm as he turned. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his tone even but polite, dipping his head toward the stranger.

 

Suho’s stomach dropped.

He had to apologize.

Not for himself. Not because Sieun had done anything wrong.
But because I wasn’t paying attention. Because I stumbled.

The other person brushed it off with a quick shake of the head and a small smile. But Suho saw it.

That flicker in their eyes. The faint downturn at the corners of their mouth.

Pity.

He averted his gaze immediately, his chest burning.

When he dared look up again, he realized others had noticed. A couple of faces turned, watching briefly — strangers, staff, people passing by. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… looking.

And that was worse.

Because Suho knew what they were seeing. The boy being held upright. The best friend steadying him. The apology given not by him, but for him.

Do they pity me? Do they pity him?

The thought ripped through his chest. Do they pity Sieun? Thinking how unlucky he is, stuck with someone like me — someone who can’t even walk straight, someone who drags him into apologies and stumbles?

His fists clenched, his eyes dropping to the floor, the sting in his throat unbearable. His pride twisted into something sour, suffocating.

Every laugh he’d shared with Sieun earlier, every smile, felt erased in a heartbeat.

Because all he could see now was this — people watching, pitying. And Sieun holding him steady, apologizing for him.

And all Suho could think was—

He deserves better than this. Better than me.

The cab smelled faintly of old leather and something citrus. The window was cracked, letting the cool evening air slip in and brush against Suho’s damp skin. He leaned toward it, cheek close to the glass, his eyes fixed on the blur of passing streets. Neon signs, streetlamps, silhouettes of people on sidewalks — they flickered past too quickly to hold, but he watched them anyway. Anything to keep from looking at himself.

The air felt nice. Cold against the heat still lingering in his body. It cooled the sweat drying on his skin, carried with it the faint scent of rain-soaked pavement. Nice — but not enough. Not nearly enough to drown the burn in his chest or the voices still echoing in his head.

He saw again, clear as day, the way that stranger’s eyes had shifted when Sieun apologized. The faint tilt of pity. And the way others had turned to look. Not long, not cruel. Just long enough for Suho to know what they were thinking.

Poor boy.
Poor Sieun, stuck looking after him.

His throat tightened. His fingers curled into his lap, nails biting into his palms. Why does everyone always pity me? Why do they look at him like he’s wasting himself on me? Why does it hurt so much when they’re not even wrong?

His gaze flicked briefly to the driver in the mirror. Just a glance. But it was enough. The man’s eyes lingered too long on Suho’s reflection before darting away. Not sharp, not mocking — but soft. Heavy. Pity again.

Suho’s stomach sank. He twisted his face back toward the window, hiding it in the faint draft. He couldn’t bear it.

Beside him, Sieun shifted slightly. His voice came low, casual, as though to fill the silence. “The guide said next week they’ll adjust the weights on your bars. Said you’re stable enough for it.”

Suho hummed faintly, but his eyes didn’t move from the glass. He couldn’t answer.

Another beat passed. Then Sieun tried again, the faintest lift in his tone. “They also said you’ve improved more in two weeks than most do in a month.”

Still nothing. Just the hum of the engine, the soft whip of air through the cracked window.

Suho wanted to answer. God, he wanted to. He wanted to look at Sieun and say something, anything, to prove he wasn’t shutting him out again. But his chest was heavy. His tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth.

And Sieun noticed. Of course he did. His words stopped. The silence settled again.

But it wasn’t an angry silence. Not irritated, not disappointed. Just… space. Given freely.

Suho was grateful for it. Grateful, and guilty.

Because sometimes, when Sieun gave him space like this, Suho wondered if it was kindness — or exhaustion. If every time Sieun let him have his silence, it was because he knew Suho would only push him away otherwise.

Maybe he’s just forcing himself to be patient with me. Maybe all of this is just him… enduring me.

The thought ached. It carved into him, slow and cruel.

His eyes blurred faintly against the glow of streetlights outside the cab, his breath fogging the glass.

I wish I could stop. I wish I could stop pushing him away.

But the weight inside him wouldn’t let him.

So he stayed turned to the window, watching the city streak by, the night air kissing his skin, while Sieun sat quiet beside him — close enough to touch, steady as ever — and Suho sank deeper into the storm he couldn’t name.

 

The cab slowed to a stop. Suho blinked, dazed, pulling his gaze away from the blur of streetlights as Sieun paid the driver. The door opened, cool night air brushing over him, and before he could brace himself, familiar voices carried from the apartment.

“Suho’s back!”
“Don’t just stand there, help him inside—”
“Shut up, I am helping—”

The moment his feet crossed the threshold, warmth washed over him. The faint clatter of pots from the kitchen, the scent of spices and garlic, the hum of conversation. Baku’s voice rang out from somewhere, indignant about something, Gotak’s laugh followed like an echo, and Juntae was already fussing, tugging gently at Suho’s arm to steady him.

Dinner was cooking. Their voices tangled into the same chaos they always carried, overlapping, teasing, loud and unfiltered.

And Suho’s chest ached.

Because here, there was no pity. Not a drop of it. His friends never looked at him differently. They teased him like always, made space for him without making a show of it, filled every gap with noise so he wouldn’t hear his own doubts.

Baku swooped in, mock-saluting. “Prince Suho, your throne awaits.” He gestured dramatically to the couch.

Gotak followed, sweeping low. “May his royal highness grant us mercy and not throw cushions at our heads tonight.”

Suho cracked a smile despite himself, letting them guide him to the couch, sinking into the cushions while they carried on their ridiculous performance. For a moment, he let it wash over him — the laughter, the teasing, the noise. Warmth spread through his chest.

But the sting of the day lingered.

Because outside, the stares had been different. The voices had been soft, pitying, weighing heavy on him. He couldn’t forget the way that stranger had looked at him, or how others had glanced when Sieun had to apologize in his place. The memory pressed sharp against the warmth here, digging in.

He wished he could believe it was only inside these walls that mattered. That the outside world didn’t exist. But it did. And out there, he wasn’t Suho. He was the boy who needed help. The boy Sieun wasted himself on.

He glanced up, just as Sieun disappeared down the hall, tugging fresh clothes from the drawer. The door clicked shut, faint steam already promising a shower.

Suho’s eyes lingered on it.

He wanted that. Not just this — not just home, not just when the doors closed and the world shrank to their voices. He wanted to be with Sieun everywhere. Walking beside him without stares following. Laughing with him without someone whispering pity. He wanted to be enough for him even outside these walls.

But the memory stabbed again. Those words. Those eyes. Sieun should be enjoying his life. The pity not for him but for the boy who wasted his days at his side.

His smile faltered.

The chaos of the gang carried on, Baku and Gotak already bickering about seasoning, Juntae scolding them with an exasperated sigh. Suho tried to match their laughter, tried to keep the smile in place, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

The bathroom door opened again, a waft of steam escaping. Sieun stepped out, damp hair pushed back, wearing soft, fresh clothes that clung faintly to his shoulders. His presence filled the room effortlessly, quiet yet grounding.

He walked toward Suho, gaze sharp but softened just for him. “Tired?”

Suho nodded, throat too tight for words.

“Do you want a shower?” Sieun asked next, as if the question was obvious.

Again, Suho nodded.

Without a pause, Sieun stepped forward, his hand brushing lightly at Suho’s elbow. “Come on, then.” His tone was flat, but there was no room for argument — only care disguised as matter-of-fact.

And Suho let himself be guided. Let Sieun lead him toward the bathroom, step by step.

But inside, his chest churned.

Because every step was a reminder. A reminder that Sieun was here, steady, close, always there to catch him — and that outside, everyone else only saw pity.

And Suho couldn’t stop wondering: how long until Sieun saw it too?

 

(⁠´⁠;⁠︵⁠;⁠`⁠)

 

The kitchen was supposed to be quiet after dinner, but with Baku and Gotak on dish duty, it sounded more like a battlefield than a home.

Plates clattered against each other, spoons clinked, water splashed across the counter and onto the floor as the two bickered louder than the faucet.

“You missed a spot!” Gotak barked, flicking suds at Baku’s face.

“You missed your brain!” Baku shot back, shoulder-checking him so hard another bowl nearly slid into the sink.

“Ya—!” Juntae’s voice cracked through the chaos like a whip as he darted in, saving the bowl just in time. His glasses were crooked, his sleeve soaked through as he sighed heavily, muttering, “You’re both children. Absolute children,” while wiping down the mess they’d left.

Meanwhile, the storm spun on one side of the room, and on the other, Suho sat quietly on the couch.

 

And there was Sieun, crouched low in front of him.

His hand cradled Suho’s leg, holding it firm but never rough, the clipper snipping carefully at his nails. His expression stayed neutral, brow furrowed in quiet concentration, as though this task was something sacred.

 

Every snip made Suho’s ears burn hotter. His chest fluttered with embarrassment and warmth, his lips pressing together. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something so careful for him — not with this kind of unspoken respect, not without hesitation. It made him feel small, shy, almost like a child being fussed over… and yet completely safe.

Of course, the kitchen demons noticed.

“Ohhh, look at this,” Baku announced, leaning against the doorway with a grin that split his face. “Prince Suho, having his nails done by his personal servant.”

Gotak gasped theatrically, clutching his chest like he’d uncovered a scandal. “Not servant. Royal attendance!”

Juntae’s head snapped up instantly, exasperation dripping from every syllable. “You mean the attendant? Royal attendant!?”

Gotak waved a dismissive hand, not even fazed. “Yeah, yeah, that one. Same thing.”

Baku practically doubled over, smacking his thigh as he laughed. “Pfft—attendance?! What are you, a school roll call?!”

Their laughter echoed through the room, over-the-top and loud, filling every corner like they were putting on a play just to embarrass Suho.

 

Suho flushed bright red, tugging faintly at his leg in protest, but Sieun didn’t so much as blink. He simply finished his task with quiet precision, shutting their voices out as if the teasing belonged to another world.

 

“No, no,” Baku cut in again, flinging his arm wide like a bard announcing a tale. “Not just an attendant. A knight! Knight Yeon Sieun, sworn to protect the prince.”

 

Gotak barked out a laugh, doubling over. “Knight? Wrong! He’s the master—look at him. Doing everything without blinking.”

 

Suho groaned, hiding his face in his hand, though his lips betrayed him with the twitch of a smile.

 

When Sieun finally finished, he wrapped the trimmed nails neatly in tissue, disposing of them before returning to the low table where his books were spread out. Juntae joined him, settling in beside him, the two of them instantly falling into quiet focus.

It should have ended there.

But then Sieun shivered.

 

It was subtle, just a faint tremor at his shoulders, but Suho noticed immediately. He opened his mouth—only for Gotak to notice too.

 

“Wait. He’s cold.”

Baku turned with a grin. “What?”

“Sieun’s shivering,” Gotak said gravely, pointing at him. “Don’t worry, princess. Knight Go Hyeontak is ready to serve.”

Baku shoved him aside. “As if! Before your filthy hands touch Princess Sieun, Lord Park Humin will be there first!”

 

And just like that, the two lunged at each other, grabbing cushions from the couch and swinging them like swords.

 

The thwacks echoed through the room as they clashed, shouting, “En garde!” and “The princess belongs to me!”

 

Sieun looked up from his book, deadpan, his flat stare colder than ice.

 

Meanwhile, Juntae adjusted his glasses with a sniff, muttering, “...Juntae is cold too.”

 

“Slaves don’t get to demand!” Baku snapped instantly, grinning wide.

 

Juntae’s head shot up, scandalized. “What—?!”

 

Suho couldn’t hold it anymore. Laughter spilled out of him, muffled against his hand, his shoulders shaking.

 

Still, Sieun’s eyes flicked to him in the midst of chaos. Even with two idiots playing knights around the living room, even while teasing flew in every direction, Sieun checked Suho first — making sure his blanket was still wrapped snug around his shoulders.

 

Suho’s chest ached with warmth.

And then the chaos surged again.

 

Baku and Gotak vanished for all of ten seconds before bursting back in, both clutching jackets like weapons.

“Here! Wear this!” Gotak barked, thrusting his toward Sieun.

Baku hurled his at Juntae, and it smacked him right in the face. “Oww—!”

 

“No, mine first!” Baku barked, shoving another jacket onto Sieun’s lap.

 

Juntae groaned from behind the fabric, muffled. “Why me—?!”

“Because slaves don’t complain,” Baku declared, puffing his chest.

Juntae ripped the jacket off his face, glasses sliding crooked. “What?!”

 

Meanwhile, Gotak lunged forward, trying to shove his jacket over Sieun’s shoulders. “Armor for the knight!”

“Wrong!” Baku countered, tugging at Sieun’s other arm. “That’s the lord’s cloak!”

The two clung to him like overgrown children, tugging from both sides.

“What are you doing,” Sieun muttered flatly, pinned between them.

“Making you wear it!” they chorused in unison, laughter spilling as they tried to force the jackets on.

And then — thud.

 

Sieun toppled backward, and both idiots collapsed on top of him in a heap, howling with laughter.

 

The room exploded. Juntae doubled over, clutching his stomach, laughter spilling behind crooked glasses. Suho burst out laughing so hard tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. The sound filled the space, wild and bright, wrapping them all in warmth.

But even as Suho laughed, even as his chest lifted with joy, something darker stirred underneath.

Because when he looked at Sieun — cheeks faintly flushed from the pile-on, pinned beneath Baku and Gotak’s weight, his gaze still somehow darting toward Suho to make sure he was fine, he was warm, he was comfortable — something twisted sharp in Suho’s chest.

Am I enough for him?

The ugly thought rose before he could bury it.

Sieun deserved laughter without being dragged down. He deserved warmth given freely, not stolen through worry. He deserved joy that wasn’t tethered to someone broken, someone who couldn’t even stand without trembling, someone who needed help for the smallest, stupidest things.

Suho’s smile didn’t falter on the surface. His laughter rang out with the others, shoulders shaking, cheeks flushed, eyes crinkling at the edges.

But deep inside, beneath the chaos and the glow, his chest burned with the same quiet ache:

Am I really enough for Sieun?

 

They could see it — the flush spreading over Sieun’s pale cheeks, blooming red until it painted the tips of his ears. His eyes blinked too fast, glassy, like he was holding something back. His nose twitched once, betraying the effort. His lips, usually a straight, unreadable line, twitched and curved just slightly. The ghost of a smile.

Baku and Gotak froze mid-bicker.

Then, in perfect sync, they turned. First to each other. Then to Suho. Then finally to Juntae — who was still on the floor, wrestling with the zipper of the jacket Baku had forced onto him, muttering about "idiots" and "unnecessary chaos."

Baku’s grin sharpened into something feral. Gotak’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

“...Oh no,” Suho whispered instinctively, already recognizing that look. He’d seen it before — the look that meant trouble.

They pounced.

“Princess Sieun belongs in my jacket!” Baku roared, grabbing one half of the jacket and tugging.

“Wrong!” Gotak snapped, yanking the opposite sleeve. “Knight Go Hyeontak is the only one who can shield him properly!”

Sieun’s brows shot up. His flat, unimpressed voice cut through: “...What the hell are you—”

But he didn’t get to finish.

Because suddenly, instead of jackets, both idiots lunged for his sides.

Their fingers dug into the vulnerable space between ribs and waist.

Sieun jolted like he’d been struck by lightning, his entire body bowing up from the floor. “Wha—no—!”

And then it happened.

It started rough, strangled, caught somewhere in his throat — but then it spilled, raw, uncontrollable.

Sieun laughed.

Not the faint huff of amusement he gave when Suho said something dumb. Not the reluctant exhale he spared Baku’s antics. But a real laugh. Loud, broken, unrestrained.

It shook his whole body, bent him double, made his shoulders quake and his eyes water. Tears pricked hot at the corners, his cheeks turning crimson, his hair sticking messily to his damp skin.

“St—stop it! Yah—! Stop—!” he gasped, voice cracking, twisting desperately as their hands continued their attack. His legs kicked uselessly at the floor, his arms flailing to push them off.

Suho froze, stunned. His chest clenched so hard it hurt. He had never — not once — heard Sieun laugh like that. Not loud. Not raw. Not free.

And then, like something broke open inside him, he was laughing too.

He doubled over, clutching his stomach, laughter bursting out of him so violently his ribs ached. He tried to breathe, failed, and laughed harder. His vision blurred with tears, his cheeks burned red, and still the sound kept coming.

Juntae, startled at first, dropped flat onto the floor, his glasses sliding down his nose as he scrambled to pull out his phone. He hit record with trembling fingers, the screen wobbling violently because his hands shook from laughing too hard himself.

The video wasn’t steady, but the sound — the sound of all of them laughing, especially Sieun — was priceless.

Suho couldn’t stop. Every time his eyes flicked back to Sieun — writhing, gasping, laughing so hard he could barely speak — a fresh wave of laughter crashed over him. His chest hurt, his throat burned, but it was worth it. Worth everything.

“I—hate—you—both—!” Sieun managed to shout between fits, his voice broken and weak with laughter. “Stop—!”

“Never!” Baku bellowed, his grin unhinged.

“Your laugh is too precious, we can’t stop!” Gotak cried dramatically, wheezing with his own laughter.

Suho thought he might actually burst. His lungs ached, his stomach muscles screamed, but he didn’t care. Because Sieun — his Sieun — was laughing. Laughing so hard tears streaked down his face. Laughing like a secret Suho never thought he’d get to hear.

And then —

Wham.

With all his strength, Sieun shoved. Both idiots went flying backward, landing on their asses, wheezing but still cackling.

Sieun didn’t waste a second. He snatched up a cushion like a weapon and swung.

“Yah! Take it! Take it, you bastards!”

Thwack. Thwack.

Baku yelped, Gotak screamed, both shielding themselves with their own cushions as Sieun unleashed war. His laughter still cracked out between strikes, his voice high and raw.

“Mercy! Mercy!” Gotak cried.

“You won already, just stop—!” Baku wheezed, half-choking on his own laughter.

But Sieun didn’t stop. He kept going, cheeks red, hair falling into his face, tears streaming as he laughed and hit them harder.

“Yah—ow! What the—!” Baku yelped.

“Crazy bastard!” Gotak shouted, doubled over with laughter.

Desperate, they lunged again, playing dirty this time. They grabbed both his arms, pinning him to the floor.

“We won! We won!” Baku declared breathlessly.

Sieun’s eyes narrowed, his chest heaving. And then — he kicked. Hard.

“YAH!” Baku yelped, clutching his back. Gotak toppled sideways in shock.

Even Juntae got pushed back in the chaos, squawking indignantly as his phone wobbled, still recording. “Ah—!”

“Take that!” Sieun barked, laughter breaking through his words, grabbing another cushion and swinging mercilessly.

“Stop—stop—ow—okay okay okay!” Gotak begged, cackling.

“We surrender! Mercy!” Baku shouted, trying to shield his head.

Finally, all three of them collapsed, sprawled out across the floor, their laughter spilling into the silence between gasps for air.

Juntae lay flat on his back, clutching his stomach, glasses askew, his own laughter still shaking his chest. Suho was curled forward on the couch, his face wet with tears, breathless, aching from how hard he’d laughed.

And in the middle of it all, Sieun lay staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in quick bursts, cheeks streaked, lips twitching like he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Then —

He huffed once.

Baku and Gotak, sprawled on either side of him, turned their heads.

He huffed again.

Their grins spread wide.

And then all three of them broke again, laughter rolling loud, helpless, uncontrollable.

Suho’s heart pounded so hard it hurt.

Because his pretty, perfect Sieun was laughing. Not faintly. Not politely. But loud. Real. Beautiful.

The sound filled the entire room, spilling into every corner.

Juntae’s laugh cracked. Baku kicked the floor from how hard he laughed. Gotak wheezed like he couldn’t breathe. Suho buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking violently, his whole body burning from laughter.

It was chaos. Messy. Wild. Alive.

