Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chan leaned toward him, measuring every centimeter so his shadow wouldn’t swallow the scarce light filtering through the window.

“—Yes,” he whispered, his voice strangely monotone. “He’s here. He’s safe. You are too.”

Minho blinked. The simple movement of his eyelids felt like sandpaper brushing against them. The world weighed behind his eyes, a dull pressure pulsing with the rhythm of his heart. He shifted his gaze toward Jisung, who was still bent over the edge of the mattress, his fingers stretched out trying to keep the contact. The image was a knot of tenderness and chaos.

“—What… happened?” Minho’s voice broke, his vocal cords dry and clumsy.

The memory of a concussion is not a river; it’s a broken mirror. Fragments of images that cut when you try to piece them back together. Chan didn’t answer immediately. His hands were still, too still, a sign of the shock that still numbed his reflexes.

“—You hit your head,” Chan explained. “They gave you stitches. You’re on fluids and painkillers. The tests came back fine, Minho. You’re out of danger.”

Minho swallowed, feeling the metallic taste in his throat. When he tried to move his arm, the pull of the IV line was like a bolt of reality. He saw the tube, the medical tape, and the reflection of the bandages in the window’s glass.

Minho’s pupils dilated, flooding his eyes with black. His breathing turned erratic and shallow, as if he had fragments of what had happened before waking up here.

“—Did he…?”

“—Nothing serious happened to him,” Chan interrupted with almost violent speed, desperate to contain the other’s panic. “They checked him. He has a bruise on his stomach and a sore wrist, but he’s fine. He’s here because he refused to let go of your hand.”

Minho looked back at Jisung, searching for visual confirmation that he was still breathing. He tried to sit up, an instinctive impulse of protection, but the world spun one hundred and eighty degrees. Nausea rose like an acidic tide. The heart monitor started beeping at a more frantic rhythm, betraying his agitation.

“—No. Stay still.” Chan placed a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him to the bed. “Your brain can’t handle sudden movements right now. Breathe.”

Minho shut his eyes tightly, fighting the vertigo.

“—How long…?” he managed to articulate.

“—A few hours. It’s almost six in the morning.”

Lost time was a black hole. Minho fixed his gaze on the ceiling, trying to steady himself.

“—The event?” he asked suddenly, his voice recovering a trace of his old awareness.

Chan let out a sigh that was meant to be a laugh, but it sounded like pure exhaustion.

“—You just woke up and you’re asking me about work. You’re unbelievable.”

“—I had a fever…” Minho murmured, as the memory of his body burning before the fight surfaced like a ghost. “Before everything.”

“—We know. Jisung told the doctor. That probably left you defenseless.” Chan was pacing, but his gaze drifted away for a second. The weight of what he wasn’t saying, Jisung’s panic attack, the emotional collapse he had witnessed, floated in the air.

Minho looked again at Jisung’s sleeping figure. His chest rose and fell with a heaviness that didn’t belong to a peaceful sleep.

“—He’s… sleeping,” Minho said. It wasn’t a question, it was a plea for confirmation. He needed Jisung to be just a tired boy and not another victim of that night.

Chan watched him. He knew Jisung wasn’t simply tired; he was empty, drained by a fear that had almost consumed him. But he couldn’t tell Minho that. Not with the electrodes stuck to his chest and his gaze still lost.

“—He ran out of energy,” Chan lied halfway, hiding the chaos boiling under the surface. “Right now the only thing that matters is that you rest too.”

In that state of semi-consciousness, words mattered less than pauses. His free hand, heavy and clumsy as if it didn’t belong to him, dragged across the sheet. It wasn’t looking for a firm grip; it was looking for a sign of life. A rock.

It was that minimal shift in the room’s static that broke Jisung’s trance.

It wasn’t a sound, nor a voice. It was something primitive, an electric connection that only survives in moments of crisis. Jisung’s fingers tensed against the mattress; his lashes trembled before his eyes opened, unfocused and filled with a confusion that lasted barely an instant.

Then reality touched him.

He sat up abruptly and the air escaped his lungs in a dry gasp.
“—What?”

His gaze, frantic and dilated, locked onto Minho. And he found him there. Awake. Eyes fixed on him, holding the world together by a thread of consciousness. Time stopped. Jisung didn’t move; he simply watched him with a clinical, almost violent intensity. He needed to verify everything: the rhythm of the monitor, the whiteness of the bandage, the foggy shine in Minho’s pupils.

