Chapter Text
The hospital room shifts from night to day not through windows, but through the ceiling light brightening by a fraction. The air remains the same: clean, dry, faintly bitter. The monitor continues its steady rhythm, indifferent to time.
Junhui is awake when Wonwoo opens his eyes. Or perhaps he never slept. It is difficult to tell. He lies on his back now, blanket smoothed neatly over his legs, IV still taped to his hand. His face is composed again. Whatever rawness had surfaced during the night has been pressed back into place, hidden behind careful breathing and straight posture.
Wonwoo sits beside the bed in the same chair he has occupied since last night. His jacket remains folded on the backrest. His phone lies face-down in his pocket. Nothing in his posture suggests exhaustion, though his body has not rested. He watches Junhui’s breathing, slower now, more controlled.
A knock at the door.
The doctor enters with a tablet tucked under one arm. She greets Junhui first, as she should. Junhui answers with polite speech, voice quiet but steady. He is already wearing the new patch on the side of his neck, placed earlier by a nurse. It sits like a small square of pale fabric against his skin, unobtrusive, almost innocent.
The doctor checks the monitor, the IV line, the chart. Then she turns to Junhui, not to Wonwoo.
“Your vitals remained stable overnight,” she says. “No further autonomic spikes. No respiratory instability. That’s good.”
Junhui nods once.
“The new pheromone patch suppresses outward projection only,” she continues. “It will not suppress internal regulation. That means you will be aware of physiological responses instead of your body handling them in silence. If you feel dizziness, tremors, breath changes, or sudden heat, you come back here as soon as possible.”
Junhui listens without interrupting.
“The goal,” the doctor says, “is to prevent accumulation. Awareness is protective now. So listen to your body.”
Junhui gives a second nod. Smaller this time.
The doctor scrolls on her tablet.
“For the next week, you are to remain in consistent proximity with the imprint counterpart,” she says, tone clinical.”
Junhui’s gaze flicks, once, toward Wonwoo. Then away again.
“Physical contact,” the doctor adds, “is to be established as tolerated. You should feel the push now that your emotional and physiological responses are more aligned. But if any contact triggers distress, you stop. ”
Junhui’s fingers shift against the blanket. He does not speak.
The doctor continues.
“No strenuous activity. No intense exercise. No overstimulation. And—” she pauses briefly, only just long enough to acknowledge the awkwardness “—no sexual activity during this stabilisation period.”
Silence.
Then, dry as dust on a shelf, Junhui says, “Noted.”
His voice is even. The corner of his mouth does not move. But the absurdity lands anyway.
Wonwoo feels a single, involuntary twitch at the edge of his jaw. It disappears as quickly as it came.
The doctor nods, satisfied. “Follow-up assessment is scheduled for next Tuesday, nine a.m. We will re-evaluate autonomic stability, hormonal markers, and psychological tolerance.”
She finally turns to Wonwoo.
“You will accompany him,” she says. Not a question.
Wonwoo inclines his head once.
The doctor returns her attention to Junhui. “Do you have questions?”
Junhui looks at his IV line. At the blanket. At the patch on his neck.
Then he lifts his eyes.
“If I follow all this,” he asks, “I won’t end up here again?”
The doctor does not promise what she cannot guarantee.
“It significantly reduces the risk,” she says. “And if symptoms emerge, we will intervene early.”
Junhui accepts that. He nods again.
“I understand.”
The doctor smiles politely. It does not reach sentimentality.
“You’ll be discharged within the hour,” she says. “Rest today. Eat something light. Avoid unnecessary stress.”
She leaves. The door closes. The monitor continues.
Junhui exhales. Not shakily this time. Just a quiet release of held breath.
Wonwoo does not speak immediately.
He waits until Junhui’s fingers stop worrying the blanket.
Then he says, simply, “We’ll follow the instructions.”
Junhui glances at him. A brief look. Then he looks away again.
Junhui does not speak again until the nurse arrives to remove the IV.