And for a fleeting, perfect moment, Suho thought his chest would explode. Because everyone was happy. Everyone was free.

And when he dared to peek between his fingers, his gaze caught Sieun’s face again — flushed, smiling, eyes crinkled so tight they glistened with tears — and the ache in his chest twisted sharp.

God, I love this sound. I love this version of him. I wish I could keep it forever.

 

The floor was finally beginning to calm after all the shouting and laughter. Breathless, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, the gang lay scattered in different corners like a battlefield of children who had spent all their energy. Books and notes lay forgotten, pencils rolled off the table, cushions half-flattened under careless elbows.

Sieun, as always, tried to restore some order to himself first. He shifted a little, dragging his hands through his hair until the strands settled neatly, though the pink on his ears betrayed how flustered he still was. His face smoothed back into its usual blankness, though his friends had all seen the laughter rip him open just minutes ago.

“You won’t let me study,” he muttered, adjusting his shirt like the responsible one among them.

Gotak rolled dramatically onto a pillow, posing like some court jester. “It is the duty of the Princess to give some attention to her loyal attendants,” he declared, puffing out his chest.

Sieun scoffed, unimpressed, but his lips twitched, betraying the tiniest curve.

Baku, grin still plastered on his face, shoved his own cushion across the floor like he was presenting an offering to royalty. “Here. A royal pillow for Her Highness.”

Suho ducked his head, hiding his smile behind his hand. His chest warmed, fluttering at how normal it all felt — like this ridiculous chaos was stitched into his days now.

Meanwhile, Juntae was already up, muttering about the mess as he bent to gather fallen pens, setting books in neat stacks like the ever-responsible mother of the group.

Suho shifted forward, bracing his palms on the couch to push himself up, wanting to be part of the pile on the floor. But before he could, Juntae was at his side in an instant.

“Wait—careful,” Juntae murmured, slipping a hand toward his elbow. His tone was gentle but firm, steadying him without making a show of it.

Suho’s throat tightened faintly at that easy care.

But then Gotak cut in, arms folded, glaring at the floor like it was the enemy. “The floor’s too cold for him.”

Baku leapt up dramatically, chest puffed out like a hero in a play. “No worries! Lord Baku is here!”

Gotak blinked. “...What?”

“Shift the table aside!” Baku ordered with a commanding wave.

Gotak’s grin widened instantly, delighted to join the performance. He shoved the low table with a screech of wood against wood, clearing space in the center of the room like it was a stage.

“Wait—” Sieun started, brows furrowed.

But thud — the sound shook the room.

Everyone turned just in time to see Baku stagger back inside, a massive roll of futons slung over his shoulder like a trophy. He dropped them with a dramatic crash, dust puffing into the air.

Everyone froze, staring.

“...How—” Juntae began, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“Admire me,” Baku declared smugly, unrolling the futons like a magician producing silk scarves from a hat.

Suho’s lips parted. The sheer strength of it, the absurdity, the fact he’d done it just to make space for all of them — it tugged a smile from him so wide his cheeks hurt.

Gotak didn’t even need prompting. He sprinted into the bedroom and came back with an armful of blankets, dumping them onto the floor with a grin.

Suho’s heart warmed, the scene melting into him. These idiots — they turned everything into theater, into chaos, just for him.

Juntae crouched, muttering under his breath as he started arranging cushions neatly across the futons.

Sieun pinched the bridge of his nose. “Guys—”

“SHUT UP!” all three chorused instantly.

 

Suho’s shoulders shook with laughter, muffled into his sleeve.

Gotak flicked the television on, the screen glowing in the dimmed light, throwing warm colors across the room. The brightness of the overhead bulb clicked off, leaving only a soft, cozy glow.

Juntae moved carefully, steadying Suho down onto the futon. The softness cradled him, warmth wrapping him instantly. He sighed without meaning to, the tension sliding off his back.

But Sieun still hadn’t moved. He stood stiff, arms crossed, staring at the bedrolls like they had committed a personal crime.

“I needed to study,” he said flatly, as if that would undo what had already been done.

“SHUT UP!” came the shout again, even louder this time.

 

Baku stomped over, grabbed his wrist, and tugged. “Princess, to bed!” he declared with such seriousness it almost broke Suho into another fit of laughter.

Sieun shot him a deadpan glare but allowed himself to be shoved down beside Suho on the futon.

With a sigh that sounded both exhausted and resigned, Sieun adjusted the blanket up over Suho’s shoulders, tucking it carefully. His voice softened, practical as always. “It’s cold. Should we turn the heater on?”

“No need!” Baku barked, slapping his chest. “Let’s share our body warmth!”

“Ewwww!” Gotak screeched, covering his face. “We’re friends, you don’t say that to friends!”

 

Juntae giggled helplessly, covering his ears like a child.

 

Baku smacked Gotak’s head. “Why do you make it weird? You watch that stuff too much!”

 

Gotak went red, sputtering. “Yah! Don’t say it out loud!”

 

They launched into another brawl, rolling across the floor.

 

Sieun groaned, throwing an arm out protectively so they wouldn’t crash into Suho. When that didn’t stop them, he stood, grabbed a pillow, and whacked them both on the head.

 

“Yah!” Baku yelped.

“Fine, fine!” Gotak cried, scrambling back.

 

Juntae sighed, clicked the heater on anyway, then tucked into the futon with his notes. Gotak grabbed the remote only for Baku to snatch it instantly, the two whisper-arguing now.

Sieun exhaled. “We all won’t fit on two futons.”

Baku and Gotak turned in sync, deadpan. “Do you see how much space is left with you and Suho?”

Gotak added, “Two more people could fit there.”

 

Sieun blinked once. Then finally, with a long, defeated sigh, he lowered himself into the futon, pulling the blanket over himself.

 

The others settled too. Gotak and Baku sprawled like overgrown puppies, Juntae curled neatly, the remote still clutched in Gotak’s hand.

 

(Na Milay - Good Part Loop)

 

The room warmed, the heater humming, the television flickering softly. Chaos dimmed into quiet bickering, muffled laughter, and the sound of Suho’s own heart slowing.

And there, on the futon, wrapped in blankets, heat pressed against his side where Sieun had tucked himself close, Suho’s chest loosened.

He relaxed fully.

His heart was full. His chest ached warm.

Everything was right.

Wholesome. Chaotic. Calm.

And as Suho smiled into the blanket, the thought whispered in him like a prayer — maybe this is enough. Maybe, for tonight, this is everything.

The chaos had finally softened, the heater humming low, the flicker of the TV washing the room in a dim glow. The movie Gotak had picked — some cheesy, over-the-top romance — played on, filling the silence with dramatic music and badly written dialogue.
They had all sprawled into their makeshift sleeping order. Suho was tucked at the far right, a little separated, where his bad knee would have enough space so no one would bump it in their sleep. Sieun had been the one to insist on that spot. Right beside him lay Sieun himself, flat on his back, one arm bent under his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. Juntae came next, neatly folded into his blanket with glasses still on. Gotak stretched out beyond him, taking up far too much space, limbs spread like he owned the entire futon. At the very edge lay Baku, constantly kicking the blanket off, only to shove his leg into Gotak’s side, which earned him a kick back every time.
“Stop—” Gotak muttered, shoving his elbow into Baku’s ribs.
“You started it,” Baku shot back, not even opening his eyes.
Suho smiled faintly, shifting onto his side. He could hear Juntae muttering “so cold, so cold” under his breath as he tugged the blanket tighter, curling smaller into himself. The glow of the television reflected faintly in his lenses, though his eyes were already drooping.

Suho didn’t care about the movie. Instead, he found himself stealing glances at Sieun. Each time the characters on-screen did something dramatic — the hero holding the heroine by the wrist, pulling her close — his eyes flicked sideways almost unconsciously. How would Sieun look if he did that…?
Gotak caught him once, smirked, and deliberately switched the channel just to tease. Suho snapped his head away, red-faced.
Then, without warning, Gotak shifted — or maybe just to annoy everyone — and slung his massive arm right across Sieun’s chest. His whole weight leaned into it, making the futon dip.
Sieun’s brows twitched immediately, his eyes rolling toward the ceiling. Suho, on the other hand, blinked fast, startled.
“Move over,” Gotak muttered, half a tease, half a whine, as if the space wasn’t already overflowing. His movement shoved into Juntae too, who squeaked in protest, his face scrunching.
The sudden weight jolted Sieun’s elbow, and it brushed right into Suho’s side.
Suho froze. His body went rigid, every nerve sparking at the point of contact. Heat spread up his chest, straight into his face. His heart thudded painfully fast, like it wanted to leap out of his ribs.
Juntae giggled at the sight, his laugh soft but helpless. “Yaah…” he muttered, adjusting his blanket, clearly amused at the absurd mess.
From the far end, Baku scoffed loudly. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, and with zero hesitation shoved his foot hard against Gotak’s back.
The effect was immediate. Gotak lurched forward from the kick, which pushed Juntae sideways, which in turn shoved Sieun— closer.
Closer into Suho.
Almost into him.
Their futons overlapped, and for a moment, Sieun’s chest pressed faintly against Suho’s side. The contact was so warm, so solid, Suho’s breath caught painfully.
Sieun blinked down, surprised by the closeness, and at the same moment Suho’s wide eyes met his.
They were so close.
Close enough that Suho could see the way Sieun’s bangs had slipped loose, falling over his lashes. Close enough that Sieun’s breath ghosted across his lips — warm, steady, unbearably intimate.
Suho’s gaze flickered lower before he could stop himself. To Sieun’s lips.
Soft. Pink. Right there.
His throat worked, dry, and he swallowed hard. His whole body buzzed like he’d been set on fire from the inside out.
And then —
Sieun moved. He sat up sharply, just enough to put distance between them, his expression flat but his eyes flashing sharp as knives. He turned his glare across the room at Gotak.
“You wanna get kicked out?” he asked, his voice edged with dry threat.
Gotak’s grin widened like a child caught stealing sweets. Then, without answering, he yanked his blanket over his head dramatically, curling into it like a turtle hiding in its shell.
Suho sagged back, tugging the blanket tighter around himself, his face red to the tips of his ears. His lips trembled faintly, his chest still fluttering like it hadn’t caught up to what just happened.
It had felt… nice. Too nice.
Being brushed against like that. Being close enough to count his eyelashes, to almost — almost — feel his lips.
And Suho wished — God, he wished — that he could hold him like that. Not just when he was breaking apart. Not just when he was gasping for air through panic. But when he was okay. When he was laughing. When he was happy.
But he couldn’t. He wasn’t brave enough.
So he curled tighter into himself, his chest aching with warmth and longing all at once, his eyes hidden in the blanket as the room quieted again. Sieun lay back down.

And then—
“Royal Highness is kind enough to let us stay in her kingdom tonight, huh,” Gotak’s voice broke the quiet, muffled under his blanket at first before he popped his head out, grinning like a devil. His words carried through the dim room, heavy with mischief.
Baku snorted instantly, laughter escaping through the blanket covering half his face. “Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out with mock solemnity. “Her Highness was merciful. Even after slaying us with pillows earlier, she spared our lives.”
Suho bit down on his lip hard, fighting a smile that threatened to break free. He dared a glance sideways.
Sieun hadn’t moved. His gaze was still fixed on the flickering TV, where two characters were kissing softly in the glow of the screen. But Suho caught it — the faint twitch of his brow. Was it because of the kiss? Or because of these idiots talking?

Gotak leaned up, smirking wickedly. “Honestly, Royal Highness is wasted on studies. That pillow swing? Deadly. He could make a whole career out of beating people with cushions.”
Suho’s hand flew up to his mouth, muffling the laugh that slipped out anyway. His shoulders trembled with the effort of holding it in.
“And if not that,” Gotak added slyly, eyes glinting, “he could just keep cutting hair. Open a salon. He’s got talent.”
Baku shot upright, grin wide, eyes dancing. “Special treatment, though,” he declared loudly, pointing straight at Suho like he’d uncovered a scandal. “Only Prince Suho got the royal haircut service. Look at him now. Look how pretty the prince looks.”
The words hit Suho like fire. His face burned, heat rushing all the way to his ears. He ducked instantly, burying half his face into the blanket, wishing it would swallow him whole. “S–stop it,” he stammered, voice muffled and thin.
Gotak wasn’t letting go. He leaned on one elbow, looming closer with that devilish grin in the dim TV light. “But it’s true. Look at you.” His voice dropped low, teasing. “You were pretty before, sure. But now? Now you’re prettier. So much prettier after Her Highness touched your hair.”
Suho’s heart stuttered violently in his chest. He hid deeper in the blanket, his cheeks burning so hot it almost stung.
Gotak’s grin widened at his reaction. “Not just your face, either. It’s her magic hands,” he said dramatically, gesturing as if they were some divine gift.
“Magic hands, yeah,” Baku echoed solemnly, nodding like a priest giving a blessing.
Gotak squinted at him. “...I wonder what more those hands could do.” His grin turned sly.
Baku’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “You thought something dirty just now.”
“What—no!” Gotak shot back, instantly defensive, his face flushing red.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I did not!”
“Then why’s your face red?”
Gotak sputtered, swatting at him, which only made Baku cackle louder.
And then Baku clutched his hands together, lifting his voice dramatically. “Royal Highness could open a barbershop tomorrow. No — not just a barbershop. A pilgrimage site!” His grin split wide as he continued, “People would line up just to stare at her beauty, then leave with perfect hair.”
Suho groaned, curling so tightly into his futon his body almost disappeared into it. He tugged the blanket higher, covering half his burning face, his heart pounding wildly. “Shut up,” he muttered, voice muffled and desperate.
“What? It’s true!” Baku pressed, laughing so hard he wheezed. “We’ll handle the publicity ourselves. The Royal Highness Barbershop will be a sensation!”
Even Juntae — usually the voice of reason — giggled helplessly, his shoulders trembling as he pressed a hand to his face. His quiet laugh slipped out, high and disbelieving, like he couldn’t hold it in either.
Suho wanted to vanish. His whole body was flushed, his chest fluttering uncontrollably. Every time they said “pretty,” his heart twisted in a way he couldn’t stop. He knew they were teasing. He knew they didn’t mean it seriously. But hearing it — and worse, hearing it because of Sieun — made his face burn hotter, his thoughts spiral, his lips curve without permission.
He ducked deeper into the blanket, but nothing could hide the way his cheeks glowed.
And out of the corner of his eye, he dared one more glance.
Sieun still hadn’t said anything. He sat there, calm, unmoved, watching the TV like none of this touched him. But Suho noticed the faintest twitch in his jaw, the smallest movement of his fingers resting against the blanket.
As if maybe… just maybe… he’d heard every word.

The teasing had reached its peak, Suho practically buried in his blanket, red to the tips of his ears. The laughter lingered like static in the air, everyone grinning, everyone waiting for Sieun to finally snap.

And then Sieun exhaled. A long, flat breath. His voice followed, dry as stone.
“…If you say so. I can just keep it as my second plan.”

The room froze.

“What?!” Gotak and Baku shouted together, voices colliding like they’d rehearsed it. Both sat bolt upright, scandal written all over their faces.

“A backup plan?!” Baku repeated, throwing his hands into the air as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He twisted toward Gotak, eyes wide. “Did you hear that? Backup plan!”

Gotak slapped his own forehead dramatically. “Unbelievable! Unacceptable!”

Suho blinked, peeking out from behind his blanket, startled by the sudden explosion. His heart thumped faster, his lips twitching despite his embarrassment.

But Juntae—Juntae leaned forward, his glasses catching the glow of the television, his expression suddenly sharp with curiosity. His voice cut clean through the chaos.
“Then what’s your main plan?” he asked, quiet but firm. “What are you planning to do? What do you want to become?”

That question dropped like a stone in water.

The noise drained out of the room all at once, leaving only the faint hum of the heater and the cheesy dialogue spilling from the TV. On screen, the characters were whispering something romantic, their voices soft, their movements clumsy in the glow.

And beneath it, the silence between them thickened.

Every gaze turned toward Sieun.

Gotak and Baku, frozen mid-bicker, mouths half-open. Juntae, straight-backed now, waiting intently. Even Suho, blinking slowly from where he lay, his blanket pulled up under his chin. His chest thumped hard, the sound of his own heartbeat filling his ears louder than the movie.

The air shifted. The room that moments ago rang with laughter now held something else — heavier, expectant.

All of them waited.

Waited for what Sieun would say.

 

(Music To Watch To Boys To x I Like You A Lot)

 

The silence dragged.

Everyone was waiting, breaths held like the answer mattered more than they wanted to admit. The heater hummed low, the glow from the TV flickered over their faces. None of them dared to interrupt, not even Baku or Gotak — and that alone said everything about how heavy the air had gotten.

Sieun lay there, one arm bent under his head, his face bathed in shifting light. His eyes didn’t move, fixed on the TV screen as if he were ignoring them all. But his jaw shifted faintly, the barest grind of teeth. Was he arranging words? Or refusing to say them?

Suho’s heart beat uneven, the weight of the quiet pressing harder with each second.

Then—

On the screen, the characters stumbled awkwardly, clothes being tugged off clumsily, the music swelling to something too dramatic for what it was.

Juntae coughed into his fist, ears flushing crimson. Even he snuck a side glance at the TV, then quickly looked away, lips pressed tight.

But Sieun? Sieun kept watching. Expressionless. Like it was nothing.

Suho’s face burned instantly. His chest flipped, panic mixed with something else, something he didn’t dare name. How can he just—how can he keep looking at that with all of us here? His fists twisted in the blanket, his whole body hot.

And just when Suho thought Sieun might never answer—

“I want to be rich,” Sieun said, flat, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The words fell so sudden, so anticlimactic, that for a full second, nobody moved.

Suho blinked. …What?

Baku broke first. He snorted so loudly it made the futons shake. Then laughter exploded out of him, sharp and obnoxious. “Rich? That’s it?! That’s your big answer?!”

Gotak threw his head back, cackling. “God—seriously?! That’s your dream? Hahaha! I want to be rich! That’s it?!” He mimicked Sieun’s tone, monotone and unimpressed.

Even Juntae, despite himself, cracked a smile. He shook his head slowly, muttering, “Only you…” though his eyes were bright with amusement.

But Suho didn’t laugh. He didn’t even move. His gaze stayed locked on Sieun. Because if Sieun said it, then yes, that was the truth. But—why? Why rich? What did it mean to him?

The others kept laughing.

Baku wiped his eyes, gasping through his wheezing. “Yeah, yeah, okay, sure. Rich. Why not?!”

Gotak pounded the futon with his fist, still grinning. “Then I want to be poor! Opposite goals!” He cackled again, satisfied with his own joke.

The noise swelled back up, playful, ridiculous. But Suho had shifted fully onto his side now, his whole body turned toward Sieun, watching every flicker of light on his face.

And Sieun? He didn’t even glance at them. He just kept staring at the TV, eyes reflecting the glow, lips in that same faint line. As if their laughter didn’t matter. As if the answer was already settled, and there was nothing more to explain.

But Suho’s chest ached. Because he wanted to know why.

Because with Sieun… nothing was ever as simple as it sounded.

 

Juntae tilted his head, brows knitting. “Aren’t you rich now, though?”

The question slipped out soft, almost logical, and for a beat, the room actually quieted. Even Gotak and Baku blinked like it was the most obvious point.

“Yeah,” Gotak chimed in, gesturing vaguely around them. “I mean, what high school student lives in a place with an open balcony apartment and a bathtub?”

Baku snorted. “Not to mention the elevator in your building. You don’t even have to climb stairs like the rest of us peasants.”

Juntae nodded solemnly, pushing his glasses up. “We literally eat here, what—two, three times a week? Sometimes five. That’s not exactly broke behavior.”

Suho stayed quiet. He didn’t laugh with them, didn’t add to the chorus. His eyes stayed fixed on Sieun. Watching. Studying. Waiting.