“—Hey,” Minho said, and his voice was still weak, but there was something there. Something of his.

Jisung swallowed, the knot in his throat tightening painfully. He didn’t cry. His tear ducts seemed to have dried after the emotional burn of the previous hours. But his breathing turned erratic. He leaned over the bed, placing his hands down so hard that his knuckles turned white.

“—You’re awake,” Jisung whispered. His voice was like glass about to shatter; if he spoke louder, he feared Minho would fade like a mirage.

Minho watched him. He noticed the dark circles, the residual tremor in Jisung’s shoulders, the pallor that made him look like porcelain.

“—You always make… a lot of noise,” Minho murmured.

It was a bad joke, a clumsy attempt to recover normality, but it was the anchor Jisung needed. A broken exhale, halfway between a sob and a laugh, escaped his lips.

Chan, watching from the periphery, felt the weight pressing on his chest give way by a couple of millimeters. For the first time all night, his shoulders relaxed. The tension hadn’t disappeared. It was still there in the monitor cables, in the threat of neurological deterioration and in the bruises that would soon begin to darken, but the void had been filled.

Jisung leaned a little closer, reducing the distance between them, as if he feared that too much oxygen might make Minho vanish. He didn’t touch him immediately; his hands hovered near the sheet, hesitant. He watched him with an almost painful focus, analyzing whether the shine in Minho’s pupils was real awareness or just an empty reflection from the ceiling lamp.

“—Do you recognize me?” Jisung asked. His voice didn’t seek drama; it was a biological need, an anchor to keep from sinking.

Minho looked at him. The effort of processing Jisung’s image, the messy hair, the reddened cheekbone, the bandage covering a wound on his neck, the pallor, took him a second longer than usual. The mechanism of his mind creaked.

“—Unfortunately, yes,” he managed to say.

It was a dry answer, pure Minho essence, but the faint glimmer in his eyes was the permission Jisung needed. He let out a shaky little laugh that faded quickly, and finally dared to wrap Minho’s hand in his, carefully avoiding the IV line.

Minho’s skin was cold, a drastic contrast to the feverish heat from hours earlier.

“—They gave you antipyretics and prophylactic antibiotics for the wound,” Chan intervened. His tone was measured, almost professional, acting as the logical shield both of them needed. “They did a CT scan. There’s no intracranial hemorrhage, Minho. Just the concussion and the scalp laceration.”

Minho blinked, the word echoing in his head with a metallic ring.
“—A CT scan?”

“—Yes. They took you to radiology as soon as we arrived.”

Minho frowned. He searched his mind, looking for the movement of the stretcher, the cold lights of the hallway, or the sound of the scanner. He found nothing. Only a dense emptiness, a fog that caused a stab of vertigo. Absolute forgetting is a form of sensory violence.

Jisung felt the spasm in Minho’s fingers and squeezed more firmly, steady but gentle.

“—You fell asleep,” he whispered, trying to fill the gap in his memory. “That’s all that happened.”

Minho studied him more closely, with a mind as exhausted and heavy as it could manage. There was something different about Jisung. The hysteria that had dominated him before the fight had turned into a tense calm, like someone who had walked along the edge of an abyss and decided not to look down. Minho understood that Jisung had seen everything. He didn’t expect him to still be as cheerful and energetic as he had been that morning, but there was something different, something that didn’t quite add up.

“—Did they hit you?” Minho asked suddenly. His gaze instinctively moved to Jisung’s abdomen, driven by a remnant of protective adrenaline.

“—A little,” Jisung admitted. The truth sounded like surrender.

Chan intervened before the conversation could sink into guilt. His voice was the only guiding thread in the room.

“—Nothing serious. A bruise on the abdomen and a swollen wrist. They already checked him, Minho. He’s fine.”

Minho wasn’t satisfied. His eyes, still slightly unfocused from the head trauma, traced Jisung’s face with almost painful concentration.

“—Does it hurt?”

Jisung shook his head immediately. The movement tightened the muscles of his neck, a dull reminder of the fight, but he held Minho’s gaze.

“—I’m fine,” he said. The phrase didn’t sound like a shield, but like a reality.

Minho tried to move his fingers. It was a clumsy gesture, burdened by the painkillers, but he managed to intertwine them with Jisung’s. A conscious contact. The heart monitor registered the effort with a rhythm that grew faster, steady and secure. The IV line continued dripping, drop by drop, measuring the time Minho had lost.