The tape peels away with a soft sound. The needle slides out. A small cotton pad is pressed to the back of his hand. Junhui watches the process without flinching, as if witnessing something happening to someone else’s body. When the nurse tapes the cotton in place, his fingers flex once, testing control.
Discharge paperwork follows. Signatures. Explanations repeated in softer voices. A plastic bag containing medication. A printed appointment card for next Tuesday, nine a.m.
Junhui accepts everything with both hands.
By the time they step out of the hospital doors, the day has fully formed.
The sky is pale and overcast. A slow wind moves through the car park, carrying the smell of damp concrete and exhaust. People pass by in coats, coffee cups in hand, phones pressed to ears. The world does not pause for anyone’s crisis.
Minghao and Mingyu are waiting near the entrance.
Minghao stands with two large tote bags and a backpack. Junhui’s things, gathered from the dorm in quiet efficiency. Mingyu stands beside him holding a paper cup of coffee and looking like he has not slept.
When they see Junhui, both straighten immediately.
“You’re out,” Mingyu says. Relief and disbelief mix in his voice.
Junhui nods. “I’m out.”
Minghao steps forward without asking and hands him the backpack. Junhui takes it, shoulders dipping slightly under its weight. Minghao’s eyes scan his face, his posture, the new patch on his neck. He says nothing, but his concern is clear.
“You look better than last night,” Minghao says finally.
Junhui exhales through his nose. “That’s a low bar.”
Mingyu snorts once, then sobers again. “We got your clothes, toothbrush, your books, and your laptop and charger. Also some other stuff we thought you might need.”
Junhui gives a small smile. “Thank you.”
Soonyoung and Jihoon are not here. They had morning classes. But they left messages. Junhui has not checked his phone yet.
A black Bentley rolls to a stop at the curb.
Wonwoo’s driver steps out first, walking around to open the back door. His movements are practiced and impersonal.
Wonwoo takes one of the tote bags from Minghao.
“We should get going,” Wonwoo says.
Minghao studies him for a moment. Then he nods and lets go of the bag.
“Message me,” Minghao says to Junhui, “updates on how you’re doing.”
Junhui meets his eyes. “I will.”
Mingyu steps closer, awkward for once. He hesitates, then pats Junhui’s shoulder once. “Get well soon,” he says. “And don’t scare us again.”
Junhui looks at his hand on his shoulder, then back at Mingyu.
“I’ll try,” he says.
They stand there for another moment. No dramatic farewell. Then Junhui steps toward the car. Before he gets in, he turns back once.
“Thank you,” he says again.
Minghao inclines his head. Mingyu lifts his hand in a small wave.
Then Junhui ducks into the back seat. Wonwoo follows. The door closes. The outside world is sealed away.
The driver gets in. The engine starts. The car pulls away from the curb. The car moves smoothly through late morning traffic.
The city slides past the tinted windows in soft, muted colours. Grey sky. Concrete. Neon signs already lit despite the daylight. Pedestrians in dark coats crossing streets without urgency. Seoul continues as if nothing inside this car matters.
Junhui sits by the window.
The backpack rests on his lap. One hand is placed over it, fingers curled loosely around the strap. The cotton pad on the back of his other hand is taped down, a small square of white against his skin. The hospital wristband remains. He has not tried to remove it yet.
Wonwoo sits beside him, a half-step of distance between their shoulders. Enough to respect space. Not enough to feel separate.
Neither of them speaks.
The driver’s presence is quiet and contained. The partition remains open, but he does not glance back. He does not turn on the radio. He does not ask questions. His job is motion, not curiosity.
Junhui watches the city.
His reflection drifts across the window glass, superimposed over passing buildings. Sometimes he seems to be looking at himself. Sometimes through himself. His breathing is steady. Controlled. Too controlled, like someone holding a fragile object inside their chest.
Wonwoo watches him without turning his head fully. Only small shifts of gaze. Junhui’s jaw. The line of his neck. The new pheromone patch, pale against skin. The hospital band. The backpack strap pulled under Junhui’s fingers.