Because Sieun hadn’t moved.

Finally, Sieun shook his head. Not quickly, not defensively — just a slow, certain movement. “It’s not me. That’s my parents’ money.”

Gotak scoffed, sitting up halfway. “Didn’t you say once that if your parents give it to you, then it’s yours? That’s literally your money.”

Suho’s chest tightened. He remembered that too. Sieun had said it once, blunt and unbothered — if they gave it to him, it was his. Full stop. No guilt, no second-guessing.

But now—Sieun was saying the opposite.

And when he spoke again, his voice was low, flat, but unshakably firm. “It’s not the same.”

The others frowned, baffled. Baku opened his mouth to argue, Gotak muttered something under his breath, even Juntae tilted his head with curiosity. But none of them pushed harder — not when Sieun’s tone carried that quiet finality.

Suho’s throat worked. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Because he wanted to know.

More than the others, more than anyone else in this room — he wanted to crawl inside Sieun’s head and understand the exact shape of his thoughts. Why wasn’t it the same? What made that distinction in his mind? What did rich mean to him, if not this?

The need clawed at him. He wanted to pry his skull open, to lay bare the gears and turns inside. To see why Sieun looked at the world the way he did.

Because Sieun always said things that seemed simple, almost blunt to the point of cruelty. But beneath them — Suho knew — there was always more. Some meaning hidden so deep it ached to pull it out.

And God, he wanted to know.

He wanted to know everything Sieun thought. Every line, every curve, every belief he never shared with anyone else.

His lips parted, but no sound came. Because he didn’t know how to ask without sounding desperate.

So he just kept looking.

Studying.

Trying to read the boy beside him, who never gave anything away unless he chose to.

 

(NASTY IMPXTR BEST PART SLOWED LOOP INSOMNIA)

 

Juntae adjusted his blanket tighter around himself, eyes still fixed on Sieun with that careful curiosity of his. “Okay… but how are you going to be rich, then? What’s your plan?”

Suho’s head turned immediately. His pulse quickened without him even realizing, gaze locking on Sieun like the question was meant for him too.

But Sieun didn’t look at any of them. His eyes stayed on the television, where the flickering glow painted his features in shifting light. The movie was still playing — the couple on-screen leaning closer, clothes starting to peel away.

Sieun didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. Didn’t even glance around. He just… kept looking.

Suho, on the other hand, felt heat creep up his neck. God, how could he just watch that with all of them in the room? His own chest was already tight. He wanted to reach forward and turn the TV off — or at least lower the volume — but his hand stayed frozen under the blanket.

The silence stretched, weighted. And then, so quiet they almost missed it, Sieun finally spoke.

“...Maybe,” he said, voice low, even, almost careless. “I can be a lawyer. An attorney.”

The room stilled.

Baku and Gotak both blinked, mouths half-open like they hadn’t expected any serious answer, let alone that. Juntae actually sat up a little straighter, curiosity sparking behind his glasses.

And Suho—

Suho froze, breath caught in his throat.

A lawyer.

The words echoed in his head, heavy, sharp, fitting together in a way that made too much sense.

His Sieun. His cold, blunt, impossibly pretty Sieun — a lawyer.

He could see it. Could feel it. That quiet, merciless gaze pinning someone down across a courtroom, slicing through lies without needing to raise his voice. That sharp tongue cutting with nothing but facts. That steady calm, unshaken even under pressure.

It wasn’t just believable. It was terrifyingly perfect.

Suho’s chest ached. Of course it would suit him. It would suit him too well.

His cold, pretty, untouchable Sieun — in a suit, standing tall, every word like a blade. People wouldn’t just listen; they’d follow. They’d be drawn in, helpless against that presence.

And yet… Suho’s lips pressed together, his fingers curling tighter under the blanket.

Because that image — that version of Sieun — felt distant. Out of reach. A future so far above where he was, where they were now.

And still, he couldn’t look away.

He wanted to know more. What kind of lawyer? Why that path? Why rich? He wanted to peel back every layer until he understood the exact reason behind those words.

But Sieun’s profile stayed calm, eyes fixed on the screen, as though he hadn’t just shifted the entire room’s air with a single sentence.

Suho’s throat tightened.

God, he thought, gaze softening, I want to know everything about you.

 

The quiet after Sieun’s words stretched long enough that it almost felt like the air had thickened.

Then Baku broke it, for once without teasing. His voice was blunt but sincere.
“…It would suit you,” he said, nodding slowly, almost thoughtfully.

Juntae adjusted his glasses, eyes narrowing as if testing the idea in his head. “If your clients were all rich businessmen… you’d earn a lot.”

Suho’s gaze snapped to him.

Because yes, that was true — anyone could point out money and prestige — but Suho felt there was something more beneath Sieun’s words. Something fragile, half-hidden.

He turned back instantly, eyes locking on Sieun again.

And sure enough, Sieun wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t proud. He wasn’t even smug about their agreement.

He looked… uncertain.

His lashes lowered, his brow faintly furrowed, like he was still weighing the words himself, unsure if they fit him the way the others thought.

Suho’s chest tightened.

Sieun hesitated, as though there were more he hadn’t said yet. Suho waited, breath caught in his throat, patient in the silence the others didn’t notice.

Finally, Sieun’s voice came again, quieter this time, almost as though he were admitting something he hadn’t planned to.
“…I’m not sure.”

His fingers curled in the blanket, his eyes still fixed on the TV’s flickering glow. “Sometimes… I think detective is a good option.”

The room blinked.

“Detective?” Gotak repeated, his voice rising with disbelief. He sat up halfway, frowning. “A government employee?”

Sieun only nodded once, steady, as if it wasn’t strange at all.

But Suho didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He just… kept staring.

Because this was new. This was something Sieun had never said before. A small crack in the wall he always built around himself.

And Suho’s mind spun.

Detective.

Of course. It made sense, too — in a way that was so Sieun it almost hurt. The boy who never looked away, who always noticed the things others ignored. The boy who remembered details no one else cared about. The boy who, when faced with silence, filled it not with words but with sharp, patient observation.

Yes. It fit him. Not glamorous like an attorney. Not powerful like a lawyer in a suit before a court. But sharp. Dangerous. Necessary.

Suho’s throat tightened, his chest aching with something both proud and tender.

He wanted to ask him — why? Why detective? Why something so different from lawyer, so much less certain, less profitable?

He wanted to know what Sieun saw when he looked at that path.

But instead he just kept looking, drinking in the curve of his jaw in the TV light, the way his lips pressed faintly like he was holding back more words he didn’t know how to explain.

God, Suho thought, his heart pounding — I want to open your skull and see everything you’re thinking. I want to know why.

 

Suho couldn’t hold it anymore. The question pressed at his chest until it slipped past his lips, soft, hesitant, but real.

“...Why?”

The room shifted around that one word. The others stayed quiet, curiosity flickering in their eyes, but Suho’s gaze stayed locked on Sieun.

Sieun didn’t answer right away. He sat still, the flickering TV glow brushing along his face, throwing his lashes into shadow. His eyes narrowed faintly, not in annoyance but in thought — like he was searching for the right words, pulling them out carefully.

Finally, he exhaled. Slow. Long.

“You remember…” His voice was quiet, almost flat, but it carried. “Back at Byuksan. When we were fighting those gangsters.”

Suho’s breath stuttered in his throat.

How could he forget? His chest tightened instantly, images flooding back — fists, shouts, the heat of fear pounding in his veins. And Sieun. His Sieun.

Running forward alone. Chasing the leader without hesitation. His slim frame cutting through chaos like a blade.

Suho remembered the panic that had surged through him. The way his own legs had moved before he even thought, sprinting after him, his lungs burning, his heart hammering in both fear and fury.

And then—

That moment.

When he found him. When Sieun, panting hard, face cut with sweat and determination, had looked at him and said those two words.

“You came.”

Like it was obvious. Like he had always known Suho would follow him.

Suho had. He always would.

Now, sitting there, Suho’s throat worked as he nodded faintly. “...Yeah.” His voice cracked with the weight of memory.

Sieun’s gaze didn’t move from the TV, but his voice stayed steady, colder now, sharper.

“The police didn’t come in time.” He paused, jaw tightening. “They never come in time.”

Suho’s chest constricted.

He nodded again, smaller this time. Because Sieun was right. Because that night had carved the truth into both of them.

Sieun’s lips parted, the faintest flicker of something raw passing through his eyes. “I want to be someone… who will be there in time. To help.”

The words were quiet. Almost clinical. But they landed in Suho like a blade to the ribs.

He blinked, breath caught, unable to look away.

Because how could Sieun — his aloof, unreadable, cold Sieun — think like that? Want like that?

To protect. To stand in the cracks where others failed. To be the presence that arrived when no one else would.

Suho’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. His chest filled with something overwhelming, molten, burning.

Pride.

God, he was proud.

Proud that this was the boy sitting beside him. Proud that this was the boy who let him close. Proud that he got to be here, to hear words Sieun probably hadn’t said to anyone else.

His lips trembled with a smile he couldn’t suppress, his eyes burning.

I’m proud to be your friend, he thought. I’m proud that I’m someone who’s near you. Proud that I’m someone you let stay.

He wanted to say it aloud. Wanted to tell him, to shout it, to let him know how extraordinary he was.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, Suho just looked at him. Long. Quiet. Reverent.

Because Sieun had no idea.

And Suho — Suho had no words big enough for the fire in his chest.

 

For once, Baku’s voice wasn’t loud or mocking. It came quiet, almost thoughtful.
“…You could do it though.”

Gotak, unusually serious, nodded. “Yeah. You’ve got the brain for it. Passing an exam like that… it wouldn’t be hard for you.”

Even Juntae — who usually reserved his praise carefully — adjusted his glasses, leaning in slightly. “But if you became a detective, or even a police officer, it wouldn’t pay much. Not compared to a top-firm lawyer.”

Sieun didn’t answer right away. He just nodded faintly, eyes still on the screen.

Suho followed his gaze — the characters on the TV now tumbling into something ridiculously steamy, mouths colliding. His face burned instantly red. What the hell— Seriously, what movie is this?! And how could Sieun just keep staring at it with that calm face, as if he were dissecting a theory in class?

But then again, that was him. Always watching. Always thinking.

Juntae cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably at the scene. “...Is there something else? Something besides those?”

Suho’s chest tightened — he wanted to ask too. He wanted to know more, all of it. But before he could, Sieun finally exhaled.

His voice came low, even, steady. “...I need the power. The authority.”

Every head turned toward him.

Sieun’s eyes flicked faintly, not at them but at the TV, though Suho could tell he wasn’t seeing the movie anymore. His gaze had gone sharp, deeper.

“So sometimes,” he continued, his tone calm but edged with steel, “I think about being a prosecutor. Or maybe…” He paused, his jaw shifting slightly. “...a judge.”

The air seemed to still.

Suho’s breath hitched. His lips parted, the word slipping out before he even realized.
“A… judge?”

Sieun’s head tilted almost imperceptibly. “Mm.” A simple nod. “A judge.”

Suho stared at him, heat rising in his chest. His heartbeat drummed against his ribs, loud and insistent.

Because of course. Of course it fit him.

Cold, steady, sharp-eyed Sieun — sitting in a courtroom, weighing truth and lies, handing down decisions no one could ignore. His voice carrying like a blade. His gaze pinning people in place.

Awe coiled through Suho so strong it almost hurt. He didn’t even know why his throat felt so tight — only that hearing Sieun say it made something burn in his chest.

God, he was brave. Brave in ways Suho couldn’t even describe. Not just to dream, but to dream like this — with authority, with fire.

Suho’s fingers curled tighter into his blanket, his blush forgotten, his eyes glued to the boy beside him.

He doesn’t even know how much I—

But he cut the thought off before it could finish, swallowing hard.

Because Sieun, his Sieun, was sitting there so casually, throwing out words that carried the weight of a whole future. And Suho could only sit in awe, his chest swelling with something too big, too sharp, too proud.

 

Sieun’s voice carried low in the dim room, quieter than the hum of the heater.
“Becoming a judge… it could be really hard. I know that.”

His eyes never left the screen, but it was clear he wasn’t watching the movie anymore. His gaze had that far-off focus he always had when he was thinking deeper than the room allowed. His tone was flat, even, but beneath it there was something — steel, certainty.

“…But I think I can do it.”

The words dropped into the quiet, simple and steady. Not boastful. Not arrogant. Just a statement of fact — the kind only Sieun could make and somehow make it sound believable.

He leaned his head faintly back against the pillow, lashes half lowered. “I don’t know yet. Maybe I’d handle juvenile cases. Or maybe… murder. Bigger crimes.” His fingers flexed against the blanket, subtle, as if even imagining it carried weight. “I don’t know.”

He paused, and for once, his lips pressed thin before parting again.

“…But I want to be able to help the victims.” His voice softened, though it never wavered. “I want to be able to help people.”

The silence after was thick. Not awkward — just heavy. Weighty enough that Suho could feel it sinking into his bones.

He couldn’t look away.

His pretty, cold, untouchable Sieun — sitting there in the glow of the TV, talking about helping people, about fighting for victims, about law and justice and responsibility. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he was born to it.

Suho’s chest tightened painfully. His heart thudded against his ribs so hard he thought the others might hear.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words caught in his throat.

Instead, his eyes devoured every detail. The sharp line of Sieun’s jaw in the shadows. The way his lashes trembled against his cheek. The faint twitch at his brow, that rare flicker of emotion he couldn’t quite hide.

He’s not even sure, Suho thought. He doesn’t even know yet. And still, he sounds like someone who could sit in that chair, who could hold all that power, all that responsibility.

“I’m not sure right now,” Sieun said finally, his tone returning to that usual flat certainty, but the honesty threaded through was unmistakable. “…But whatever I choose… it’s going to be something connected to law.”

And that was it. No drama. No flourish. Just plain, matter-of-fact truth.

Suho’s throat burned. His chest swelled with something too big to name — awe, pride, admiration, longing, everything tangled together until it hurt.

He thought of all the people outside who whispered, who pitied, who looked at Sieun like he was strange, untouchable. They didn’t see this. They didn’t hear this.

But Suho did.

And in that moment, he felt like the luckiest person in the world.

Because Sieun — his Sieun, his prettiest, sharpest, most complicated friend — wasn’t just someone he liked. He was someone Suho could admire. Someone he could believe in with his whole chest.

And God, Suho was so proud of him.

 

Baku stretched out his arms with a groan, voice unusually calm after all the teasing. “Whatever you become, Sieunah… lawyer, detective, judge — doesn’t matter. We’re gonna be there.”

Juntae nodded immediately, his small voice carrying certainty. “Yeah. Always.”

The room hummed with quiet agreement. Even Gotak, who usually couldn’t sit serious for more than ten seconds, leaned forward, his expression soft. “Yeah… we’ll be there.”

Suho’s chest warmed for a moment, pride swelling at how naturally they all believed in Sieun. How even their chaos bent toward him when it mattered. Suho wanted that too — wanted to see him successful, standing tall in the future, untouchable and brilliant. He wanted to be there, clapping the loudest, proudest.

But then Gotak tilted his head, his tone dropping into a strange seriousness. “We’re gonna be there for you, yeah… but what about us? What about me?”

The words fell heavier than they should have.

Baku blinked. “What do you mean?”

Gotak shrugged, lips twisting. “I mean… I feel ashamed, honestly. After listening to you, Sieun. Talking about law, about victims, about justice…” He scratched the back of his neck, frowning. “I don’t even know what I’m gonna do. What I want to study. Which major. Nothing.”

The room stilled.

Baku looked down at his lap. “...Same.”

Juntae gave a tiny laugh, the awkward kind, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Yeah. Same here. We three are still… unaware.”

We three.

The words cut sharper than anything Suho had expected.

They didn’t mean it. He knew they didn’t mean it. But the way it came out — we three — slammed into his chest.

Not four. Not all of them. Not him.

Because Suho couldn’t walk yet? Because his future wasn’t fixed like theirs? Because there was no guarantee he’d even make it to college?

His throat tightened. His eyes fell to his hands, curled weakly in the blanket.

We three.

His body felt colder, heavier. As if something in the air had shifted against him.

But underneath the sting, another ache rose. Something raw, almost desperate.

He wanted to go to college. He wanted it more than he ever had before. He wanted to go with Sieun. To walk the same campus, share the same classrooms, sit beside him when the world finally opened up.

But what future was waiting for someone like him? Someone whose body betrayed him at every step, whose life was a question mark carved into his very bones?

Before the accident, he’d been busy — too busy to even think about the future. He was just a high schooler scraping through days with part-time jobs, saving money, running fast just to keep up. He never stopped long enough to dream.

But now… hearing Sieun talk, watching him look so sure, so steady, Suho’s chest twisted with longing.

He wanted something too. He wanted to be something.

And most of all, he wanted to stand there beside Sieun in whatever life he built — not trailing behind, not holding him back, but walking forward together.

His jaw clenched as he stared at his hands. The laughter in the room had quieted, everyone lost in thought. But inside Suho, it was loud — the ache, the longing, the stubborn pulse of desire.

I want to go to college with him.
I want to be there.

But uncertainty coiled like a shadow under it all, whispering cruelly: What if you can’t? What if you never will?

 

Baku stretched his arms above his head, his voice rough with drowsiness. “I think… if nothing else happens with me, I’ll just take over my dad’s fried chicken shop.”

Gotak, who had been staring blankly at the ceiling, shot up so fast his blanket fell off. His hands flew into his hair. “Oh fuck right! I totally forgot! You literally already have your own shop lined up—!”

Baku frowned, indignant. “It’s my dad’s shop.”

Gotak waved him off, cutting him mid-sentence. “Doesn’t matter. That’s a plan. That means it’s only me and Juntae left now!”

The words thudded dully in Suho’s chest. Only me and Juntae left now.

Again. Me and Juntae.
Not Suho.

Not even a glance his way.

The pang was sharper this time, twisting hard.

Juntae spoke up then, voice small but steady. “I think… I’m gonna do coding or something. Computer science maybe. I like it.”

Gotak’s head whipped around. His jaw dropped. “What—?! You too?!” He groaned so loudly Baku shoved a pillow over his face. “So it’s just me now?! Oh my god, I’m the only one still clueless!”

The others laughed faintly, the sound bouncing harmlessly between them.

But Suho didn’t laugh.

He couldn’t.

Because his chest burned. His throat ached. He couldn’t swallow down the hurt this time. It sat there, heavy and suffocating, pressing until the words spilled before he could stop them.

“Why…” His voice cracked, breaking too soft. His fingers curled tight in the blanket. He tried again, louder, trembling. “…Why didn’t you consider me?”

Silence fell like a dropped weight.

Gotak froze mid-gesture, blinking across at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

Suho’s lips trembled. He hated the way they all looked at him now, startled, confused. He wanted to bury the words back down, but they clawed out anyway, sharp with pain.

“Every time you talk about the future,” he whispered, his chest heaving, “it’s always you three. Just you three. Like I’m not—like I don’t…” His throat burned. He blinked fast, tears prickling hot. “Why didn’t you think of me?”

The air went so still, the TV’s cheesy background music felt deafening.

Because there it was — his fear, stripped bare.
That he didn’t have a future in their eyes.
That no one believed he could.

And it hurt more than anything.

 

Suho’s voice trembled, his throat raw as he forced the words out. “What about my future…?”

The room froze. Even the faint buzz of the heater seemed louder in the silence that followed.

Gotak sat up halfway, his blanket slipping down to his waist. His face twisted in surprise — not guilty, not sorry, just plain scandalized, like Suho had missed something obvious.

“You have Sieun,” Gotak blurted, tone matter-of-fact. “Yeon Sieun.”

Suho blinked, stunned. “…What?”

Gotak gestured toward Sieun with both hands, like it was the simplest equation in the world. “Him. With you. Your personal doctor, therapist, attendant — all rolled into one. You’re going to figure something out. Obviously.” He huffed, throwing his hands up. “I don’t have that liberty. I don’t have a Sieun!”