“—The doctor said you’ll be under neurological observation for at least twenty-four hours,” Chan explained. “They’ll come to wake you up from time to time. They have to check your orientation and your pupils. It’s protocol to avoid later complications.”

Minho grimaced; the effort of frowning caused a sting behind his eyes.

“—It’s annoying,” he said.

“—It’s necessary,” Chan replied firmly and gently.

Minho nodded, but the dizziness hit him again when he moved his head. He shut his eyes tightly, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Jisung tensed instantly, squeezing Minho’s hand.

“—Don’t move so much.”

“—I’m not made of glass,” Minho murmured with the stubborn pride that not even a brick could break.

“—Right now, you are,” Jisung replied, without a trace of mockery.

They remained silent. Thousands of images from the fight still floated in the air, unprocessed shouts and the sound of the impact that neither of them wanted to name yet.

“—Did we win?” Minho asked suddenly. There was something almost childish in the question, a trace of post-concussion disorientation mixed with his natural competitiveness.

Jisung tilted his head and a shadow crossed his face.

“—I don’t know.”

“—The police found one of them a few blocks away,” Chan added. “His face was wrecked; he’s in the trauma unit of another hospital. The other one escaped.”

Minho processed the information with the slowness of someone trying to read through fogged glass.

“—The police…?”

“—Yes. They’ll have to talk to you when the doctor authorizes it. The agency is handling the situation for now.”

Minho nodded, but his world had narrowed to the person holding his hand.

“—You shouldn’t stay, Jisung.” It was a whisper, a concern that weighed more than his own pain.

Jisung didn’t blink.

“—I wasn’t going to leave. Never.”

Minho evaluated him for another second, searching for any crack in his resolve, and when he found none, his expression finally softened. The residual adrenaline drained away at once, giving way to overwhelming fatigue. The medication and the trauma reclaimed his body. His eyelids fell, heavy as lead.

“—If I fall asleep…” he murmured, his voice already slurring, losing the battle against unconsciousness.

“—They’ll wake you in an hour for the check,” Chan assured him.

“—And you?” Minho asked, searching for Jisung with his eyes one last time.

“—I’m here,” Jisung answered, holding him.

Minho’s fingers loosened, but Jisung didn’t let go. His breathing became deep and rhythmic, a real, restorative sleep replacing the emptiness of the faint.

Chan walked to a chair and sat on the other side of the bed. The silence was no longer the silence of a war zone; it was a watchful silence, almost sacred.

It was six in the morning in Singapore. Outside, the city woke with its usual indifference, unaware of the drama that had taken a night inside that room. There would be statements, media scandals, and physical consequences, but in that moment none of it mattered.

The only urgent thing, the only real thing, was the rhythmic beep of the monitor confirming that Minho was still there.

Breathing. Alive.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*•✯

The following hour broke into fragments, a sequence of clinical checks dictated by the pulse of the monitor. Each intervention from the nurse was a small necessary invasion: the beam of the flashlight, even though faint, made Minho close his eyelids with a low groan, a clear sign of the photophobia caused by the concussion.

—Minho, look at me. Say your name. Where are you?

He answered with deep slowness, as if he had to pull the words from the bottom of a well, but each correct response was a thread of safety anchoring him to reality. Jisung didn’t let go of his hand at any moment; he simply moved enough not to obstruct the medical work, remaining in silent alert, watching that every gesture from the nurse didn’t cause more pain than strictly necessary.

When the door closed again, Minho sank into a more real sleep, helped by the painkillers that were finally beginning to win the battle against the inflammation.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*•✯

It was 9 in the morning when a new nurse entered the room. The soft sound of the door closing didn’t wake Jisung. The woman approached the bed with a small flashlight and a tablet in her hand, greeted quietly, and began the routine checks that had been done every hour, just as Chan had mentioned. Minho was better than the first time he woke up. He was still sensitive to light, and when he tried to sit up a little, the world gave a slow, unpleasant spin that stirred his stomach, but nothing alarming. She asked him to say his name, where he was, what day he thought it was; he answered slowly but without confusion. He squeezed her fingers, moved his feet, followed the finger in front of his face. Moderate concussion, under observation, stable progression.

Jisung was still asleep, this time on a small couch that was far too narrow but dangerously close to the bed. His cheek rested on an improvised pillow made from Chan’s jacket. From where he was, Minho could see the faint purple spreading under Jisung’s cheekbone and the scraped skin near his temple. The image made him press his lips together. Not long ago, they had woken up together in a clean bed, calm. Now Jisung looked like he had aged years in one night. Minho wanted to erase everything from him. Absolutely everything.