A minute passes.
Another.
The car turns onto a wider road. Traffic thins. Buildings grow taller, cleaner, newer. Sinchon approaches. Student district. Busy, loud, alive. The kind of place where lives overlap without noticing each other.
His phone vibrates once in his pocket.
He does not take it out. He already knows what it is.
He had sent the message yesterday, while Junhui still slept under hospital sedation. A single instruction to his family’s assistant. Have the penthouse cleaned. Stock the kitchen. Change the sheets. Make it livable.
It would have been done by now. Quietly. Efficiently. Without questions asked aloud.
The driver will log the destination. The assistant will log the driver. The assistant will report completion.
The information will reach his mother by afternoon.
He acknowledges this without reacting.
A crisis for another day.
Junhui shifts slightly, readjusting his hold on the backpack. The movement is small, but Wonwoo feels it in the air between them, like a change in temperature.
Junhui does not look away from the window when he speaks.
“How far?”
His voice is steady. Quiet.
Wonwoo answers immediately.
“Ten minutes.”
Junhui nods once.
They return to silence.
The car turns into a side street lined with young ginkgo trees. Their leaves are still green, not yet ready for autumn. A security gate slides open without the driver slowing. The building rises clean and pale against the grey sky, glass catching what little light there is.
Sinchon. Ten minutes from Yonsei, close enough that students pass this neighbourhood daily without ever knowing what sits above them. Convenient. Discreet. One of several properties his family owns across Seoul. A place to exist without being seen.
But not the family home.
That remains in Gugi-dong, older and heavier with history. The ancestral house where his parents live, where family gatherings happen, where names are carved into wood beams and expectations into bone. This penthouse is not heritage. It is function. A space designed for temporary occupancy. For independence that is never quite independence.
The car disappears into the underground parking.
The driver gets out first. Opens the door. Wonwoo steps out, then reaches back to take one of the tote bags before Junhui has to. Junhui follows, backpack still on his shoulders, medication bag in one hand.
They walk toward the elevator.
The lobby is quiet. Polished stone floors. Soft recessed lighting. A scent of something neutral and expensive that never lingers long enough to identify. A receptionist bows. Wonwoo inclines his head in return. Junhui mirrors the gesture half a beat later.
The elevator ride is smooth. Silent. Numbers climb. The hum of ascent fills the space between them.
Top floor.
The doors open directly into the penthouse.
It is clean. Not hotel-clean, but lived-in clean. The kind of order that suggests someone belongs here, even if they are not here often. Shoes aligned by the entrance. A book left on the coffee table. A glass water carafe beside the sofa. Light filtering through sheer curtains across wide windows.
The cleaners have done their work. The air is fresh. Kitchen stocked. But the space still carries Wonwoo’s presence. In the placement of objects. In the absence of clutter. In the way nothing is out of place.
Junhui steps inside.
He does not comment on the size. The ceiling height. The corridor stretching beyond sight. The quiet hum of an expensive refrigerator.
He only takes off his shoes and places them neatly by the door.
Wonwoo does the same.
“I’ll show you the rooms,” Wonwoo says.
They walk down the corridor. Their footsteps are muted by carpet. Doors line the hall. Bedrooms. A study. A spare room. Storage.
Wonwoo stops at the first bedroom.
“This one is close to the living room,” he says. “There's bathroom inside.”
He opens the door.
The room is simple. A large bed. Desk. Wardrobe. Fresh linen. A folded towel on the bed. A small lamp. Curtains drawn halfway.
Junhui steps inside and sets his backpack on the bed.
“It’s fine,” he says.
Wonwoo nods.
“If you need anything else, tell me.”
Junhui looks around once more, then back at Wonwoo.
“Thanks,” he says.
Wonwoo accepts it without comment.
He closes the door partway, leaving it ajar just a fraction. Then he continues down the corridor. His own room is farther away, near the end of the hall.
He opens the door.