For a moment Suho didn’t know whether to shout or sink into the futon. His chest squeezed tight. Offended — he should be offended. How dare Gotak talk like that, as if Sieun existed only for him, as if Sieun’s care didn’t extend to all of them? Didn’t Gotak see it? The way Sieun worried about each of them, even when he pretended not to? The way he looked after them all in his quiet, stubborn way?

How dare Gotak reduce him like that. How dare he speak as if Sieun’s loyalty was something Suho had unfairly hoarded.

But then—

Heat flared across Suho’s cheeks, betraying him. His heart thudded too fast, and his face burned. Because Gotak wasn’t completely wrong.

Sieun was always there for him. Too much. In ways no one else received.
And Suho’s stomach flipped, because suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Why am I blushing?

He pressed his lips together, his hands curling in the blanket, half wanting to bury his face, half wanting to yell. He didn’t know which impulse was stronger.

But one thought pushed through, bitter and raw, louder than the chaos in his chest.

“…But you,” Suho said, his voice breaking small, “…at least have the liberty to think about your future.”

He swallowed, staring down at the futon. His bangs fell into his eyes, shadowing the heat still burning on his cheeks. “I don’t even know if I can go to college. If I can even graduate High School.”

The words dropped heavy into the room.

Dead silence followed.

Not the teasing kind. Not the playful quiet between banter.

Just silence.

Every gaze tilted toward him, stunned, the weight of his confession sinking like a stone into the middle of them all.

 

The silence was thick, heavy enough to choke on. Suho kept his eyes on the blanket, jaw tight, ready for someone — anyone — to laugh, to tease, to break what he’d just spilled out.

But instead, he felt it. That weight. That gaze.

Slowly, Suho lifted his head — and there it was.

Sieun had turned toward him, his neck angled, his brows drawn together ever so slightly. His expression wasn’t mocking, wasn’t amused — it was serious. Focused.

His doe-brown eyes studied him, unblinking. Sharp and soft all at once. The kind of look that stripped Suho bare without saying a word.

Heat surged up Suho’s neck. His face went hot, his pulse pounding in his ears. Why does he look at me like that? Every second of that gaze pressed into him, until it was all he could feel, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.

And then Sieun spoke.

Quiet. Certain. Cutting straight through him.

“I just said,” Sieun murmured, “that I’m going to be rich.”

Suho blinked, confused. “…What?”

Sieun’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice stayed steady, like he was stating an obvious fact. “I’m going to be so rich.”

Suho’s chest tightened. His breath hitched faintly.

And then — calmly, without the faintest hint of hesitation — Sieun added, “So you don’t have to do anything.”

The air caught in Suho’s lungs. What?

Sieun continued, tone almost casual, but his eyes still locked onto Suho’s face, refusing to let him run. “You just stay home. With your pretty haircut. Your idol face.” His lips twitched, barely there. “I’ll work for both of us. I’ll earn enough for both of us. You just need to take care of yourself.”

Suho’s brain short-circuited.

What the hell did he just say?

His thoughts collided, scrambled. He heard the words but couldn’t process them. Stay home? Idol face? Both of us? His chest burned, too hot, too loud. His lips parted, but nothing came out. The heat climbing up his neck spread across his whole face until even the tips of his ears flamed red.

Baku gave a long, low whistle. “Oooohhh…”

Gotak leaned forward, eyes wide. “Woaahhh.”

Juntae gasped quietly, his glasses slipping down his nose, his mouth falling open just enough to look scandalized.

But Suho barely heard them.

All he could hear was the roar of his heartbeat, slamming against his chest, his ribs, his throat. His stomach knotted, fluttering so violently it almost hurt. His hands fisted into the blanket, trembling faintly, because he didn’t know what to do with the rush tearing through him.

Shock. Awe. Fluttering warmth so deep it felt dangerous.

It was too much.

Because Sieun had said it so simply, so matter-of-fact — like it wasn’t some earth-shattering confession, like it wasn’t something Suho would replay in his head until the day he died.

Suho wanted to hide, wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to grab him by the shirt and demand, Do you know what you’re saying to me right now? Do you know what this is doing to me?

But he couldn’t.

He just lay there, burning, undone, his whole body trembling under the weight of emotions too deep, too sharp, too impossible to name.

Suho thought he might actually die from the sound of his own heartbeat.

Sieun’s voice didn’t falter. His eyes stayed on the television, but every word was weighted, dropping like stones in Suho’s chest.

“I’ll move us into a big penthouse,” he said evenly, as if he were describing the weather. “The kind they show in movies. The ones that always amaze you.”

Suho’s breath stuttered. His fingers curled tighter in the blanket, knuckles whitening.

“I can feed you your whole life. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger,” Sieun continued, his tone calm, steady, cruelly casual. “Just sit. Order around. And everything will be there for you.”

The world tilted.

Suho couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He didn’t even remember what the conversation had been about anymore — careers? futures? — it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, because how the hell had it shifted to this? To him?

His heart slammed in his chest, frantic, wild, like it wanted to burst free. His mouth went dry, his lips parting uselessly, because fuck.

Since when did Yeon Sieun talk like this? Since when did his blunt, flat, practical best friend open his mouth and say things that sounded like—like vows?

Suho wanted to scream. He wanted to hide. He wanted to kiss him. God, he wanted to kiss him so badly it made his chest ache. He wanted to grab him right there, in front of everyone, and press his mouth against Sieun’s until the world finally shut up.
But instead, Suho sat up.

He couldn’t stay lying down anymore — not with his chest hammering like it wanted to tear itself open, not with his whole body burning from the inside out. He pushed himself up with shaky elbows, his breath uneven, his face so hot he swore steam was coming off him.

His hand groped blindly toward the low table where their water bottles sat. He needed something, anything, to cool himself down. His palm trembled as he wrapped it around the plastic, lifting it clumsily. The water sloshed inside, beads of condensation slipping against his fingers.

He brought it to his lips too fast, almost spilling, gulping like a man starved. But even as the cool water slid down his throat, it didn’t help. His chest still fluttered violently, his skin still prickled all over, goosebumps fighting against the heat racing under his skin.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t thirst. It wasn’t the room. It wasn’t the heater humming gently in the corner.

It was him.

It was Yeon Sieun, sitting calm and unbothered beside him, who had just promised — flat, serious, like it was nothing — to make himself rich enough to take care of Suho for the rest of their lives.

Suho’s lips trembled against the rim of the bottle. His bangs clung damp to his forehead, his face flushed scarlet. He swallowed hard, lowering the bottle with shaky hands.

He could feel Sieun’s presence right next to him, steady, unshaken, a warmth so different from the fire raging in his own body. Suho dared a glance sideways — and instantly regretted it.

Because Sieun was watching the TV, the glow of the screen soft against his profile. Calm. Unmoving. As if he hadn’t just set Suho’s whole world on fire.

Suho’s chest squeezed painfully. He tore his gaze away, clutched the bottle tighter, the plastic creaking under his grip.

God, I’m burning alive because of you, he thought desperately. What are you doing to me, Sieun?

And then—

“Nooo!” Baku’s shout shattered the silence, dramatic and loud enough to make everyone flinch. He shot up on his futon, pointing an accusatory finger. “That’s not fair! Why does Suho get the penthouse treatment? I also deserve to sit at home in a big penthouse and play with Yeon Sieun’s money!”

Suho’s face went crimson. “Wh—what—!”

Gotak chimed in instantly, slamming his palm against the floor. “Yeah! Why only Suho? Sieun, you’re so biased. Equal treatment for all your loyal attendants!”

Chaos erupted again.

Baku and Gotak both started shouting over each other, mock-arguing about who deserved to live in Sieun’s fictional penthouse. Baku demanded “a gaming room and endless chicken delivery,” while Gotak countered with “a rooftop football ground and a 90-inch TV.”

Suho’s pulse still hadn’t calmed. He couldn’t even laugh. His whole body shook with the aftershocks of Sieun’s words, like a bomb had gone off in his chest.

Meanwhile, Juntae just exhaled, long and exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose. “...I cannot believe what I’m hearing,” he muttered, but his ears were pink and his lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh anyway.

And through it all, Sieun remained unbothered. His expression stayed the same — flat, calm, unreadable. But when he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet, steady, unshaken.

“I’ll make it possible,” he said simply.

And then — as if those weren’t the most insane, earth-shattering words Suho had ever heard — he added, “I promise.”

Suho’s heart stopped.

Every nerve in his body screamed. His skin buzzed, his lungs stuttered, his face burned hotter than ever. His throat closed up, trembling with words he couldn’t say, with feelings he couldn’t name.

Because Sieun had said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a vow that had just carved itself into Suho’s bones.

Suho wanted to cry. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to collapse into Sieun’s chest and never let go.

Instead, he just sat there, his pulse hammering loud enough to drown out the gang’s chaos, and thought—

God, I think I’ll die if he keeps talking like this.

 

“Sieun,” Baku groaned suddenly, throwing himself halfway across the futon like he’d been betrayed by fate itself, “you need to be my sugar daddy too. You can’t be this biased!”

Gotak, never missing a beat, pointed dramatically at his own chest. “What about me then, huh? Am I supposed to rot while Suho lives in a penthouse with you?”

Baku snorted so loud it made the futons shift. “Shut up, Gotak. Make Juntae your sugar daddy instead. Let me, Suho, and Sieun live alone in the penthouse.”

“Yah!” Juntae spluttered instantly, sitting up halfway with his glasses sliding down his nose. “Stop it, you!” His cheeks were pink already, his voice a mix of outrage and embarrassment.

Gotak leaned back dramatically, one hand over his chest as if he’d been deeply insulted. “Juntae? My sugar daddy? No, thank you. I want luxury, not lectures.”

Juntae’s jaw dropped, scandalized. “Excuse me—!”

Baku wheezed, kicking his legs against the floor. “He’s right though. What would you even give him? Free math tutoring? Discounted library memberships?”

Gotak cackled, slapping the futon. “Exactly! Imagine me in a penthouse funded by coding money! I’d rather starve!”

“Yah! You guys are so cruel!” Juntae threw a cushion at his head, his ears flaming red.

The room exploded with laughter — loud, chaotic, bouncing off the walls. Even Gotak was howling as the cushion hit him square in the face.

Suho tried to laugh too, but it caught in his throat. Because under the chaos, his chest still burned.

The teasing was ridiculous, nonsensical — sugar daddies, penthouses, wild futures. But the fact that Baku had so casually placed himself and Suho with Sieun… the fact that Gotak had framed it like of course Suho gets that life with him…

Suho’s face flushed hot, his heart trembling.

Because even their jokes seemed to know. Even their nonsense painted a picture of him and Sieun together.

And Suho’s mind wouldn’t stop whispering: God, if only. If only it could be true.

Their voices cut through Suho’s haze like clumsy knives. He blinked, dazed, still gripping his water bottle tight. His lips parted soundlessly, because his heart was still stuck on Sieun’s words from earlier — I’ll work for both of us… I’ll earn enough for both of us.

God. It almost felt like a proposal. Like Sieun had just casually proposed a whole life together, without even realizing what he’d done.

Suho’s chest ached, his throat too tight. His eyes stung, glassy, as the thought pounded in his head: I want to kiss him. Right now. I want to kiss him so badly I can’t breathe.

But of course — of course — those two idiots had to ruin everything.

 

Gotak leaned in, grinning like a devil. “But what if Suho already has a lover or something? What then, huh?”

Suho blinked so hard it almost hurt. The fuck? Obviously the lover is Sie—

But before he could even think it through, Baku cut in, cackling. “More like what if Sieun has a lover? Then what?”

Suho’s breath hitched. His heart seized.

…Sieun? With a lover?

The thought stabbed like cold glass. His stomach flipped, sour and hot all at once.

Gotak waved his hand dismissively. “Sieun and a lover? Not a chance. He’s the type to skip all that and show up with a wife one day.”

“LOL,” Baku barked, clutching his stomach. “But seriously though, what’s gonna happen then? Imagine Sieun married off — no penthouse, no sugar daddy deal. What would you do, Suho?”

The room swirled with their laughter, but Suho couldn’t join in. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning it out.

Because every word was cutting too close.

The thought of Sieun with someone else — giving those words to another, promising that life to someone else — made Suho’s lungs burn. His chest tightened until it was hard to breathe.

And yet, his cheeks burned scarlet. Because somewhere underneath the jealousy, the ache, the panic… was the undeniable truth:

He wanted it to be him.

Only him.

He wanted to be the one Sieun promised forever to. He wanted to be the one beside him, in that penthouse, in that life. He wanted to be chosen — not because he was broken, not out of pity, but because Sieun wanted him too.

His fingers curled into the blanket. His lips trembled. His heart was racing so fast it hurt, hot and fluttering, every beat screaming the same thing:

Please. Don’t let it be anyone else. Please, let it be me.

Suho’s hands twitched under the blanket, nails biting crescents into his palms. Every stupid word coming out of Baku and Gotak’s mouths made his chest burn hotter. A wife? A lover? How could they even plant such filth into the air? He could see it — Sieun’s lashes low, his mouth faintly parted, that sharp-edged gaze fixed on the ceiling like he was actually considering it.

And Suho wanted to scream.

No. No, he couldn’t let him think about it — couldn’t let him imagine a future that didn’t have them. Because the thought of Sieun with anyone else, standing beside anyone else, looking at anyone else the way he sometimes, maybe, hopefully looked at him—

It was unbearable.

Before he could stop himself, his head snapped toward him. “When you go to college…” His voice came rough, too loud, cutting through Gotak’s laughter.

All eyes turned, but Suho didn’t look at them. He only looked at Sieun.

“…Let me move in with you,” he said, softer now, desperate. His throat bobbed, his breath shaky. “I’m gonna get better, I promise. I’m gonna get better. And I’ll—” he swallowed hard, heat crawling up his neck, “I’ll make you breakfast. Every day. And I’ll pack your lunch. And when you come home, I’ll serve you warm, healthy dinner. I’ll… I’ll do your laundry, and the dishes, and—everything. I’ll do everything. So… let’s move in. Together.”

The room went still.

It hung in the air like a live wire — dangerous, sparking, too intimate to laugh at, too raw to ignore.

Suho’s heart thundered so violently he thought it might shatter his ribs. His face flamed, his vision blurred. It was stupid. It sounded stupid. He’d made it sound like—like he was proposing. What if Sieun hated it? What if he rejected it? What if this ruined everything?

But then—

Sieun turned. Slowly, deliberately.

His eyes found Suho’s, and for a long moment, he didn’t blink. He just studied him — the trembling lips, the flushed cheeks, the raw hope hidden beneath fear. His gaze was steady, unreadable, deep as the ocean.

And then, softly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

That easy, quiet smile that Suho had always secretly craved, the one that reached his eyes and softened everything sharp about him.

He nodded. Once. Simple. Certain.

Suho’s breath left him in a rush. His chest felt like it cracked wide open, something bursting free inside. He felt lightheaded, dizzy, flying. Like the floor had dropped away and he was soaring somewhere high, reckless and untethered.

God, he wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him so badly his lips trembled with the ache.

But instead he just sat there, staring, his heart racing so fast it hurt. And Sieun — Sieun just smiled at him, like he hadn’t just shattered Suho’s entire world with a nod.

 

The silence barely had time to settle before Baku broke it, leaning up on his elbow with a wicked grin.

“So that’s it, huh? Sieun’s gonna be the big-shot lawyer-judge-detective-whatever, and Suho’s gonna be what — his maid? Doing his laundry and dishes every day?”

Suho’s heart stopped. His mouth opened, then snapped shut. Heat shot up his neck so fast he thought steam might rise.

Before he could even stammer a word, a loud thwack echoed.

“OW!” Baku yelped, clutching his head where Gotak had smacked him. “What was that for?!”

Gotak glared, exasperated. “Are you dumb?”

“What—what did I do this time?!” Baku sputtered, wide-eyed.

Gotak jabbed a finger at Suho, then at Sieun. “It’s not a maid, you idiot. It’s a housewife.”

The room froze.

“…What?” Baku asked slowly.

Gotak sat up straighter, voice firm, annunciating every syllable like he was teaching a child. “Housewife. H-O-U-S-E-W-I-F-E. Housewife.”

Suho’s brain short-circuited. Housewife.

Gotak barreled on, ignoring the scandalized looks from Juntae and the way Suho was practically burying himself alive in the futon. “A maid gets paid a salary. It’s a job. Not the same. But a housewife—” he gestured dramatically, “—that’s a stay-at-home wife. Suho’s not earning wages. He’s cooking Sieun food, doing the laundry, doing the dishes, greeting him when he comes home from work.”

The words landed like thunder in the small room. Suho’s ears rang with them. His face was so hot it felt feverish, his breath shallow.

Gotak smirked, leaning back, delivering the killing blow. “And he won’t get a salary. He’ll be getting Yeon Sieun’s black credit card. With no limit.”

For a beat, silence.

Then Baku’s eyes went wide. “Holy. Shit.”

Juntae dropped his face into his hands, groaning. “I can’t believe I’m listening to this. You’re both insane.”

Suho wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His chest squeezed, heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. Housewife. The word echoed and echoed, each repetition sending another wave of heat crashing over him.

And then—

Baku leaned closer to Gotak, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear. “So does that mean… Suho’s gonna do everything for Sieun? Like… stand at the door, apron on, ‘welcome home, honey’—”

“STOP.” Suho’s voice cracked, muffled into the blanket as his entire body turned scarlet. His toes curled, his fingers clenched the fabric like a lifeline. He’s going to kill them. He’s going to die first, then kill them.

Gotak cackled. “See? He’s not even denying it!”

Suho’s lips trembled, his chest aching with something equal parts mortification and—God help him—something else. Because as much as he wanted to scream, as much as he wanted to hide… the image burned in his head. Him. Standing at a doorway. Waiting for Sieun to come home. A house. Their house.

And when he dared — just barely — to peek sideways through the curtain of his bangs, he saw Sieun.

Still. Quiet. Blinking slowly, like he was actually processing it.

Suho’s breath hitched, his heart racing out of control.

Because Sieun wasn’t scoffing. Wasn’t teasing back. He just looked like he was… thinking about it.

And Suho thought his body might explode.

 

Gotak suddenly sprang to his feet, puffing his chest out and pitching his voice high and sweet, exaggeratedly soft.

“Welcome home, yeobo~ How was your day?”

The room erupted instantly. Baku almost toppled over laughing, but he wasted no time joining the play, dropping his voice into a dead-flat monotone that sounded uncannily like Sieun.

“...Hmm. It was okay.”

Juntae choked on his own breath, snorting, clutching his stomach. Suho’s eyes went wide as saucers, his jaw dropping. No. No way. Absolutely not—

But Gotak wasn’t finished. He clasped his hands dramatically to his chest, swaying side to side, still in his fake Suho-voice.

“You must be tired, yeobo… I’ve drawn a hot bath for you. You can immerse yourself in it and relax~”

“...Hmm. Okay,” Baku droned again, perfectly poker-faced, mimicking Sieun’s blank tone.

Laughter shook the futons. Juntae was giggling so hard his glasses slipped down his nose.

Suho, meanwhile, wanted to die. His face was on fire, his heart slamming so loud it drowned out the sound of the TV. They’re not— they’re not really doing this—

But Gotak was merciless. He leaned forward, fake batting his lashes, voice dripping honey.

“Or… would you like dinner first, yeobo? I made it with my soft hands. I hope you’ll love it~” He placed a hand over his cheek, sighing dreamily. “Or maybe… a bath… and then I can massage your stiff body… make you feel good…”

Baku didn’t miss a beat, his deadpan Sieun-voice striking like a hammer.

“...Whatever you say, Suhoya.”

Suho choked, actually choking, his ears ringing. His lungs forgot how to work.