Chan knew Minho was awake when the nurse left the room, but he didn’t speak. He remained standing by the window, arms crossed, watching the city that had been in motion for hours. Minho could clearly see the deep circles under his eyes. Chan hadn’t slept at all, of course. Minho hesitated. He didn’t know whether to speak, whether his voice would wake Jisung, whether he even had the right to break that silence that seemed to hold them together.

Chan remained alone with the sound of the monitors. And Minho finally decided to interrupt the sea of thoughts of the older one.

“—How are the guys?” Minho asked. His voice was soft, but steady.

Chan turned slowly and let out a sigh heavy with tension accumulated over hours.
“—They’re… worried. Hyunjin is restless; he wanted to come immediately. But Changbin explained what he could.”
He paused briefly.
“—They were considering coming disguised to sneak in, but I told them they’d only look more suspicious.”

Minho gave a slight sideways smile, a shadow of his usual sarcasm. He knew that chaotic loyalty well; he knew that if it had been the other way around, he would already have broken down the hospital doors.

“—Chan…” Minho began. He didn’t know if his face showed apology or simple exhaustion, but Chan answered before he could finish.

“—No.”

“—I had to do it, Chan. They were going to…”

“—I know, Min. I… heard everything. Jisung had to give a statement to the police,” Chan explained quietly.

Minho closed his eyes for a second.
“—I’m sorry… The event… Everything got out of control because of me.”

“—That doesn’t matter anymore. And don’t apologize again.” Chan’s voice hardened, though his eyes held nothing but compassion. “—You know perfectly well I would have done the same. For you. For any of us.”

They looked at each other in a silence heavy with years of living together. And then the first tear slowly slid down Minho’s cheek. It wasn’t a cry of physical pain; it was the impact of what could have happened. In his mind, the image of the knife grazing Jisung’s neck repeated itself. Dark scenarios that pressed on his chest until he could barely breathe.

He cried in absolute silence. Each restrained sob increased the pressure in his head, making the pain throb harder, but he needed that release. Chan watched him with misty eyes. He didn’t move closer; he knew Minho wouldn’t let himself be hugged now, that his pack needed that space to heal on its own. But he held his gaze, offering that steady calm that always kept the group together. It was enough.

Suddenly, a soft and rhythmic snore came from the couch. Jisung had twisted himself into an impossible position, producing a sound that broke the tension instantly.

They looked at each other and a quiet, almost inaudible laugh shook their shoulders.

“—If everything goes well, we’ll go back to the hotel tonight,” Chan whispered. “—And soon home.”

Minho nodded, closing his eyes with a longing for his own bed and the quiet of his cats.

A short while later, the silence broke. An orderly came in with breakfast, and the metallic clatter of the tray echoed like a gunshot in the room. Jisung sat up abruptly, his heart pounding, disoriented, until his eyes landed on Minho, who was already slightly upright thanks to the adjustable bed. Getting up so fast made Jisung’s world wobble, and he had to grab the arm of the couch to keep from falling.

Minho tried to eat. The tray offered a clear soup, soft bread, and juice, but the smell of the food, normally comforting, turned his stomach. His fingers, numbed by the medication, felt strange and clumsy. Chan, noticing the frustration in his movements, stepped closer without a word; he held the glass steady while Minho took small sips, murmuring quietly that there was no rush.

He barely ate enough to comply. The nurse, while checking the four sutures that drew a clean and cruel line across his scalp, explained that the loss of appetite was the brain’s natural response while it tried to heal.

Chan forced Jisung to sit in front of his own tray.
“—Come on, Jisung. You won’t be able to avoid fainting too,” he said with undeniable logic.

Jisung obeyed out of inertia. He chewed without appetite, swallowing pieces of bread that felt like sand in his throat. He tasted nothing. As the tension of the night began to fade, the pain in his own body started to claim its place. The blow to his abdomen, ignored before because of adrenaline, began to throb with a dull intensity.

Minho watched him in silence, with a gaze that analyzed every movement Jisung made. He noticed the exact moment Jisung’s hand pressed against his stomach and how he turned pale immediately afterward.

“—Are you okay?” Minho asked, his voice rough and heavy with a concern that tightened his shoulders.