This room is different. Not styled. Not neutral. Clearly inhabited. Books stacked on the desk. A laptop closed. A basketball in the corner. Clothes folded with military precision. A guitar leaning against the wall, rarely touched but present. A second pillow on the bed, used more than he admits.
He stands for a moment inside his doorway.
This is a space he knows how to exist in. Now Junhui exists here too. Under the same ceiling. Behind a door only a few metres away.
Wonwoo closes his door gently.
The latch clicks.
For the first time since they were eighteen, they are alone in the same home.
And neither of them yet knows how to breathe inside it.
–
Lunch arrives without discussion.
Wonwoo orders it while Junhui is still inside the bedroom, door half-closed, quiet on the other side. He uses a delivery app. He selects dishes he remembers Junhui used to choose.
When the doorbell rings, Wonwoo answers it, accepts the bags, and sets the food on the dining table. Steam rises as he opens the containers. The scent spreads through the apartment.
Only then does he walk down the corridor.
He knocks once on Junhui’s door.
“Lunch,” he says.
There is a brief pause. Then the door opens. Junhui steps out, hair slightly disheveled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looks alert but cautious.
Spicy tofu stew. Rice. Side dishes arranged neatly. Familiar food. Ordinary food. Junhui looks at it. He does not comment. But his shoulders lower slightly, as if a tension he did not notice has eased.
They eat.
They sit across from each other. There is no television. No music. Only the quiet sound of chopsticks against ceramic and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
Junhui eats slowly. The patch on his neck does its work. His breathing remains steady.
Wonwoo eats at a similar pace. Their movements fall into quiet synchrony.
Halfway through the meal, Junhui speaks.
“I can return to classes tomorrow.”
Wonwoo looks up.
The doctor’s instructions rise in his mind.
“Which classes?” he asks.
“Two seminars,” Junhui answers. “Attendance matters.” He pauses. “I’ll be done around noon.”
Wonwoo considers this.
“I will walk you,” he says.
Junhui’s chopsticks stop in midair.
“I can go alone.”
“I know,” Wonwoo says. “But we were told not to separate for long periods.”
Junhui exhales quietly. Something close to resignation passes through his eyes. He returns to eating. The matter is settled.
When they finish, Junhui begins stacking the dishes.
“You do not have to,” Wonwoo says.
“I know,” Junhui replies. “I want to.”
They stand side by side at the sink. Junhui washes. Wonwoo dries. Their hands move in calm coordination. They do not touch but their shoulders remain within the same shared space. Close enough that warmth could be felt if either paid attention to it.
The kitchen returns to order.
After that, they move to the living room in silent agreement.
Junhui sits on the sofa. He takes out his phone and starts playing with it. Wonwoo sits in the armchair opposite him. He opens his laptop. He answers a few emails. He sends a brief message to his professors, notifying them that he will go back to classes in a few days.
They exist in parallel. In the same space. Breathing the same air.
Occasionally, Junhui shifts his posture. Crosses his legs. Rubs his wrist. Each movement draws Wonwoo’s attention for a moment before he returns to his screen.
No one speaks.
By late afternoon, the light outside changes. Grey becomes muted gold. Shadows stretch across the floor.
Junhui puts his phone away.
“I am tired,” he says.
Wonwoo closes his laptop. “Let’s eat first.”
They reheat the remaining food from lunch. They eat again. More quietly this time. After eating, Junhui stands.
“I will shower,” he says.
Wonwoo nods.
Junhui disappears into his room. Water runs. Then stops. A door opens and closes. Footsteps pass along the corridor. Junhui walks by with damp hair and loose clothes.
He pauses.
“Good night,” he says.
Wonwoo looks up.
“Good night.”
Junhui turns around and walks back to his room. Wonwoo hears the door close.
Wonwoo remains in the living room for a moment longer. He finishes one last message on his phone. Then he turns off the lights. He walks down the corridor to his room and opens the door.
His room is familiar. Controlled. His.
He sits on the edge of the bed.
Beyond the wall, Junhui is breathing. Existing under the same roof.