“S-Sieunah…” Gotak whispered, fluttering his lashes.

“...Suhoya,” Baku echoed dryly, monotone.

Then, as if they’d rehearsed it, they grabbed each other’s hands, locking fingers dramatically, puckering their lips.

“And then they will kiss—” Baku intoned.

“And like a loving husband and wife, they will make lo—” Gotak started.

WHUMP!

A cushion flew across the room with brutal force, smacking both of them square in the head.

They yelped, stumbling backward in shock.

 

“SHUT UP!” Suho burst, his voice cracking so loudly it silenced the entire room for half a second.

He was sitting bolt upright now, face scarlet all the way to his ears, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. His hands clenched tight into the blanket, trembling.

Baku rubbed the side of his head, wincing, while Gotak looked scandalized, clutching his chest as though he was the victim here.

Juntae had completely collapsed, laughing so hard tears rolled down his cheeks, his phone now shaking in his hands because he’d started recording halfway through.

But Suho— Suho couldn’t even look at them. His lips trembled, his whole body buzzing with heat. Because beneath the mortification, beneath the fury and the embarrassment, there was something else—

The truth.

He wanted it. Not their parody, not their ridiculous fake-voices… but the real thing. He wanted to hear Sieun’s voice, flat and monotone, saying “Whatever you say, Suhoya.” He wanted to come home to him, to kiss him, to share a life.

And that want was so raw, so overwhelming, that it made his chest ache and his eyes burn all at once.

So all he could do was sit there, blushing so hard it hurt, his heart pounding like it might break his ribs, and scream at them to shut up— because if they kept going, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

 

His chest was on fire. Not just a small ember — a raging, climbing blush that burned all the way from his throat to the tips of his ears. It was too much. The way Baku and Gotak mimicked them, the absurdly domestic lines, the almost-kiss—he couldn’t let it finish. He couldn’t let them say the words that hung in the air, because what if Sieun actually… thought about it?

His stomach twisted, panic and longing swirling in equal measure. He wanted it, God, he wanted it, but the idea of Sieun hearing it made him want to crawl into the futon and never come out.

But then—

He felt it.

That quiet shift, that prickle under his skin.

Sieun was looking up.

Suho’s heart stuttered violently, his throat locking up. He dared a glance.

(Na Milay Best Part Loop)

 

Sieun sat there, expression unreadable, gaze fixed on Baku and Gotak like he was piecing together a puzzle. Then his brow furrowed, lips pressing faintly as if something genuinely confused him.

And then his voice came, flat but steady.

“…The more you talk, the more ridiculous it sounds.”

Everyone blinked.

But before anyone could speak, Sieun raised a hand, first pointing at Baku.
“Why didn’t you ask him how his day was?”

Baku’s grin faltered. “...What?”

Sieun’s finger moved to Gotak. “Him. Why didn’t you ask how his day was?”

Gotak gaped, utterly lost. “H-Huh?”

 

Sieun looked at them both like it was obvious. “If Suho is asking me about my day, then I would ask him about his too. That’s how it works. So why didn’t you show it?”

Silence.

Absolute, ringing silence.

Baku’s jaw dropped. Gotak blinked rapidly, like a computer trying to reboot. Juntae, though—Juntae suddenly sat upright, mouth forming a big “O” like he’d just witnessed a miracle.

 

Suho—Suho was done. Completely, utterly finished.

His body collapsed back against the futon like the ground had given way. He yanked the blanket over his face, curling into himself, hiding the crimson that must have lit his whole skin by now. His chest heaved, every heartbeat thundering painfully in his ears.

God. God, what was this boy doing to him?

He’d listened to everything. Every absurd joke, every fake line, every fake kiss—except that last part. The one part Suho couldn’t even bear to hear out loud. The part about kissing and… and making…

He shoved the thought down so hard his face burned hotter. No. No. Don’t think it. Don’t—

Shame and longing battled like wildfire inside him, but through it all, one helpless thought carved its way through:

He’s going to be the death of me.

He will. One day, Yeon Sieun will kill me without even trying.

And yet—Suho’s lips curved under the blanket, trembling but soft.

Maybe it would be fine. Maybe he would be fine.

As long as Sieun was there. As long as those dumb, ridiculous friends kept crowding their lives with chaos. As long as laughter and warmth kept filling the cracks where pain used to sit—

He would be fine.

Even if his heart never stopped racing.

 

Baku and Gotak just sat there, staring at Sieun like he’d just landed from another planet. Their mouths opened, closed, opened again, until finally they both groaned in unison, voices overlapping.

“God, Sieun—” Baku muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
“The perfect bastard you are,” Gotak finished, thumping his head back against the futon dramatically.

Juntae, meanwhile, wasn’t laughing. He was staring. Pure awe lit his expression, his lips parted as he breathed out, almost reverent.
“Seriously… how can you be so perfect?”

Suho’s chest squeezed so hard he thought he’d choke. Perfect. They said it so easily, like it was fact. Like it was obvious. And Sieun… Sieun just blinked.

He didn’t even react. His big doe eyes shifted from one friend to the other, calm, clueless, like he didn’t understand what the hell they were talking about. He tilted his head faintly, silent, as if waiting for them to explain.

And then Gotak ruined it with a mumble, voice low, but Suho heard it clear as day.
“…Suho, you lucky bastard.”

Suho’s heart lurched violently. His whole body went tight, his face flushed so hot he had to shove the blanket higher to hide it. Lucky? Lucky didn’t even cover it. He wanted to scream at them to shut up, to stop saying things that made his chest feel like it was splitting open.

But before he could think of anything, Baku exploded.

“Fuck!” he screamed, throwing both arms up like the universe had betrayed him. “I want a perfect husband like that too!”

Suho sputtered into his blanket, almost choking on air. Husband. Husband. His ears rang with it. His head spun so badly he thought he’d pass out.

Gotak, irritated, smacked Baku with his pillow. “Shut up. Everyone shut up. I’m going to sleep.” He grabbed the remote, stabbed at the button, and the TV clicked off, plunging the room into deeper shadow. “Don’t talk to me.” He yanked the blanket over his head, rolling onto his side with a grumble.

“…Fine,” Baku muttered after a beat, already lying down, still scowling at the ceiling. “I’m sleepy too.”

“Good night,” Juntae said softly, his voice neat and proper as ever.

Suho couldn’t say a thing. Not with his pulse thrashing in his ears, not with his chest about to burst. He lay stiffly on his side, blanket pulled to his chin, his blush burning against the pillow.

Beside him, Sieun lay down quiet. Calm. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just casually said words that turned Suho’s entire world inside out.

And Suho thought, not for the first time, that Yeon Sieun was going to ruin him. Completely.

Because his heart was still racing, fluttering too fast, too loud, like it was begging to break free—

And all because of him.

 

The room had finally fallen still. Gotak’s grumbling snores were already starting up in the corner, Baku muttered nonsense in his sleep about “princess pillow attacks,” and Juntae lay neatly cocooned, glasses folded beside him.

But Suho… Suho couldn’t close his eyes.

He was too aware — of the warmth pressed close beside him, of the way his own heart thudded unevenly in his chest, of the things Sieun had said tonight that were still echoing in his skull like they’d been carved into him.

He shifted slightly, the blanket tugging higher over his chin — until only his eyes peeked out. It felt safer that way, like he could watch Sieun without being caught.

Except Sieun did notice.

Slowly, the boy turned his head, his calm profile sliding into Suho’s view. Their eyes met in the dark — deep, steady brown locking onto Suho’s wide, glassy gaze.

Suho froze. His breath caught.

Sieun sighed softly, like he always did when he noticed Suho overthinking himself into knots. His voice came low, steady.
“…You sleepy?”

Suho, throat too tight to speak, just nodded from under the blanket.

And then — the hand.

That familiar, steady hand came into his hair, sliding gently through the strands. The touch was careful, tender, but unhesitating, like it belonged there. Suho’s breath hitched — then softened into something trembling as he instinctively leaned into it.

“Sleep,” Sieun murmured, almost like an order, almost like a promise.

And Suho — Suho, who had been choking on his heartbeat all night, who couldn’t even imagine closing his eyes a second ago — obeyed instantly.

Because really, Sieun’s hands were magic.

The slow drag of his fingertips against his scalp, the quiet, grounding weight of his palm resting there, the warmth seeping straight through his hair into his skull — it melted everything else. The pitying eyes, the cruel whispers, the ache of his own doubts. All of it slipped away under that touch.

His body grew heavy, but his chest felt light. So impossibly light, like he could float straight up into the dark ceiling above them.

His last thoughts before sleep overtook him blurred into a quiet, fragile litany:

As long as Sieun is here… as long as my friends are here… I can survive anything.

And nestled there, drifting off under those gentle hands, Suho dared to let one more thought bloom in the dark, his lips curving faintly against the pillow:

I can’t wait for the life we’ll have together.

He slipped under with that image — of futures and warmth, of laughter and safety — while Sieun’s hand never left his hair.

Notes:

Hiiii again!!!!! 💖

So… how was it? Please tell me what you thought of this chapter 🥺 As I said, I poured my whole heart into it — especially the last part. The next one or two chapters are probably going to be the angstiest I’ve ever written in this fic… but hey, as they say, it gets worse before it gets better 😭✨

I really tried my best to portray Suho’s vulnerability — his self-doubt and insecurities — alongside Sieun’s deep care and gentle assurance that Suho is already perfect just the way he is.

I think the ending of this chapter is especially meaningful. Because, in some way, we’ve all been there — sharing our dreams, careers, and future plans with our closest friends. Not everyone is certain if they can achieve what they dream of. Some wonder if they’re capable at all, while others may not even have clear dreams for the future. That insecurity, that anxiety of “what if I have nothing to dream about?” is so real.

But what matters is this: with the right people beside you, with the right friends by your side, it always gets better. Even if the uncertainty doesn’t disappear, it becomes bearable. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Sorry about the dream again — but hey, at least this time Suho knew it was a dream, so he didn’t hold himself back. Honestly, the way he dreams so much, if I gathered them all together, it could be another fic: Ahn Suho and His Dreams lol.

This weekend I actually planned to work on a new story idea I’ve been sitting on for weeks, but instead I got hit with another burst of inspiration. It was supposed to be a oneshot — yes, a freaking oneshot — but somehow it turned into a multi-chapter outline 😅 When I sat down to draft, it became a 16-page plot baseline. Like, seriously, why do I always go this deep? But honestly… I love it. I enjoy every second of it. So maybe I’ll drop the first chapter this week? Not 100% sure though, since I also need to proofread next week’s update.

I never knew writing could be this much fun. Or maybe it’s just these two and their chaotic gang who make it fun for me? 💕 Every single idea I get seems to circle back to them. For example, another story I’ve been considering is Idol Suho x Detective Sieun — married couple on the verge of divorce, even though they’re still very much in love. Then Suho loses his memory and refuses to accept he’s married to a man… you can already feel the drama coming, right? And yes, it has some depressing twists I’m sure you won’t like, but I can’t stop thinking about it. The whole vibe is exactly like the song I’m obsessed with right now — Na Milay (The Best Part Loop). I swear, every sad scenario I imagine fits this song perfectly.

So that’s it for now. Please, please let me know if you liked this chapter or not. I spent so much of my precious study time, K-drama time, BL time, and even skipped college today (because honestly I was bored after the weekend break 🤭). All that effort went into this, so your feedback means a lot to me.

Who knows… maybe I can be a writer someday? 😂 (Just kidding… maybe 👀)

Anyway, bye-bye for now. Take care and have a lovely week ahead 🌸💌

Chapter 45: The Hurt He Didn’t Notice, Until It Was Too Quiet

Summary:

Suho ended up saying the most hurtful things to Sieun — and Sieun, being who he is, bore it all in silence. Past memories blurred into the present, and Suho finally realized just how deeply he kept wounding him, the boy he loves so much.

Notes:

Hiee you all… this is kinda the last chapter of the past, and now we’ll be jumping back into the present once again. Maybe you’ve forgotten how it all started, so let me remind you what happened and why we went into the past…

Suho was missing Sieun so badly. During a video call, Sieun told Suho that he would be fine without him — and Suho completely lost it. In his anger, he cut the call, only to regret it deeply afterward. Later, when Suho got hurt and everyone panicked, with Juntae tending to his injury, it pulled him back to those painful memories… to the time when Suho had hurt Sieun so much, yet Sieun had still been the one to quietly wrap his wounds.

This summary belongs to Chapter 38.

I think this might be one of the most hurtful chapters so far… I just hope your heart doesn’t cry too much while reading. And please, don’t hate my baby Suho.

Happy reading 💜

The waiting room was warm, but his hands went cold. His breath started catching — not fast, not visible — but deep inside, under the surface.
The voices around blurred again.
Until—
“Sieun… wait.”
Soft voice. Hesitant.
A girl stood just near the edge of the hallway. In a school uniform. Long ponytail. She had a notebook pressed against her chest like a shield.
Sieun turned. Stopped.
And listened.
From where Suho sat, he couldn’t hear everything, but he didn’t need to.
He saw her face. Red cheeks. Nervous hands. He saw the way she kept glancing up at Sieun, eyes wide.
And Sieun…
He was just listening.
Not frowning.
Not walking away.
Not shutting it down.
Just listening.
Something shattered inside Suho.
He didn’t think.
And then it happened — too fast to stop.
A group of kids rushed past. One bumped into her shoulder and shoved her forward. She staggered—and accidentally hit Sieun.

 

He fell.

 

Hard.

 

Right knee first, hand scraping against the pavement, phone flying from his pocket and skidding across the ground.

“Sieun!” Suho gasped, instinct overriding everything. He moved without thinking, trying to get to him.

But he moved too fast.

His crutch slipped, balance gave out, and before anyone could react — he fell too.

The thud echoed louder than it should’ve.

Both of them — on the ground.

And for a second, the world stilled.

All Suho could hear was his own heartbeat.

Raging. Roaring. Drowning out everything else.

He tried to push himself up — his arm trembled — but before he could, someone else was already at Sieun’s side.

The girl gasped and immediately dropped to her knees — but she turned to Sieun first, checking his elbow, touching his shoulder. “Are you okay?? I didn’t mean—someone pushed—”

Suho blinked, face pressed against the pavement, body aching, eyes stinging. He tried to lift himself.

No one saw him.

Everyone was looking at Sieun.

But then — he heard it.

“Suho?”

A flash of movement.

Because the moment Sieun realized — the second he processed that Suho was also on the ground — he shoved away the girl’s hand and ran to him.

“Suho!” His voice cracked. “Are you okay? Where did it hurt? Don’t move—don’t move yet—”

Suho looked up, wide-eyed.

Sieun was crouching, hands hovering like he didn’t know what to touch first.

“You fell—shit, your hands—your shoulder—” Sieun’s voice was thin with panic.

“I’m fine,” Suho lied, breath shaky. “You fell too—what about you?”

“I’m okay,” Sieun said quickly, kneeling beside him.

Suho tried to push himself up.

Sieun panicked. “Hey—hey—don’t move!”
Suho tried to sit up. “I’m fine—” but his voice cracked.
Sieun knelt beside him. “Where does it hurt?”
“My arm. And—my knee. A bit.”
Sieun’s hands fluttered around him, hovering near his sides, his elbow, checking for bruises. “You okay? Can you breathe?”
“I said I’m fine,” Suho whispered, eyes glancing around.

Sieun helped Suho to sit up.

The girl who was talking to Sieun stood awkwardly nearby, clearly unsure what to do.
Suho wanted to scream. To disappear. To rewind ten minutes and not have moved.
“I’ll get the nurse,” Sieun said, already beginning to stand.
“No.” Suho grabbed his wrist. “Don’t go.”
“Suho—”
“Please.”
Their eyes met.
Something cracked in Sieun’s expression, but he stayed kneeling.
Then, the girl spoke softly. “I’ll go. I’ll bring someone.”
She didn’t wait for permission — just ran down the hallway.
For a moment, it was quiet.
The hallway.
The fall.
All of it forgotten.
Sieun slowly sat beside Suho on the bench. Still close. Still there.
“I’m sorry,” Suho muttered, voice barely above a breath. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Sieun said quietly, rubbing Suho’s back. “I get it.”
But Suho didn’t know what Sieun got.
He didn’t even know what he was feeling anymore.
Just guilt.
Just fear.
Just the unshakable, bone-deep dread that one day, Sieun would finally stop staying.

 

The nurse came quickly — a quiet woman in her late thirties with kind eyes and a no-nonsense pace. The girl stood awkwardly behind her, hands wringing her skirt, face filled with guilt.
Suho didn’t look at her.
Couldn’t.
His eyes stayed on the floor, on his own knees, which were now slightly scraped again — the skin already too fragile from repeated strain.

“Let’s get you inside,” the nurse said softly. “We’ll clean this up.”

Sieun moved before Suho could even nod. “I’ve got him.”

He didn’t ask. Just looped an arm around Suho’s shoulder and helped him up — slow, steady, no hesitation. Suho felt like a ragdoll, his limbs working against him. But Sieun made it seamless.

The nurse guided them into one of the empty rehab rooms, sterile and quiet.

Sieun helped him sit on the cushioned bench and knelt down again, just like before.

The nurse began cleaning his knee first, murmuring things like “It’s a light graze,” and “This will sting.”

But Suho didn’t register the pain.

His eyes were on Sieun.

Because Sieun had gone quiet.
Unusually quiet.
He wasn’t teasing.
Wasn’t telling Suho he was being reckless.
Wasn’t even looking him in the eye.
And somehow, that silence felt worse than any scolding.
The quiet between them was heavy, full of things unsaid, pressing down harder than any lecture could.

Once the nurse had finished, she straightened with a small smile. “He’s okay. Just avoid walking for a bit and rest today. I’ll send someone to update your guide.”

Suho exhaled shakily, relief loosening his chest just enough to breathe again. But before he could relax fully, the nurse’s gaze slid past him.

Her brows knit gently. “And what about you?” she asked, looking at Sieun now. “You fell too, didn’t you? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Suho’s head whipped toward him.

Yes, finally. Someone else noticed.

He opened his mouth, the words already there — Yes, check him, please check him. Why only me? He hit the ground too, he’s always standing too close, always catching me—

But no sound came out.

Because Sieun, standing there with that same unreadable calm, just shook his head once. “No.”

The word was clipped. Certain. Final.

Suho’s lips pressed together. He wanted to protest — wanted to tell him he should get checked, shouldn’t it matter if you’re hurt too? — but his throat burned and he stayed silent.

Why is it always like this? Why only me on the bed, bandaged and pitied, while he keeps standing tall, untouched, like nothing ever hurts him?

The nurse gave a small nod, accepting his answer. Sieun bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

And then, to Suho’s shock, he turned.

Not toward him.

But toward the girl.

The same girl who had rushed forward earlier, trying to help when Suho fell.

Sieun met her startled eyes, his tone as flat as always. “Thanks to you too. For helping earlier.”

Suho froze.

His heart stumbled in his chest, something ugly and hot curling low in his stomach.

 

She blinked. “I… it’s nothing….”

Sieun gave her a small, polite nod.

And Suho?

He felt it again.

That sick, twisted pit in his stomach.
He hated that she had seen him fall.
He hated that she had helped.
He hated that she was still here.

But more than anything…

He hated the way Sieun thanked her — softly, gently — with the same voice he used only for Suho.

The nurse asked if they needed anything else, and Sieun shook his head. “We’ll go now.”

Once they were outside, walking slowly toward the exit, Suho leaned more heavily on the crutch than he needed to. His chest was tight. His throat had a lump he couldn’t swallow.

He didn’t say anything.

But Sieun glanced over.
“Want to stop by the bakery?” he asked. “That bread you like—”

“Home … I just want to go home,” Suho muttered.

Sieun nodded without arguing.
Neither spoke.
The afternoon sun was warm, but Suho felt cold.
As if something had slipped through his fingers.
As if some unspoken thread had frayed at the edges.