Jisung moved mechanically, but his body had other plans. Shock doesn’t forgive. He stood up in a rush, stumbling over his own feet, and barely managed to close the bathroom door before his stomach rejected the little he had eaten. It wasn’t a heroic or noisy moment; it was a bitter, exhausted vomit, the sound of a body that simply could not carry any more emotional weight.

Chan reacted with the efficiency of an older brother. He was there in an instant, holding his shoulder and gently brushing the hair away from his forehead, offering him water to rinse away the sour taste and the fear.

From the bed, Minho tried to get up, forgetting his own injury.

“—Jisung!”

The sudden movement was a mistake. The ceiling of the room spun violently and a stab of pain shot through his sutures, forcing him to collapse back against the pillows.

“—Min, no. Stay still,” Chan ordered from the bathroom doorway, with a firmness that anchored him to the bed.

Jisung came back a few minutes later. His eyes were glassy, reddened not only from the strain but from a stab of embarrassment.

“—I’m sorry…” he whispered, avoiding Minho’s gaze.

“—Please, no, honey… you have nothing to feel,” Minho said. His tone was serious, almost severe with the frustration of not being able to get up and hug him. “—Does it hurt a lot?”

The nurse intervened before he could answer, calming the situation. The examination was quick and professional: a superficial hematoma on the abdomen that would turn livid in the coming days, muscle pain from the impact, and a swollen wrist that required ice immediately. Nothing internal, nothing broken.

Just the physical wear of a night that had nearly taken them.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*•✯

The rest of the day turned into a routine of white lights and low voices. Minho was taken again for a follow-up CT scan; the sound of the scanner and the movement of the stretcher brought back a sharp headache, but the results were the final relief: there was no delayed bleeding. His brain was concussed, but intact. The four sutures remained like a clean war mark beneath the constant bandage.

The final diagnosis was strict: absolute cognitive rest. No stage lights, no loud music, not even the glow of a screen. His world, by medical order, had to be reduced to silence and dimness.

Jisung, meanwhile, existed in a strange space. There were no more crises, no shouting, no crying; only a leaden heaviness in his bones. His hands, traitorous, trembled slightly whenever he moved them away from the bed. Physical contact was his only grounding wire: a finger brushing the sheet, a hand near Minho’s foot. If he stopped touching him, he feared reality would fracture again.

The fever Minho had been carrying before the attack had disappeared, confirmed as an opportunistic virus that had simply stolen his reflexes when he needed them most. Now his body was not only fighting the trauma of the blow, but also the systemic exhaustion of having given everything while already weakened.

While the doctor scribbled the final signatures and the nurse organized the discharge file, Chan’s phone vibrated for the third time. The constant buzzing against his thigh became impossible to ignore. It was the moment he feared most: breaking the hospital barrier to inform the outside world.

Minho remained reclined, eyes closed to ease the pain, but his fingers firmly intertwined with Jisung’s. Chan stepped out into the hallway, searching for a corner where the echo of the clinic wouldn’t reveal the gravity of the situation.

The calls weren’t long; he didn’t have the strength for that. First the agency, then the managers, and finally the hardest moment: the families.

Minho’s mother answered on the second ring, as if she had been waiting for news she didn’t want to receive. Chan chose his words with surgical precision, leaving out the images burned into his memory.

“—There was an altercation, but Minho is conscious,” he said, keeping his voice steady so she wouldn’t hear his own tremor. “—The tests came back negative. There’s no bleeding. He just needed a few stitches and a lot of rest. He’s stable, truly. He’s out of danger.”

He didn’t mention the blood. He didn’t mention the brick, nor the ashen color of Minho’s skin.

With Jisung’s parents, the tone was different, filled with protective urgency. He had to repeat several times that Jisung had no internal injuries, that the blow to his abdomen was only superficial and that his wrist would recover with ice and rest. He assured them that Jisung had not left Minho’s side, that he was exhausted, but whole.

When Chan returned to the room, he wore that mask of absolute calm he only used when the chaos was too big. Minho noticed it immediately.

“—Did you tell them?” Minho asked, barely opening his eyes.

Chan nodded.
“—Yes.”

Jisung lifted his head abruptly, the paleness of his face sharpened by the fluorescent light.

“—M-my parents too?”

“—It was the right thing, Jisung. They needed to hear it from us, not from the news.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Minho swallowed with difficulty, feeling the weight of the distance.

“—My mom…?”

“—She’s worried,” Chan admitted, because lying to Minho about his mother was impossible. “—But she understood. I promised her I’d put you on the first flight to Seoul as soon as the doctors give us the green light.”