They are following instructions. But instructions do not account for the way the air feels different now. For the way the silence has changed shape. Wonwoo lies down and turns off the light.
–
Wonwoo wakes to the sound of soft knocking. Just three careful taps against wood.
He blinks. The room is dark. The digital clock on his bedside table reads 1:17 a.m.
He sits up.
The knocking comes again. Lighter this time. As if the person on the other side is afraid of disturbing him.
Wonwoo exhales quietly and gets out of bed. He crosses the room without turning on the light and opens the door.
Junhui stands in the corridor.
He is holding a pillow against his chest. It’s held like something necessary. His face is composed. But his shoulders are tight. His hands grip the pillow too firmly. His breathing is careful. Controlled. Like someone trying not to spill something precious.
“I can’t sleep,” Junhui says.
His voice is quiet. Even. But it lands like a confession.
Wonwoo studies him for a moment. The dim corridor light casts soft shadows along Junhui’s jaw, his collarbones, the patch on his neck.
“How can I help?” Wonwoo asks.
Junhui’s fingers tighten on the pillow.
He does not speak.
Wonwoo recognises it. The question Junhui cannot ask. The need he refuses to shape into words. The same way Junhui once refused to say he was hurting, even when it was obvious.
Wonwoo draws a slow breath.
“Would you like to sleep here?” he asks.
He does not add with me. He does not need to.
Junhui looks at him. Really looks. His eyes are dark and unsettled and full of things that have nowhere to go.
He nods once. A small, hesitant thing.
Wonwoo opens the door wider and steps back. He extends his hand into the space between them. Not reaching. Just an offering.
Junhui hesitates.
Then, after several heartbeats, he shifts the pillow to one arm and places his free hand into Wonwoo’s.
His fingers are cool. His grip is careful, not too firm but not too lose either.
Wonwoo closes his hand around Junhui’s and guides him into the room.
The door remains open behind them.
Junhui steps inside like someone crossing a line that cannot be uncrossed.
They move to the bed.
Wonwoo pulls back the blanket. Junhui sets the pillow down. They climb in without hurry, without stumbling. They lie on their backs, side by side, a narrow space between their bodies.
The room is dark, but faint light from the corridor spills in. Minutes pass. Junhui shifts once. Then again. His breathing is shallow. His muscles do not soften.
Wonwoo listens. Feels the restless energy beside him. He turns his head slightly.
“Would you like me to hold you?” he asks.
Junhui turns his face toward him. His expression is a convergence of emotions. He’s a person standing on the edge of asking for something that could change everything.
Finally, he whispers, “Yes.”
They move slowly. Wonwoo turns onto his side first. Carefully. Giving Junhui time to adjust. Junhui mirrors him. They draw closer by degrees. The space between them narrows until their knees brush lightly, then their thighs, then their torsos.
Wonwoo lifts his arm and slides it behind Junhui’s back. Junhui leans in. Inch by inch. Until his forehead rests briefly against Wonwoo’s shoulder. Until his chest meets Wonwoo’s ribs. Until his ear settles over Wonwoo’s heart.
Junhui exhales.
It shudders once on the way out, like a breath held too long finally released. His shoulders drop. The tension in his spine unwinds. His grip on the pillow loosens, and it falls forgotten between them.
Wonwoo tightens his arms around him.
Junhui tucks his face into the junction of Wonwoo’s neck and shoulder. His breath brushes skin. Hair clings lightly to Wonwoo’s collarbone.
“You’re alright,” Wonwoo whispers into his hair. “Sleep now.”
Junhui’s breathing evens. Slowly. Gradually. His body sinks into Wonwoo’s hold as if surrendering weight he has carried for years.
Minutes later, he is asleep.
Wonwoo does not move.
He listens to Junhui’s breath. Feels the rise and fall of his chest. The warmth pressed against his ribs.
Junhui is in his arms. He had made peace with never holding him again.
Something in Wonwoo’s own chest loosens. A knot he did not know he had been carrying.
He remains awake long into the early hours.