They were just leaving the center — Suho limping slightly beside Sieun, leaning heavier on his crutch than he wanted to admit. The air outside was warm, but the breeze carried a strange sharpness, stinging his cheeks as if the sun couldn’t decide whether to be kind or cruel.

Behind them, voices trailed from the waiting area. Low. Careless. But Suho heard them all.

“Poor kid… that boy had to catch him again, didn’t he?”

“Mm. Even fell himself this time.”

“Still ran to help, though. Must be exhausting, always ready in case something happens.”

The words crawled under Suho’s skin like needles.

His grip on the crutch tightened, knuckles paling.

Because they weren’t talking about him. Not really. They weren’t saying Suho fell. They weren’t saying Suho must be tired, Suho must be hurting.

No. Their pity was directed at Sieun once again.

Poor Sieun. Always dragged down. Always forced to save him.

Suho’s chest squeezed. His ears rang with the echo of it, over and over. Poor Sieun. Poor Sieun.

Beside him, Sieun walked steady as ever, his expression calm, unreadable, as if none of it touched him. His strides were even, his hand ready at Suho’s elbow when the ground dipped. Like it was nothing. Like it was natural.

But Suho could still hear their voices in his head. Exhausting. Always ready. Poor Sieun.

And it cut deeper than any stumble or bruise.

Because if everyone saw it that way… if everyone looked at Sieun and only saw him burdened by Suho—

Then maybe it was true.

 

…

 

The walk home wasn’t long. But it felt endless.
Sieun didn’t speak.
Suho didn’t either.
Just the faint sound of their steps — Sieun’s steady, Suho’s uneven with the crutch — echoing in rhythm with the thoughts racing in Suho’s head.
He could feel Sieun glancing at him every few seconds. Not judging. Just…watching. With that same expression that always made Suho feel both safe and exposed.
But this time, it made him feel small.
They reached the apartment and fell into their evening routine like muscle memory.
Shoes off. Bag kept aside. Lights dimmed.
Sieun quietly guided him to sit on the low dining chair, placing a cushion under Suho’s back without a word.
In the kitchen, Sieun moved like water — swift, practiced. Washing. Chopping. Heating.
But Suho’s eyes weren’t on the food.
They were on Sieun’s back.
On the slight slump of his shoulders. The way he pressed the heel of his palm to his eye for a moment when he thought Suho wasn’t looking. The way his hand trembled briefly when he poured soup into a bowl.
Suho knew that tremble.
He had felt it too, many nights, when his body gave out from trying.
And right now, he was the reason Sieun felt it.

“Here,” Sieun said, setting down the tray in front of him with a soft clink.

Warm broth. Soft tofu. Rice. A perfectly cut apple on the side.

Suho swallowed hard.
He couldn’t say thank you. Not tonight.
Not when every bite felt like stealing from someone who’d already given too much.

Dinner passed in silence.
Suho ate slowly.
Sieun picked at his own plate, eyes flicking up now and then like he wanted to say something — but never did.

Afterward, Sieun helped him to the bathroom like always.

Suho stood in the doorway, holding the handle of his crutch tighter than needed.

And when Sieun reached out to help unbutton his shirt—

“Don’t,” Suho said, voice low.

Sieun blinked. “What?”

Suho didn’t look at him. “I’ll do it myself. Just… go. Please.”

There was a pause.
The air stilled.

Sieun didn’t move, didn’t argue.

He just stood there, eyebrows slightly furrowed in concern, before nodding once and quietly stepping outside.
Suho heard the door click shut behind him.
Only then did his shoulders sag.
And he gripped the sink, leaning over it, face burning — not with embarrassment, but with shame.
He knew Sieun would never cross a line.
Sieun was careful. Patient. Always asking. Always waiting.
And yet, every bath, every helping hand, every time Sieun wiped down his back, Suho felt like a shadow of himself.

Like the person he used to be was fading further and further away.

When he emerged, hair damp and hands shaking from the effort of staying upright, Sieun didn’t ask any questions.

He just dried Suho’s hair like always — kneeling beside him with the towel in hand, warm and gentle.
But Suho flinched a little this time.
Not because it hurt.
But because he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Let it go,” he muttered.

Sieun paused mid-motion. “What?”

“Just let it go,” Suho repeated, voice tight now. “I’m tired. Of all of this. Of myself. Of being this… this person you have to keep picking up.”

Silence.

Sieun said nothing.

Not out of indifference — but because he didn’t know how to comfort someone who had already decided they weren’t worth it.

He quietly handed Suho the evening meds.

Suho took them, swallowing with a wince.
Then lay down on the bed without waiting.

“I’m going to sleep,” he said flatly.

Sieun stood beside the bed for a moment longer, eyes searching Suho’s face. But Suho didn’t meet them. Didn’t say goodnight.

Sieun sighed softly, then crouched down beside the bed. Without a word, he reached for the familiar tube of healing cream he always kept on hand for Suho’s scrapes and bruises. He squeezed a little onto his fingertips and worked it in with slow, steady circles — first over Suho’s knee, then the faint scrape along his shin, then carefully over the raw skin at his elbow where he’d taken the fall. His touch was gentle, methodical, like every ache mattered.

When he was done, Sieun set the tube aside and applied the balm to Suho’s legs like always — silently, then carefully pulled the blanket up, tucking it securely around him. His hand lingered, brushing stray hair from Suho’s forehead.

But there was nothing to say tonight.
He turned off the light.
The dim yellow of the study lamp cast shadows across the room as Sieun walked away, gathered his clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom.
The water started.
Suho stared at the ceiling.
And thought about that girl again — the one who was talking to Sieun.

He saw the way she looked at Sieun.
Like he was someone you could fall in love with gently, easily.
And Sieun hadn’t said a word in reply.
No acceptance. No rejection.
Just that same unreadable stare.
And maybe that was what scared Suho the most — the silence.
The possibility.
The reality that one day, maybe, Sieun would say yes to someone who could walk beside him.
Someone who could match him in pace, in strength, in effort.

Not someone like Suho.

The quiet was no longer comforting.
It was deafening.
Suho lay still under the blanket Sieun had tucked around him, but warmth didn’t reach him. His body was exhausted — limp from the emotional weight of the day — but his mind spun endlessly. Guilt and shame circled like vultures.
The ceiling above him was a dull beige, but it felt like the walls were closing in.
He hated this feeling.
He hated that his chest ached for someone who gave him everything, while he had nothing left to give.
And he hated himself most of all.
For not being able to do the simplest things.
For still needing Sieun’s help to move, to bathe, to breathe through the pain.
For taking and taking, when he had nothing left to offer back.

“You don’t deserve this, Sieun.”
“You deserve someone better. Stronger. Someone who can carry you too when you’re tired.”

The door creaked.

Suho stiffened instinctively and shut his eyes. His lashes were still wet.

He listened to the familiar rhythm of Sieun’s footsteps, the soft sound of the bathroom door clicking shut again, the shuffle of fabric as he likely tossed his towel into the basket. A minute passed. Then two.

And then footsteps padded closer.
Suho held his breath.
The light was dim — the glow of the desk lamp muted now — casting everything in golden shadows. And even with his eyes closed, Suho felt it. The closeness.
Then… the hand.
Cool fingers ghosted over his forehead.
A thumb brushing his brow, adjusting a stray hair with gentle precision. Suho didn’t move — just focused on the quiet, steady breathing close to his face.
Sieun was watching him.
Checking him.
Making sure — like always.
He muttered something under his breath, something soft — a barely-there comment like “Still warm…” or maybe “Sleep, Suho.”
Suho couldn’t be sure.
He wanted to break.
Then came the sound of the chair dragging back — Sieun placing down something on the table. Maybe more meds. Maybe balm. And finally, the dip of the mattress across the room. The blanket rustled.
Sieun had finally laid down.
On the futon.
And his breath.
Even that was familiar.

 

Suho had memorized it. The rise and fall. The soft nose exhale. The occasional shift of weight against the pillow. It was grounding. And tonight, it was unbearable.
He turned — slowly — and stared.
Sieun’s back was partially to him, but Suho could still see the outline of his face. The damp strands of hair from his shower clung to his temple. His eyelashes brushed his cheekbones. His lips parted slightly.
He looked peaceful.
Like he hadn’t spent the day running around, worrying about Suho, carrying him — physically and emotionally — and still managing to smile softly like it didn’t kill him a little every day.
And in the soft gold light, he looked—
Perfect.
Suho felt his chest tighten.
He didn’t deserve to have him here. He didn’t deserve to see him like this. To know what it felt like to be taken care of so completely.
“You’re too good to me,” Suho wanted to whisper.
“And I’m not even half of what you need.”
He stared, breath trembling, and that’s when he saw it.
The faint white wrap around Sieun’s left hand. A bandage.
Suho blinked.
His gaze traveled lower.
A bruise.
Just barely visible on the curve of Sieun’s knee, where the blanket had slid down.
Suho froze.
His stomach dropped.
Sieun was hurt.
He was hurt.
And Suho hadn’t even noticed.
He had been so wrapped in his own spiraling — so caught up in what he couldn’t do, what he couldn’t be — that he’d missed it.
He’d fallen too.
And not once did he say a word.
Not while he was cooking. Not while helping Suho sit. Not while rubbing balm on Suho’s knees.
He was hurting too… and he still chose to take care of me first.
Tears blurred Suho’s vision again — but this time, he didn’t wipe them.
He let them fall.
His lips trembled. His throat burned.
The bandage. The bruise. The silence.
How many times had Sieun been hurting while Suho wasn’t looking?
How many times had he hidden it just to keep Suho from worrying?
It was too much.
He wanted to reach out — to brush a finger down Sieun’s wrist, to whisper an apology into the dark. To say I see it now. I see you. I’m sorry.
But his body didn’t move.
Because a part of him still believed he didn’t deserve that comfort.
He clenched his eyes shut and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
“I’ll get better,” he whispered, just for himself. His voice was shaky, barely there.
Not for pride. Not for healing.
But for him.
Because if he didn’t —
If he didn’t start walking beside Sieun again —
He might lose him.
And that was a thought too heavy to breathe through.

 

…

 

It had been a week since that night. It should have gotten better by now. But it hadn’t.
By evening, the weight of it pressed down harder than ever — heavy, suffocating, impossible to shake.

They had just returned from rehab. The walk from the elevator to the apartment door had never felt longer for Suho, even with Sieun’s gentle support just a step behind. He didn’t want it. Didn’t need it. He kept telling himself that.
But the moment the door clicked shut, Suho’s shoulders dropped just a little too heavily. He didn't want Sieun to see it.

Sieun placed the bag down, his voice soft but automatic. “Do you want to rest first or eat?”
“I’m fine.”
“You should still eat something light—”
“I said I’m fine.”

Sieun’s lips parted like he wanted to say more, but he just nodded quietly and moved toward the kitchen. Suho could hear the fridge open, the rustle of grocery bags, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against a steel bowl. Sieun was making his usual: soft tofu soup, something easy to swallow, nutritious, calming.
Suho stared at his hands.
There were new calluses forming from gripping the crutches too tight. His left palm had a raw patch from where the bandaging wasn’t enough.
And yet — what were these compared to Sieun’s hands? Hands that cooked, cleaned, folded his clothes, massaged his aching joints, applied the balms that burned cold but helped him sleep.

He wanted to scream.

Instead, he stood up, dragging one crutch with him into the kitchen. The other stayed leaning by the couch, like it, too, was done with him.
Sieun turned as he entered. “You should rest—”
“I can help.” Suho grabbed a vegetable from the counter. “I’m not completely useless.”
Sieun’s brow furrowed, but his voice remained calm. “I never said you were.”
“You don’t have to,” Suho muttered, slicing the green onion too roughly. The blade nicked the tip of his finger, not enough to bleed but enough to sting. He cursed softly under his breath.
Sieun was already reaching out. “Let me—”
“I said I’ve got it!” Suho’s voice was too loud, bouncing off the kitchen tiles like a slap. “Just—stop.”
Sieun didn’t move. Just stood there with his hand half-extended, then slowly lowered it. “Okay,” he said, so softly it felt like guilt incarnate.
Suho hated this. Hated that he had made Sieun sound like that.
But he didn’t apologize.

Later, during dinner, Suho barely ate.

He pushed the food around his bowl. Tofu and rice. Mushrooms. Seaweed. All things he liked. All things Sieun made for him.
And yet the taste sat like lead in his mouth.
Sieun noticed, of course. “It’s bland?”
Suho shook his head.
Sieun asked again, voice quieter. “Are you feeling sick?”
“No.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Silence.
Sieun didn’t ask again.
He didn’t push — he never did. But he kept watching. Kept bringing water to Suho’s side, gently adjusting the cushion behind his back, keeping the temperature just right, the lights soft and dim, the air soothing like a blanket.
It made Suho want to scream.
Because every act of care felt like a reminder — that he wasn’t enough. That he was a burden. That he couldn’t even exist without dragging Sieun down with him.

That night, Suho stood longer than usual in the bathroom, gripping the sink.
Sieun had knocked on the door softly, asking, “Do you need help with your back?”
“I said no. Please, just… go,” Suho had answered, ashamed at how breathless he sounded — not from pain, but from fighting tears.
He wanted Sieun there. Desperately.
He wanted the warm hand on his back, the quiet care, the soft towel waiting outside.
But he couldn’t allow it tonight.
Because every time Sieun helped him, Suho felt himself breaking further.

When he came out, damp hair clinging to his forehead, Sieun was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a towel.
He didn’t say anything. Just opened his arms a little, like an unspoken question.
Suho stood frozen.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, he stepped forward and let Sieun begin drying his hair — like always.
But his eyes were on the floor. His fists clenched in his lap.

And when Sieun asked gently, “Are you tired?” Suho whispered, “Too much.”
Sieun paused, confused. “Too much… what?”

“...Everything.”
He didn’t explain. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight.

 

…

 

The next day, nothing was technically wrong.
The sun came in gently through the curtains. The eggs weren’t overcooked. Suho didn’t trip. Sieun didn’t speak too much.
And yet, the silence wasn’t soft. It was stiff.
When the others came by to study, Suho was already sitting stiffly at the table, crutch propped nearby, face unreadable. Sieun brought him tea without asking, placing the cup just near his right hand like he always did. Suho didn’t touch it.
Juntae glanced at the untouched tea, then at Suho’s expression.
Baku tried to lighten the mood. “We brought snacks. Real ones this time. Not whatever vegan despair Sieun stocked.”
Gotak snorted. “You say that like he didn’t cook you full-course tofu dinner last week.”
“Hey, that tofu changed my perspective on life, okay?” Baku joked, eyes flicking toward Suho, waiting for a chuckle. There was none.
Instead, Suho barely looked up from his notebook, where he had been staring at the same sentence for the past ten minutes.
Sieun sat beside him silently. He’d stopped asking if Suho needed help with his notes or wanted a pen. Every offer lately was being swatted away with a look or silence.
The others started exchanging glances.
“Is it just me or…” Juntae murmured later in the kitchen, while pretending to refill his water.
“Yeah,” Gotak whispered back. “They’re… not okay.”
“I think Suho’s upset,” Baku said, voice barely audible. “He’s barely said a word since yesterday.”
Sieun sat nearby, still within earshot, pretending to read a page of notes. He heard them, of course. But said nothing.

Later that evening, after the group had left with tight smiles and awkward goodbyes, Suho didn’t speak for an hour.
Not during dinner.
Not when Sieun offered to massage his knee, like always.
Not even when he spilled water while trying to carry his own glass back to the sink and almost slipped. He just glared at the puddle as if it had personally betrayed him.
Sieun silently wiped it up.
“Don’t,” Suho finally said, voice low.
Sieun paused. “What?”
“Stop cleaning up after me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Sieun straightened, cloth still in hand. “You nearly fell.”
“I didn’t,” Suho snapped. “And even if I did, it’s my fall to take.”
His voice was trembling, not from anger — not really — but from whatever was clawing at his insides.
Sieun didn’t argue. Just nodded once, then quietly tossed the cloth in the sink.
They didn’t say anything for the rest of the night.
Suho lay on his side of the bed with his back turned. Sieun kept to his own side on the futon, eyes open in the dark, listening to Suho breathe like he was slipping farther and farther away every second.

 

…

 

The rain had started again by the time they left for rehab.
A soft, grey drizzle that blurred the windows and smudged the cityscape outside like watercolor left out in the storm. Inside the cab, everything was too quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful — it was pressing. The kind that clung to skin and settled under the tongue.
Suho sat stiffly, hands in his lap, eyes on the streaks racing down the glass.
Sieun was next to him, glancing occasionally, his mouth opening once or twice — only to close again. He didn’t ask if Suho slept well. Didn’t ask if he was nervous. Didn’t say he packed the orange balm Suho liked or that he brought the little towel Suho used for his hands.

Because today, even Sieun could feel it:
Words would only make things worse.

The rehab center smelled like linoleum and antiseptic. The staff were kind — always were — but today Suho didn’t want kindness. It felt too bright, too fake, too loud against the dull ache in his legs and chest.

The therapist met them with a smile, clipboard in hand. “Today we’re going to try some floor balance work and resistance bands, okay?”

Suho nodded once.
He didn’t meet her eyes.

 

The first half of the session went quietly.

Sieun stood by the wall, just far enough that Suho could pretend he wasn’t watching. But he was. Of course he was.
He watched Suho’s hand tremble as he gripped the bar.
He watched him fail to lift his leg past the second resistance marker — a height he’d reached easily two weeks ago.
He watched his face tighten, breath hitching with each attempt, his jaw clenched like a dam holding back every angry thing he wanted to scream.
And still, Sieun didn’t move.
Because Suho had asked him not to.

“Let me do it alone. Don’t help. Not unless I ask.”

So he didn’t. Even when it killed him.

By the time they were doing wall stretches, Suho was dripping with sweat. His hoodie was damp and clinging to his back. His leg wouldn’t stop twitching.
And he was furious.
Not at the therapist. Not at the center.
At himself.

“You’re trying too hard,” she said gently.

“I’m not trying hard enough,” Suho snapped, the words sharper than intended.

The therapist blinked, then looked toward Sieun for a second — unsure if she should say more.
Suho caught it.
That subtle glance.
And something cracked.

On the way out, the hallway felt too long. His arms ached from the crutches. His back felt stiff.

And just then, three boys came around the corner.
They were loud, laughing, shoulders bumping into each other, their sneakers squeaking against the floor. The kind of careless energy Suho used to have once — all ease, no weight.

They weren’t paying attention when one of them brushed hard against his shoulder.
It wasn’t much, but for Suho, it was enough. His balance wavered, his crutch scraped against the wall as he steadied himself, breath hitching sharp in his chest.

The boys barely slowed. One tossed a quick “sorry” over his shoulder without looking back, and their laughter rolled on, spilling into the hallway behind them.

It wasn’t cruel.
It wasn’t intentional.
But Suho’s chest still tightened. Because it reminded him — he wasn’t like them anymore.

 

Suho’s jaw clenched. The sting of their laughter still echoed, even if it hadn’t been meant for him. His grip on the crutch tightened until his knuckles hurt.

“Watch where you’re going,” he muttered, sharper than he intended.

The three boys stopped mid-step. One turned halfway, brows lifted, clearly caught off guard. Another gave a short laugh, not mocking at first, more confused than anything.

“What?” the tallest asked, blinking.

Suho swallowed. He should’ve let it go. He knew that. But the heat rising in his chest wouldn’t let him.
“You bumped into me,” he said, his voice cracking faintly. “You think it’s funny?”

The shift was instant. The easy laughter cooled into something tighter. One boy scoffed under his breath. Another smirked — the kind of smirk people wear when they sense weakness and don’t know what to do with it.

“Relax, man. We said sorry.”