Minho nodded with painful slowness. He hated the thought of his mother crying thousands of miles away, imagining situations he himself was trying to forget. Meanwhile, Jisung lowered his gaze again; guilt, that irrational emotion that always chased him, was beginning to suffocate him once more.

Chan stepped closer, surrounding them both with his presence.

“—Listen to me carefully. No one is angry. No one blames you for what happened,” he said, cutting off Jisung’s dark thoughts before they could take root. “—They just want you to come back. And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

✯•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*•✯

At eight in the evening, with the discharge papers signed under strict warnings —monitor for vomiting, check for disorientation, and enforce absolute rest for the next 48 hours— the movement began.

Chan coordinated the operation with a quiet, protective efficiency. There would be no cameras, no fans, no greetings.

As they stepped out of the controlled environment of the clinic, reality hit him. The echo of the underground parking lot, the distant screech of tires, and the fluorescent lights pierced his temples like blades. Jisung noticed immediately, from the way Minho clenched his jaw and shut his eyes, and tightened his hold, becoming his physical anchor.

The ride to the hotel was a parade of blurred lights sliding across the glass. Outside, Singapore kept vibrating with cruel indifference, while inside the van the air was thick with a fatigue that could almost be cut.

The entrance was a tactical operation. No crowded lobbies, no camera flashes. The manager had cleared the way. They went up through a private access point, avoiding the world that waited for them as idols, just to be, simply, three people trying to reach the refuge of a bed.

The rooms in the suite felt strange, like a stage that no longer belonged to them. Minho entered his with a crystalline slowness; he was in a wheelchair because when he tried to stand, his body triggered the alarms of a possible faint, and he couldn’t risk that. Jisung followed behind him, moving like a shadow tied to his heels. Chan, meanwhile, left his belongings in the adjoining room, the one that had been Jisung’s from the beginning and that they had never used.

However, Chan returned a few minutes later. They were tired, yes, but before resting they felt a visceral urgency the hospital hadn’t resolved. The blood.

At the clinic, among tubes and sterile gases, they had only cleaned the surface. Now, under the warm and unforgiving light of the suite, the horror was obvious. Chan closed the door and fixed his gaze on Jisung. The sleeves of his hoodie were stiff, stained with a dark, dried maroon that looked as though it had devoured the fabric. His knuckles and the edges of his nails still carried traces of asphalt and iron, and his pants were no better. If they hadn’t been dark to begin with, Chan was certain the sight would have been even more shocking.

He knew Jisung wasn’t comfortable; he had always hated blood, and having carried it with him for so long was a new record for him. But neither Chan nor anyone else had managed to convince him to change, because he refused to leave Minho. So now that Minho was awake, Chan had to make sure they were both truly okay before looking for his own rest.

“Han,” Chan said, a blend of command and plea. “Go wash up.”

Jisung recoiled a millimeter, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not asking if you’re fine,” Chan replied, stepping closer. “You have to take that off. You need to wash the blood off, Jisung.”

Minho, already sunk into the bed, watched in silence, his gaze traveling over Jisung’s body. Until that moment, his mind, dulled by the concussion, hadn’t registered the magnitude of the disaster staining Jisung’s clothes. Chan saw the shift in his expression, the way concern and confusion began to settle there. He promised himself he would explain everything later, but not now. Right now he needed Jisung’s nervous system to stop running on emergency mode, and he had to complete the first step the doctor had quietly reminded him of before they even left the hospital.

“Later,” Jisung insisted, clutching the edge of Minho’s mattress like a lifeline.

“Now,” Chan said. “Minho isn’t going to move. I’m here. You’re not abandoning him for five minutes of hot water.”

The tension hummed in the air until Minho intervened. His voice was a thread, but it carried the authority of someone who knew exactly which string to pull. “Hannie… go.”

Jisung looked at him, his eyes jumping from Minho to Chan’s determination. Minho forced something that was meant to be a smile and carefully touched the edge of the bandage. “Besides…” he paused dramatically, “I suspect my gray hoodie with the cat hood didn’t survive.”

Jisung blinked, thrown off by the change of subject.

“Which one?” Chan asked. He couldn’t remember what Minho had been wearing when they found him. He didn’t remember seeing his clothes at the hospital, nor had any nurse said anything about them. In fact, he suspected they had avoided the subject on purpose. Most likely, Minho’s clothes had ended up in the trash, torn apart during first aid and discarded after being soaked in blood.

“The one with the little ears on the hood,” Minho lied shamelessly.

Chan snorted, letting some of the built-up air escape. “Minho, that thing never had little ears.”

“In my heart it did. And now it’s an irreparable loss,” Minho declared, raising his tone just enough to sound like himself.

Jisung let out a laugh. It was small and fragile, but it broke the dam. “It’s… ruined,” Jisung admitted in a whisper. “The blood isn’t going to come out.”

“I knew it. National tragedy.” Minho closed his eyes, satisfied that Jisung’s shoulders had loosened. “Now take that off. You’re giving me a bad image being that dirty.”

Jisung finally stood up. He headed to the bathroom with slow steps, as if every centimeter he put between himself and the bed required physical effort.

When they heard the bathroom door close, Minho let out a long breath. “I hadn’t realized how much blood… mine… he had on him,” he murmured.

Chan sat on the edge of the bed, finally letting his shoulders drop. “You weren’t in any condition to notice, Min.”

“It looked… bad.”

“He looked scared,” Chan corrected, glancing toward the bathroom door. “Like someone afraid that if he cleans himself, you’ll stop breathing.”

The silence that followed was long, but no longer tense. Minho decided to use the little energy he had left and broke it again.

“You lied to me.”

Chan takes a second to react. Minho’s eyes are closed, his head barely resting against the pillow, the jacket still over the hospital shirt and those improvised pants they gave him to wear while they washed the blood-stained clothes. They still have to clean him up, settle him down. But none of that weighs as much as those two words spoken softly, without strength… and yet still firm.

“What do you mean?” Chan asks, even though he knows exactly what he means.

Minho breathes slowly before answering, as if even speaking requires him to organize thoughts that fall apart too easily.

“You lied to me…” he repeats, more slowly, searching for the right words through the haze left by the concussion. “You told me it was fine. It’s not fine… is it?”

He barely opens his eyes and turns his face toward him. The room is lit with dim lights, but for Minho it’s still too much. He squints, not only because of the light but because focusing takes effort. Even so, his expression isn’t confused. It’s lucid. Too lucid for someone who was unconscious just hours ago.

Chan feels the weight of that gaze.

He didn’t expect the conversation to come this soon. He thought he would have more time, that the headache, the dizziness, and the fatigue would keep Minho focused on himself a little longer. But when it comes to Jisung, it has never been that simple. Even now, with his head bandaged and his body weaker than ever, Minho reads between the lines.

And Chan knows he can’t lie to him again.

“It’s not… completely fine,” he finally admits, measuring every word.

Minho closes his eyes again. He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, the confirmation seems like something he already knew. He lets out a long, deep sigh that carries not only exhaustion but a mixture of guilt and resignation.

“How bad?” he asks after a few seconds.

There’s no drama in his tone. No panic. Just a direct need to know.

Chan runs a hand over the back of his neck, buying time without meaning to make it obvious.

“Min…”

He tries to find a way to soften it, not to drop everything at once. But the truth is there’s no elegant way to explain what he saw in Jisung that night: the constant trembling, the distant stare, the way he kept looking at the door of the resuscitation room as if the world depended on it not being fully closed.

Minho opens his eyes again, a little more this time, even though the movement costs him.

“Chan,” he says, and his voice, though quieter than usual, keeps that firmness that doesn’t allow detours. “Don’t protect me from this.”

And there lies the real problem.

Because Chan doesn’t want to protect him from the truth.
He wants to protect him from the weight of it.

But Minho can already feel it anyway.

The silence that settles in isn’t comfortable. It isn’t explosive either. It’s the kind of dense quiet that forms when both people know that whatever comes next is going to hurt a little.

“How bad?” he asks again, this time raising his voice just enough that the effort pulls an involuntary grimace from him. Pain pulses behind his eyes and he has to close them for a second to steady himself, but he doesn’t withdraw the question.

Chan exhales through his nose before answering.

“It’s… bad,” he finally admits, “but it has a solution. It’s not something that can’t be controlled.”

Minho doesn’t look away.

Chan forces himself to continue.

“His body couldn’t find a way to calm down. He stayed on alert, like everything was still happening. He didn’t want to change his clothes. He didn’t want to move away from you. The only time he moved was when he had to give a statement… and even then…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “No one could get him to do anything except eat a little or try to clean your blood off.”

The silence weighs for a few seconds.

Chan lowers his voice.