But Suho’s cheeks burned. His own words echoed back at him, too sharp, too defensive. He hated the way he sounded. He hated that he’d given them a reason to even look at him twice.

 

The tallest boy shifted his weight, eyes flicking down to Suho’s crutch. His smirk twitched wider.
“Didn’t know bumping into you was a crime,” he said, voice light but edged. “Guess you’re more fragile than you look.”

The second boy chuckled under his breath, low and uncomfortable. “Man, leave it. He’s… you know.” His hand made a vague motion toward Suho’s leg, like that explained everything.

And just like that, it was worse.
Not because they were cruel. But because they weren’t. They weren’t even trying. They were brushing him off, excusing themselves with pity. Like he wasn’t someone to argue with. Like he wasn’t worth the effort.

Suho’s ears rang. His face flamed so hot he thought it might burn right through his skin. He wanted to shout back, to demand they look him in the eye instead of past him, through him — but the words jammed in his throat.

He stumbled for something, anything, but his chest locked up. And before he could breathe again, the three of them had already turned away, muttering to each other, their footsteps fading down the hall.

Laughter followed — lighter this time, careless, not even about him.

But it felt like it was.

And when Suho finally lifted his gaze, his heart dropped.

Because Sieun was standing there, a few paces back, frozen. Watching. Expression unreadable.

 

For a moment, the hallway was empty except for them.
Suho’s chest heaved, but it wasn’t from the stumble. It was from the weight. The heat. The silence pressing down on him.

And then it hit him — Sieun had seen EVERYTHING.

 

The bump. The stutter in his steps. The way the boys brushed him off like he was nothing. Like he was less.

Humiliation crawled hot under his skin. His throat burned, his hands shook on the crutch.
He saw that.

The thought pierced sharper than the words of strangers.
He must be embarrassed. He could’ve walked ahead, pretended not to know me. No one would’ve blamed him. No one would’ve guessed we were together.

Another voice inside him — crueler, meaner, his own — whispered:
He doesn’t deserve this.
He doesn’t deserve me.

Suho clenched his jaw, blinking hard, but the shame only deepened. It didn’t matter that Sieun hadn’t said anything. It didn’t matter that his face was unreadable. The silence was enough.

Enough to make Suho feel small. Fragile. Like the kind of weight even Sieun shouldn’t have to carry.

 

…

 

The cab ride home was silent again.
Worse this time.
He didn't even want to hold Sieun’s hand.
Because if he did, he was scared he’d shatter.
That night, Sieun moved around the kitchen quietly, making dinner — grilled fish, soft rice, miso soup with extra tofu. The things Suho liked.

Suho sat at the table, hands folded in his lap, not touching the chopsticks.

“Suho,” Sieun said gently. “Eat while it’s warm.”

Suho picked at the rice, barely tasting it.

Sieun didn’t comment. Just helped him sit properly when he winced, passed him water, laid out his night medicine.

And Suho — he followed every instruction.

Like a robot.

Like a burden who had learned how not to inconvenience anyone.

 

After dinner, Sieun brought the balm and the fresh towel.

Suho was already seated on the bed.

When Sieun knelt and reached for his leg, Suho jerked back slightly.

“I can do it.”

“It’s okay. I—”

“I said I can do it,” Suho snapped.

Sieun paused, hand midair. “Alright,” he said quietly, placing the towel beside him.

He didn’t say anything else.

Later, Sieun came with his usual routine — helped Suho toward the bathroom, like always.

But Suho stopped at the door, hand gripping the edge.

“Go,” he said, not looking up.

“Hm?”

“I don’t need help. You can go.”

Sieun stared. “Suho, I always help—”

“Just leave. I’ll manage. I’m not some broken toy.”

The words were ugly. And Suho regretted them instantly.

But he couldn’t take them back.

Sieun looked like he wanted to say something. But after a second, he nodded and quietly stepped back.

Suho didn’t close the door loudly. But it felt like it slammed between them anyway.

 

He took twice as long.

His arms ached. His leg cramped. He almost slipped once and had to catch himself with a painful jerk.

And when he finally came out — towel clinging to his hips, hair dripping — Sieun was waiting just outside the door with the hairdryer in hand.

Suho froze.

Sieun didn’t comment.

Just patted the spot on the bed gently.

Suho sat.

Let him dry his hair in silence.

But when Sieun reached for the balm again, Suho pulled away. “Don’t.”

Sieun stopped. “You need it.”

“I said don’t. Just… just let it go.”

There was a long pause.

Then—

“What’s wrong?” Sieun asked softly.

Suho turned away, eyes burning. “I’m just tired.”

“That’s okay. We—”

“Not like that,” Suho muttered. “I’m tired of being like this. Tired of needing help. Tired of... of you having to do everything.”

Sieun’s eyes flickered. “I don’t mind.”

“Well I do!” Suho’s voice cracked.

He quickly swallowed his pills with water, then mumbled, “I’m going to sleep.”

He laid down, back turned, pulling the blanket over his head.

Sieun sat still for a moment, just watching.

Then quietly got up, turned off the lights, checked his temperature like always, and left for the shower.

Suho lay in the dark, curled tightly under the blanket, fists clenched at his sides.
His mind wouldn’t stop.
His eyes stung.
He squeezed them shut.

The door opened again with a soft click.
Footsteps.
The scent of mint soap.
Sieun moved quietly around the room, believing Suho was asleep.
He didn’t know Suho had stayed awake.
Suho felt a gentle hand over his forehead — checking temperature again.
Then the blanket being adjusted. Tucked in.
Then sheets rustling on the futon.
And finally, soft breathing. Steady. Calm.
Sieun was asleep.
Suho opened his eyes.
Turned his head just slightly — and saw him.
Face turned away. Chest rising and falling.
Hair damp. Skin pale from the cold shower.
So peaceful.
So far.

“How are you still here?”

“How long will you stay?”

“When will you realize I don’t deserve you?”

A lump formed in Suho’s throat.

His heart ached with something ugly and desperate.

“You need someone who can walk with you.”
“Not someone you have to drag behind.”
“Not someone like me.”
And slowly—
Silently—
Tears slid down his cheeks.
He didn’t sob.
He just leaked.
Like something cracked open without warning.
Because he didn’t know how much longer he could carry this shame.
Or how much longer Sieun could carry him.

 

…

 

The next morning was overcast.

Fitting.

Suho was already awake when Sieun came into the room with a glass of warm water and the morning medicine. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling like it might give him an answer.

 

“You didn’t sleep,” Sieun said quietly.

 

“I did.”

 

He hadn’t.

 

Sieun didn’t push. He just set the glass on the nightstand, pulled open the curtains partway, and sat down to wait.

Suho didn’t move.

 

Later, at the rehab center, Suho was silent the entire time. Not just quiet — silent. His face was carved from stone, and every stretch, every exercise was done with gritted teeth. Even when he failed to balance on the bar, even when he fell for the second time, he didn’t let out a sound.

 

But Sieun saw it all.

 

The red palms. The clenched jaw. The way Suho turned his head away as soon as the therapist said, “We’ll try again next week, don’t worry.”

 

He wasn’t worried.

He was drowning.

 

Afterward, while they sat on a bench outside the rehab center, Suho looked like a shadow of himself. Hair matted to his forehead, hands trembling just slightly in his lap.

Sieun sat beside him quietly.

 

“Do you want something cold?”

 

Suho didn’t reply.

 

“I can get—”

 

“You don’t need to ask every time.”

 

It wasn’t rude. But it wasn’t gentle either.

 

Sieun paused. “I just want you to be okay.”

 

Suho still didn’t look at him.

 

“What if I’m not?”

 

Sieun went still.

 

But before he could say anything, Suho stood up, unsteady, and began walking ahead. He didn’t wait.

 

Inside the rehab center, the gang had arrived to check in. Baku noticed them and waved awkwardly.

 

“Hey— you good?” he asked Suho.

 

Suho nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

 

Sieun said nothing. But everyone could see the tightness in his shoulders.

Gotak leaned in toward Juntae.

 

“They’re not okay,” he whispered.

 

Juntae nodded grimly. “He’s closing off again.”

 

“This is worse than before,” Baku added quietly.

 

No one said anything more. But worry hung in the air.

 

…

 

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Only the soft clink of a spoon being placed beside a ceramic bowl broke the silence — gentle, routine, careful.

Sieun didn’t need words. He never did. The tray he placed on the low table spoke for him, louder than anything his quiet voice could’ve managed.
Soup — still steaming, not too spicy, exactly the way Suho liked it.
Medicine, sorted neatly, as though Suho couldn’t be trusted to manage a handful of pills himself.
Water poured already.
A towel folded so precisely it could’ve belonged in a hospital ward.
A clean shirt hung over the chair, waiting for Suho to put it on.
Everything prepared. Everything thought of. Everything… for him.
And Suho hated it.
He hated how easy Sieun made it look. Hated how natural it seemed for him to hover, to anticipate, to fix. Hated how the silence between them had become its own language — a language of quiet obedience that Suho couldn’t break without shattering.
His stomach twisted. He hadn’t eaten since morning, not because he wasn’t hungry but because guilt sat in his throat like a stone. Guilt and shame. He looked at the tray and wanted to knock it to the floor. Wanted to scream. Wanted to disappear.
Because what was he, if not this?
A limp. A burden.
A body that had to be fed, clothed, and reminded to breathe.
He dug his nails into his palms under the blanket. What do I even give him? What have I ever given him? Nothing. Just more weight on his shoulders. Just another reason for people to pity him.
“You should eat,” Sieun said finally, his voice quiet — too quiet. That careful tone he always used around Suho, like he was fragile glass.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since morning.”
“I said,” Suho’s voice cracked, sharper now, “I’m not hungry.”
Sieun’s brow creased, confusion flickering in his steady eyes. Not anger. Never anger. That almost made it worse.
He picked up the folded shirt instead, stepping closer. “At least change into this. You’ll feel—”
“I’m fine.” Suho bit out the words, jaw tight.
“You’re sweating, Suho.”
“Then turn off the heater.”
““You’ll catch a cold.”

And something inside him snapped.

The dam burst.

“For fuck’s sake, Sieun!” Suho’s voice tore through the quiet — jagged, raw, humiliating in its volume. “Stop hovering! Stop being so—so suffocating all the damn time!”

The words hung like smoke, thick and ugly. The silence that followed pressed down heavier than the outburst itself.

And underneath it, everything Suho tried so hard to bury came bleeding out — the shame of stumbling in front of strangers, the sting of pitying eyes, the memory of whispered mocking, the ache of always being seen as broken.

All of it poured through that single word. Suffocating.

The silence after felt heavier than the outburst.

Sieun blinked once. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For a second, it was like he hadn’t even processed what Suho said. “...I’m just—”

“Just what, huh?” Suho’s whole body shook now, not just with exhaustion but with something uglier. He pushed himself upright, standing unsteady but unwilling to sit there caged any longer. His voice rose, trembling with a bitterness he couldn’t contain. “Just fixing everything for me again? Just feeding me, dressing me, babysitting me like I can’t even fucking exist on my own?!”

His breath tore ragged from his lungs. His throat burned.

Sieun took a small step forward, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare.

“You think I don’t notice?” Suho laughed, a harsh, broken sound that scraped out of him like glass against stone. “The way people stare when we’re outside. The way you look away when I stumble, like you’re embarrassed to even be near me!”

“Suho—” Sieun’s voice was calm, too calm, and it only made Suho’s rage twist sharper.

“Don’t lie to me!” His voice cracked hard, raw, humiliating.

And for a heartbeat, the room stopped breathing.

Because Suho wasn’t shouting at Sieun anymore.

He was shouting at himself.
And Sieun was just the mirror standing there, still and quiet, forcing Suho to hear every word.

 

Suho’s breath came shallow, harsh, his chest heaving like he’d just run a mile he couldn’t finish. His fingers shook as he dragged them through his damp hair, yanking at the roots. He couldn’t stop — the words wouldn’t stop.

“You think I don’t see it?” His voice broke again, but louder, harsher, like if he shouted enough, the guilt would leave his chest. “Every fucking time I fall, I catch it. That flicker in your eyes. Pity. Embarrassment. Like you’re tired of this. Tired of me.”

Sieun shook his head once, almost imperceptibly. “That’s not—”

“Don’t you dare deny it!” Suho snapped, his voice cracking high. His throat ached from the force of it. “You talk to me softer than you talk to anyone else, like I’m some defective toy you’re afraid of breaking. You slow down your steps so I can keep up, you plan every goddamn detail so I don’t have to struggle, and you think I don’t notice?! You think I don’t know you’re exhausted?!”

“I’m not—”

“You are!” Suho’s laugh was hollow, cutting. “And I hate myself for it, but I hate you more for pretending you’re not! You don’t get to lie to me, Sieun. Not when you’re the one stuck cleaning me up every time I bleed, every time I can’t fucking stand, every time I—” His voice cracked, his chest tightening until he doubled forward, teeth clenched. “God, I can’t even walk straight. Do you know how pathetic that feels? Do you?”

Sieun’s lips pressed into a thin line. His hands curled at his sides, but he didn’t move. Didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself.

And that silence — that endless, infuriating silence — drove Suho mad.

“Say something!” Suho barked, voice tearing out of him raw. “Scream at me! Tell me I’m useless! Tell me I ruin your life! Just stop standing there looking at me like that, like—like you don’t feel it!”

“Suho…”, Sieun tried calling him, while moving towards him.
But Suho's eyes blurred, tears gathering hot and heavy, but he refused to let them fall. But Suho jerked back. “Don’t touch me!”

“Suho, you’re—”

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” His scream shook the air, splitting at the edges of a sob. His chest heaved, the tears finally falling, hot streaks down his cheeks. “I don’t need you to fix this too, okay?! I’m not a child! I’m not some fucking broken thing you can patch up with soup and towels and that goddamn patience you never run out of!”

Sieun froze, his arms halfway outstretched, trembling faintly before they dropped back to his sides.

And Suho laughed — a jagged, awful sound, bitter and self-loathing. “Look at me. Look at what I’m saying to you. You see it now, right? I’m the one breaking you. I’m the one hurting you. And I can’t even stop. I can’t fucking stop—”

 

Across from him, Sieun stood still. Perfectly still. Taking it all. Every word. Every cruel slash Suho had thrown. His face unreadable, his silence heavier than any anger.

And somehow, that made Suho feel even smaller.

Suho’s chest rose and fell too fast, his breaths coming shallow, erratic, like the air itself was poisoned. His fists twisted, knuckles white, sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

“I can’t—” he rasped, shaking his head hard, like he could fling the thoughts away. “I can’t breathe like this.”

Sieun’s brows knit, the faintest crease between them. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just waited.

And that patience — that unbearable quiet — made Suho snap.

“You don’t get it!” His voice cracked, sharp and ugly, like broken glass grinding in his throat. “Every second you’re hovering, every step you’re watching—fuck, Sieun, it’s like I’m choking all the time! Like there’s a chain around my neck, and you’re holding it!”

The words hit the air heavy, cruel.

Sieun flinched, so subtle it could’ve been missed — the smallest flicker in his eyes, the barest twitch of his mouth. But Suho saw it, and the guilt only poured gasoline on his panic.

“I should’ve just stayed with my halmoni,” Suho spat suddenly, breath hitching, eyes burning. The words left him before he could swallow them down. “I should’ve gone home. My home. Not here. Not with you.”

The silence that followed was so sharp, Suho almost heard it crack.

Sieun’s lips parted, his face stark, pale. “…This is your home too.” His voice wavered, not loud, but steady in a way that made it hurt worse. “Suho, this is your home too.”

Suho barked out a laugh — bitter, hollow, jagged. “My home, yeah? My home you say? Then why the fuck I don’t feel peace here, huh?” His voice was rising, splintering. “Why do I feel like I’m drowning every second in these walls? Why do I feel like I can’t even breathe when you’re near me?”

The confession tore out of him like a wound ripping open. His throat burned, his lungs felt on fire, and his vision blurred with heat.

Across from him, Sieun just stood there — still, frozen. His eyes wide, glistening faintly under the low light. For once, he didn’t look calm. He didn’t look unreadable.

He looked… broken.

Like Suho had reached into his chest and wrenched something vital out with his bare hands.

“I can’t stand it!” Suho’s voice cracked, raw and sharp. He was pacing now, uneven steps thudding against the floor, his crutch scraping, every move trembling with rage that wasn’t really rage but despair clawing out of his chest. “You—always there, always staring, always fixing everything! You don’t let me breathe, Sieun! You don’t let me fucking breathe!”

His hands tugged at his own hair, nails biting his scalp. His eyes burned, glassy, desperate. “You’re suffocating! Do you hear me? Suffocating!” His chest heaved, the words spilling fast, uncontrolled. “Always hovering, always watching, always fucking smothering me—like I can’t even exist without you right there breathing down my neck!”

“Suho—” Sieun’s voice came low, steady, though there was the faintest crack at the edge of it. He stepped closer, cautious.

“Don’t!” Suho’s scream ripped through the room. His chest rattled with each breath, too fast, too shallow, panic clawing at his ribs. “Don’t come near me! Don’t touch me! Just—just stay away!”

Sieun froze where he stood. His eyes widened faintly, then softened into something that looked far too much like pain. But he didn’t move back. He didn’t leave.

And that was worse.

“Why are you still here?!” Suho’s voice broke again, shredded from shouting. His chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, each word tearing him apart. “Why won’t you just leave me the fuck alone?! You’re annoying, Sieun! Annoying! Every second, every breath, every little thing you do—it’s too much!”

Sieun’s breath caught, but he said nothing.

“I’m sick of it—I’m sick of you! You think this is helping me? You think your pity is saving me? It’s not, Sieun—it’s killing me!”

The words came like blades, each one tearing his throat raw. “I don’t need you to hold my hand. I don’t need you to clean me up every time I fall. I don’t need—” his breath caught, his vision swam, “—I don’t need you.”

He shoved his arm out blindly, his crutch slipping against the edge of the couch. The sudden motion knocked a glass off the table.

It hit the floor.

Shattered.
The sound was violent in the silence that followed.
And then—pain.
“Ah—fuck—!” Suho hissed, stumbling back. A shard had sliced across his palm when he tried to catch himself, blood already welling hot and red.
He staggered, breathless, his body shaking from more than just the cut. His whole frame trembled like it couldn’t hold itself up anymore.
Sieun stood there, frozen.

The words Suho had just thrown at him were still ringing in his ears — louder than they’d been spoken, because they had never been meant to be spoken. Not like that. Not between them.

He didn't understand what was happening or when it started. Not fully. Not yet. But he could see Suho slipping — unraveling in front of him, piece by piece, voice trembling, face red with shame and anger and something deeper.

“I try,” Suho muttered now, hands clenching and unclenching. “Every fucking day I try, and it’s still not enough.”

Sieun took a small step forward.

“Suho, that’s not true—”

“Yes, it is!” Suho’s voice exploded again. “You think I don’t feel it? You’re always doing everything. Always quiet, always patient. And me? I can’t even get through fucking rehab without falling flat on my face while you have to smile through it.”

“I don’t—”

“You do!” Suho shouted, desperate now. “You don’t say it, but I see it in your eyes. That flicker of pity. Of exhaustion. You’re tired, Sieun. Of me. And I get it.”

 

Sieun stepped forward quickly. “You’re bleeding—”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Suho—”

“I said—don’t touch me!” Suho screamed, flinching away from him. “I don’t need you to fucking clean me up again, okay?! I’m not a child! I’m not some broken thing for you to fix! I'm not your fucking project Sieun!”

 

His voice cracked.

His knees trembled again.

Sieun’s eyes flicked to the cut on Suho’s hand — small, but bleeding.

 

Suho was still breathing hard, face flushed, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I know I’m hurting you,” he choked. “I know I’m saying shit I don’t mean, I know—but I can’t stop. I can’t fucking stop—”

 

“I know,” Sieun whispered.

 

And Suho finally collapsed onto the couch.

 

Like something inside him had given out. All the rage and the shame and the weight of guilt fell around him like shattered glass.

 

Sieun didn’t speak. He simply moved.

 

With quiet hands, he crouched in front of Suho and gently took the injured hand in his own.

 

Suho flinched.

But he didn’t pull away.

Because when Sieun’s fingers closed around his — steady, calm, real — something inside Suho stilled.

 

He felt the warmth. The same warmth that had dried his hair. That had held him steady during rehab. That had wiped his forehead during a fever. The same warmth that never asked for anything back.

 

His own tears started falling.

 

Silently. One by one.

 

Sieun pulled the first aid kit from the shelf with his usual quiet precision, snapping it open with one hand while the other never let go of Suho’s. He didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to. The tremor in Suho’s shoulders, the way his chest rose too fast, was enough.

He crouched low, kneeling on the floor in front of him. The alcohol swab rustled softly as he unwrapped it, and then the cool sting brushed against Suho’s skin. Sieun’s touch was unbearably gentle — too gentle — as though Suho were glass that might shatter if he pressed even a little harder.

Tears blurred Suho’s vision until everything smeared at the edges, but still he could see it: Sieun’s head bowed, hair falling forward, long fingers steady as they wrapped the bandage around his hand with maddening patience.

And it broke him.

Because this wasn’t anyone. This was him.
The boy who steadied him every time he stumbled.
The boy whose words made him believe — even for a second — that he could dream again.
The boy who told him over and over that he was enough, that he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

His Sieun.

Suho’s breath hitched, spilling into ragged sobs he couldn’t contain. His throat burned, his chest felt like it would cave in, and yet beneath all of it was that desperate, aching truth:

He wanted this.
He wanted to be cared for like this.
He wanted to give in, to collapse, to let himself be taken into those arms and held until the noise in his head finally went quiet.

Sieun’s hands lingered over the finished bandage, resting lightly against his knuckles, and his voice came soft — too soft.

“Suho-ya…”

The whisper cracked something deeper.

Suho lifted his tear-streaked face, blinking through the blur, and saw him.

Kneeling there.
In front of him.
Head bowed, holding his hand as if it mattered more than anything.

And the words that left him were a broken promise, a plea, a confession all at once — trembling, raw, spilling from a place too vulnerable to hide anymore:

“I’ll stop being annoying…”

 

Sieun wound the bandage slowly, carefully — one loop after another, steady as breath.

“I’ll stop being suffocating…” Suho whispered, voice cracked and small.

The fabric pulled snug around his skin. Tight, but never too tight.

“I’ll stop hovering…” His words wavered, collapsing on themselves, thick with tears.

Another loop. The sound of it brushing against Suho’s skin was louder than his own heartbeat.

And then, softly, Sieun’s voice broke the silence.
“Just don’t hurt yourself.”

He finished the bandage, securing it neatly with practiced precision. But even when it was done, he didn’t let go. His hands lingered, warm and grounding, cradling Suho’s trembling ones like something fragile but irreplaceable.

“You need to take care of yourself,” Sieun murmured, his voice almost too quiet to catch. “Even if you think you’re not worth it. Even if you think you’re broken.” He paused, breath slow, steady, as if choosing each word with weight. “…You’re still you.”

The words slid straight into Suho’s chest, past all the barbed wire of shame and fury and self-loathing he’d been wrapping around himself. And suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

His lip quivered, his face crumpling. He looked down at their hands — at Sieun’s fingers curled so gently around his own, holding him like something precious. Like he wasn’t disgusting. Like he wasn’t exhausting. Like he wasn’t a problem to fix.

The tears broke free again, spilling fast, staining his cheeks hot. “I’m sorry,” he choked, the words trembling, desperate, torn raw from his chest. “I’m so sorry, I—”

But Sieun didn’t stop him. He didn’t tell him not to cry, didn’t try to silence the mess spilling out.

He just squeezed Suho’s hand, firm and steady, anchoring him.

And whispered, soft, unshakable:
“It’s okay.”

That was all.

But to Suho — who had been drowning in pitying looks, cruel whispers, and his own relentless voice telling him he wasn’t enough — it didn’t feel small.

It felt like rescue.

 

The room had gone still again. Not peaceful—just… still. Like the aftermath of a storm where the rain had stopped, but the clouds hadn’t moved on yet.

Suho sat hunched on the couch, hand bandaged, fingers limp. He could still feel it—Sieun’s hands on him. The delicate pressure. The soft cotton. The warmth he didn’t think he deserved. It was the only thing that calmed the trembling that had taken over his body after the breakdown.

His throat still burned from all the words he had screamed. Words that didn’t even feel like his, but had come from somewhere deep—rotting, ugly, unworthy.

Across the room, Sieun was tidying up quietly. No dramatics. No sighs. Just wiping the broken glass, cleaning the scattered mess like it was any other night. Like Suho hadn’t just poured every cracked thought in his head onto the floor with blood and spit.

And then—he bent down.
To pick up a soaked tissue.
And Suho saw it.
A smudge of red.

At first, he thought it was just something on the floor, but then Sieun straightened, and the color stayed. Just above his ankle, hidden under the cuff of his sweatpants, there was a smear of blood. Nothing gory. Nothing loud.
But unmistakably real.
Suho’s eyes followed up—saw the hand that had bandaged him, now twitching slightly, pink from antiseptic. There was a strip of gauze wrapped sloppily around two fingers. It wasn’t Sieun’s usual style—his were always neat, smooth, perfectly taped.
This was rushed.
One-handed.
As if he hadn’t had time to take care of himself first.
As if he’d been hurting too… but didn’t want Suho to know.
Something collapsed in Suho’s chest.
His lungs still worked. His heart was still beating. But everything else inside him cracked—splintered sharp beneath the surface.
He stared at Sieun. Not with the softness he usually felt. Not even with longing.
With shame.
Crushing, stomach-turning, throat-burning shame.
You’re bleeding.
And I didn’t even see you.
I didn’t even ask.
All this time, you were hurting… and you still bandaged me first.
He looked away, his eyes burning, his body stiff. He couldn’t even cry anymore—he’d already used it all up.
The silence inside his head was louder than any yelling could be.

You deserve better.
You deserve someone who doesn’t hurt you like this.
Someone normal. Someone who walks beside you—not someone you have to carry.
Someone who gives back. Not someone like me… who only takes and breaks and bleeds on everything you touch.

His fingernails dug into the bandage on his hand.
He wanted to scream again.
But what was left to say?
He couldn't ask Sieun to sit beside him. He couldn't even look him in the eyes.

All he could do was sit there, swallowing his own guilt, while the boy he loved limped across the room and cleaned up his mess.
And Suho just watched—helpless—aching, breaking again for an entirely new reason.

Because now that he’d noticed it…

He couldn’t unsee it.

 

The memory bled out of him slowly, like poison leaking into the present—until the present itself forced its way in.

 

A chair scraped against the floor. Someone’s breath hitched too loud in the quiet.

 

Suho flinched. He blinked hard, and the image of Sieun’s bandaged hands shattered, dissolving like smoke. When his eyes cleared, he realized—he wasn’t alone with it anymore.

 

The boys were there.

 

Baku had dragged a chair right up to the couch. He sat forward, elbows braced against his knees, arms crossed tight as though holding himself back from exploding. His mouth hung open slightly, but no sound came out. His face—usually all grin and mischief—was too serious, too sharp. He was looking at Suho like he was afraid to blink.

 

Gotak sat on the floor at Suho’s feet, one elbow propped on his knee, chin pressed into his palm. His body leaned close, heavy, like gravity itself had pulled him down. His wide eyes never left Suho, round and unguarded, his brows furrowed deep. His lips were parted too, as though he wanted to say something — anything — but nothing would come. Not even a joke.

 

And Juntae…

 

Juntae was on the couch across from him, knees turned inward, his whole body tilted toward Suho. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, his small hands twisting uselessly in his lap. He tried once — twice — to hold the sob back, but it slipped out anyway, a shaky sound that cracked the silence. Still, his gaze never wavered. Even through the blur of tears, he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

 

And Suho sat there, in the center of it all.

 

Tears slid quietly down his face, soaking into his shirt. His hands trembled uselessly against his knees, his nails digging crescents into the fabric. He was broken open, caught between past and present — between the memory of Sieun bleeding quietly while bandaging him, and now, here, surrounded by the weight of his friends’ silence.

 

No one spoke.

 

The room held its breath.

 

The only sounds were Juntae’s shaky sniffling and Suho’s own uneven breathing.

 

And in that silence, the truth pressed down on him from all sides — that he had hurt Sieun again and again, that he hadn’t seen him bleeding, that every cruel word he’d ever spat still hung heavy in the air.

 

It clawed at his chest, suffocating.

 

I keep breaking him. I keep breaking everyone.

 

Suho’s tears fell harder, silently, his head bowing low as his body shook.

 

And still, none of them moved. None of them spoke.

 

They just stayed — watching, holding the silence like it might keep him from shattering completely.

 

Baku opened his mouth first, lips parting like he had something—anything—to throw into the silence. But nothing came. His jaw worked once, then shut again, the sound dying in his throat.

Gotak shifted where he sat on the floor, cleared his throat roughly. The sound was too loud, grating against the heavy quiet. He stared down at his hands, flexed them once, then finally muttered, low and uneven, “That’s… a lot…”

The silence after swallowed even that.

No one said anything. Not for a long moment. The weight of what Suho had spilled—the memories, the hurt, the shame—sat over them like a storm cloud, pressing the air too thick to breathe.

Then Gotak spoke again, voice breaking in the middle: “Why… why didn’t we know about it though?” His brows pinched hard, like he was blaming himself for even asking.

The answer didn’t come from Suho first. It came from Baku.

His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable. “…Because he never said anything.”

The words cracked something open in the room.

Suho’s head bowed, tears spilling faster, his voice no stronger than a whisper when he finally managed, “He… he protected me. Protected my dignity…”

Gotak exhaled then, a sigh so deep it sounded dragged from his chest, heavy enough to hurt.

And then—Juntae.

The quietest of them. He finally broke.

 

A sob ripped out of him before he could stop it. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, his shoulders trembling as if he could hide the sound behind his palm. But it kept coming—uneven, raw, choked.

 

He yanked his glasses off roughly, like he was angry at them, at himself, at everything. But he didn’t wipe his eyes. He only pressed his hands over his face, hiding there, as though he couldn’t let them see him like this. His body shook as the sobs spilled harder, freer, the sound wet and painful.

 

Gotak shuffled closer, his movements uncharacteristically careful. He rested a hand against Juntae’s shin, rubbing slow circles with his thumb, murmuring, “Calm down… hey, it’s okay, calm down…”

 

But it wasn’t okay.

 

Because the more Gotak tried, the harder Juntae cried. His chest heaved, his shoulders curled inward, like all the pain and guilt he’d kept buried was spilling out at once. His sobs filled the room, cutting through the silence that none of them had been able to break with words.

 

“Why you…” Juntae’s voice cracked through his hands, muffled but sharp enough to pierce. He lowered them just enough to look at Suho, his face blotchy and wet, his eyes burning red. “Why you have to hurt him…?”

Suho’s eyes squeezed shut instantly, as if the words themselves were too bright, too sharp to face. His chest caved in around his breath, and he bowed his head deeper, as though shrinking away could shield him from the truth.

But Juntae didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

“You were hurting. We all saw you hurting,” his voice broke into jagged edges, torn between anger and grief. “But why—why did you have to hurt him too? He was already suffering, Suho. Already suffering too much. He was barely—” his words hitched into another sob— “he was barely hanging on…”

The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with the sound of Juntae’s ragged breathing.

Baku let out a loud, broken exhale, dragging his hands over his face. “Juntae…” he muttered, his own voice hoarse, like he wanted to stop him, to protect Suho from the blow—but even he didn’t have the strength to argue it.

And then Juntae broke completely.

The sobs tore out louder now, shaking his whole frame. He bent forward, hands pressing hard against his face as if he could crush the grief back into silence, but it only spilled harsher, filling the room with raw, ugly sound.

Gotak moved instantly, crouching beside him, hand rubbing firm and steady along his back. “Hey… hey, calm down. Breathe. It’s okay—just breathe…” His voice was low, grounding, but even he sounded frayed, like he was holding onto himself by a thread.

Suho didn’t lift his head.

He sat there, trembling, fists buried in the blanket, eyes shut so tightly it hurt. Because he could see it anyway. Sieun’s face. That day. The silence in his eyes when Suho’s words had cut him deepest. The stillness, the way his lips had parted but no words had come—because Suho had taken them all from him.

And now, with Juntae’s voice echoing through the present, Suho’s chest split open all over again.

He remembered Sieun’s expression like it had been burned into him—how he had stood there, too calm, too quiet, as though carrying one more wound wouldn’t change anything at all.

And Suho hated himself for it.

Because Juntae was right.

Sieun had been barely hanging on.

And Suho had been the one to push him closer to the edge.

The room was still thick with Juntae’s sobs when Baku suddenly exhaled — a long, rough sound that seemed to scrape against his throat. He sat forward, palms braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor for a second too long. Then he spoke.

“…Let’s fix this.”

Suho’s head jerked up.

Baku was looking at him. And he was smiling — but not the careless grin Suho had seen a thousand times before. Not the boyish flash of teeth that mocked the world like it was all a game. This smile was small. Tight. Strained at the corners, but steady. The kind of smile you wore when you were holding something broken in your hands and refusing to let go.

And there was something else in it. Something Suho hadn’t seen in days.

Hope.

It stung. It stung so bad that Suho’s throat clenched. He blinked, wide-eyed, chest aching, because what right did he have to look at that kind of smile anymore?

Baku nodded, as if trying to convince himself as much as Suho. “We can fix this.” His voice was low but firm, weight behind each word. Then, louder, like he wanted to anchor the whole room: “Let’s fix this.”

He clapped his hands hard against his thighs, the sound breaking through the thick silence like a spark in the dark.

Gotak, who had still been crouched beside Juntae, lifted his head. He met Baku’s eyes, then nodded once — slow, sure. His usual mischief was gone, replaced with something grim and sharp. Agreement. Resolve.

Suho stared at them both, speechless.

And then Juntae’s voice cut through. Quieter. Raw. His throat still ragged from crying. “…You need to fix this, Suho.”

Suho’s heart clenched hard.

Juntae was standing now, wiping nothing, his hands trembling uselessly at his sides. Tears still streaked down his cheeks, his glasses forgotten on the table, his eyes swollen and shining. But he didn’t look away from Suho.

“You need to fix this,” he repeated, firmer, his voice breaking all over again. “He doesn’t deserve it. Not then. Not now.”

And then, before Suho could even speak, Juntae turned. His hand lifted instinctively, covering his face again as if he couldn’t bear to let them see him crumble further. He walked stiffly toward his room, steps uneven with the weight of his grief. His shoulders hunched, curling inward, his sobs still escaping despite his attempts to muffle them.

Suho’s eyes followed him. Wide. Shaking. The sight cut into him like glass.

Because he realized it wasn’t just Sieun he had hurt.

It was all of them.

And the thought was unbearable.

 

Gotak exhaled, rubbing his palm over his face before leaning back against the couch. His voice was quieter now, steadier than before. “Give him some time,” he murmured. “He’s… he’s emotionally attached to Sieun. More than anyone. He’ll be okay.”

The words hung in the air, trying to soothe. But to Suho, they only pressed deeper into the ache in his chest.

Because who wasn’t emotionally attached to Sieun?

Suho’s gaze dropped to his hands, still faintly trembling in his lap, the faint tug of the bandage reminding him of everything that had just played out in memory and in confession. He thought of Baku’s sharp eyes, Gotak’s steady presence, Juntae’s sobs — and behind it all, always, was Sieun.

Every single person in this apartment… every single one of them carried pieces of Sieun inside their hearts. Not just as a friend. Not just as a teammate. But as someone irreplaceable. Someone they’d orbit no matter what.

And Suho… Suho was no different.

His throat tightened, his chest squeezing until it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Because Sieun needed to know.

Sieun needed to know that Suho cared for him, desperately, achingly — that all those cruel words, all that poison he’d spilled in anger, weren’t the truth. That he hadn’t misunderstood Suho’s heart. That Suho needed him too much.

Even when Suho was angry. Even when he was breaking apart.

Especially then.

Sieun was the only person Suho never wanted to give up.

Never.

The thought burned through him, heavy and terrifying, but true.

His eyes blurred as he bit down on his lip, nails digging into his palms. He needed to tell him. Properly. Not in broken fragments, not in rage, not in silence. But in words that left no doubt.

That he missed him. God, he missed him.

Every second Sieun was away, every moment he wasn’t by Suho’s side, it was unbearable. The air felt thinner, the walls higher, the world colder.

He wasn’t fine without him. He never had been. He never could be.

And the truth hit so sharp that it almost knocked the breath from his chest:

He didn’t want to learn how.

Notes:

So, I hope you liked it!?

I still have a few things written and a few more planned… like what really happened after Suho said those things. Honestly, I think it was one of the most hurtful moments because — spoiler alert — Sieun was so broken that he ended up calling Halmoni. She came over and… well, I won’t say too much, but let’s just say it was a lot. (At least according to me 😅).

Still, I feel like it’s time to move back into the present because I really miss my present-day Suho, Sieun, and of course my very chaotic gang. Not gonna lie, I had to go back and reread Chapter 38 myself because I got so absorbed in the past storyline that it felt hard to shift back. And truthfully, a part of me still wants to finish the entire past arc… but maybe it’s better to leave it as suspense for now. Who knows — it might make things even more interesting later.

Also… something tragic (but kind of funny?) happened to me. Remember the other story I mentioned — the one that was supposed to be a one-shot? Yeah, it’s not a one-shot anymore 😅 It somehow grew into a multi-chapter fic, and then… it ended up connecting to this fic. Totally not my intention, but here we are. And to make things even wilder, there’s a third fic that also feels connected now. So basically, it turned into this whole timeline:

This fic → they’re in university, still figuring out their feelings.

The second fic (posting soon) → they’re in their late 20s, with work and marriage coming into play.

The third fic → they’re married but on the verge of divorce.

 

It sounds kind of hilarious, but also makes me so happy — because I never thought I’d end up writing like this, yet here I am. The third fic might even include some supernatural elements… monsters maybe? I’m not sure if I can pull it off, but I’m definitely going to try.

Anyway, that’s enough of my rambling for now. I really hope you had a wonderful week! As always, your comments make me so happy — I love reading them first thing in the morning; they honestly make my day. I’d also love to know what you think about this chapter. And yes… Sieun is coming back very soon. 💜

Take care, stay safe, stay healthy, and have an amazing week ahead. Bye-bye!

Chapter 46: NOT AN UPDATE

Hey everyone! 💜 This is iamthesin, the author of The Cold Princess and Her Loyal Guard Dog.

First of all, thank you so much for waiting so patiently — the next update for this fic will be coming next week, most likely on Sunday. 🗓️✨ I know the wait feels long, but I promise it’ll be worth it.

In the meantime, I’ve posted something new! 🎉 It’s the direct continuation of The Cold Princess (yes, the second story I’ve been teasing in my notes so many times 🤭). And ....... the third one is also on the way soon.

In this continuation, our chaos gang is already grown, well-settled, and shining brightly in their chosen careers. 🌟 They’re the same chaotic, lovable family you’ve fallen for, but now you’ll get to see them in a whole new stage of life. I poured so much love into this story, and I think you’ll really enjoy it. The work has already been added to the series below, so it’s easy to find!

Your encouragement and love mean more to me than I can put into words. 💌 Every comment, every little note — it all keeps me motivated to keep building this world for you. Thank you for being here, for reading, and for sharing this journey with me.

The update for this book will drop next Sunday. Until then, please take care of yourselves, stay safe, and know that I love you all always.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of His First Love