“The doctor said he was dysregulating. That his nervous system was still active, like the threat hadn’t ended. And… honestly, I think even now he might still be a little like that.”

His gaze shifts toward the bathroom door, where Jisung disappeared minutes earlier with the excuse of taking a shower.

“It’s like when he has anxiety attacks,” he continues, “but this time it was different. No one could reach him. Not even me. It was like everything he’d managed to control over the last few months just broke all at once. Like his mind had decided you were dying… and nothing else mattered anymore.”

He doesn’t say it with drama. He says it with exhaustion.

“I don’t think this is the moment to talk about everything,” he adds quietly after a moment. “There will be time. But… not now.”

Chan looks back at Minho.

And there it is.

The expression he feared seeing isn’t surprise or disbelief.

It’s something deeper. Something that settles in the chest before it becomes words. Guilt. Pain. The brutal awareness that while he was unconscious, Jisung was living the worst possible scenario over and over again in his head.

It was inevitable he would react like this. Chan knew that.

“I promise I’ll tell you the rest,” he says firmly. “When you’ve rested. When I’ve rested.”

Minho nods silently, but presses his lips together like he has much more to say. Chan knows him well enough to see it. It shows in the way his gaze fixes on an invisible point, in the way his jaw tightens slightly. Every word seems to cost him more than he lets on.

So Chan stays silent too.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the hum of the air conditioner and the distant noise of the city filtering through the hotel’s closed windows. This time there are no monitors. No staff walking in and out. Just that artificial calm that never quite feels real.

But something doesn’t add up. Chan looks back toward the bathroom door, frowns slightly, and tilts his head.

He listens.

Nothing.

No steady sound of the shower. No soft rhythm of water hitting tile. Supposedly he told Jisung to shower a while ago. Too long for the silence to be normal.

The room is too quiet. And something in Chan’s chest tightens even before his mind fully forms the thought.

How much time has passed? Five minutes? Ten?

Chan tries to reconstruct the time in his head, but it slips away. Since Jisung crossed the bathroom door, there hasn’t been a single sound. Not the steady splash of water against tile. Not the metallic click of the handle turning. Not even the dull echo of the shower starting.

Nothing.

His jaw tightens slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Minho notices.

Even with his head throbbing and his body heavy, he notices. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice still rough, dragged down by exhaustion.

Chan doesn’t answer immediately. He tilts his head a little, as if still waiting for the sound to arrive late, for the water to start running at any moment and prove he’s overthinking it.

But the silence doesn’t change.

“The shower,” he finally says.

Minho blinks, slowly.

“What about the shower?”

Chan listens again, more carefully now. The air conditioner hums softly. A car passes somewhere far below on the street. But from the bathroom, nothing.

The silence is no longer neutral. It’s heavy.

“It hasn’t turned on,” he says quietly. “Not once.”

Minho takes another second to process it. His mind is still a step behind the conversation, trapped in the dense slowness the concussion left behind. But when the idea clicks, it does so all at once: if the shower hasn’t made a sound, it’s because Jisung never turned it on.

And if he didn’t turn it on…

Something isn’t right.

He tries to sit up on reflex, but his body doesn’t cooperate. The dizziness pushes him back before he can rise fully. A faint grimace crosses his face, almost imperceptible, and he clenches his teeth to keep a groan from slipping out.

“Stay,” Chan says quietly, placing a firm hand on his arm when he sees him struggling. “Don’t get up.”

Minho looks at him, concern stronger than the pain.

Chan is already standing.

The walk to the bathroom isn’t long, just a few steps through the small hallway of the hotel room, but now it feels narrower. Every movement is measured. He doesn’t want to alarm anyone. He doesn’t want to dramatize something that might have a simple explanation.

But he doesn’t want to ignore it either.

He stops in front of the closed door. The silence on the other side is absolute.

He knocks softly with his knuckles.

“Ji.”

He waits.

Nothing.

Not the brush of fabric. Not the slightest movement.

He knocks again, this time a little firmer.

“Jisung.”

It no longer sounds casual.

It’s a check.

From the bed, Minho holds his breath without realizing it. His headache seems to intensify with the tension. He doesn’t know what’s happening. The bathroom door can’t be seen from the room.

Chan places his hand on the handle.

And before he can convince himself that maybe he’s just overthinking it, he turns it. The door opens without resistance.

Chan walks in expecting anything: running water, a sudden movement, a delayed response.

But not this.

Jisung is standing in front of the mirror.

He doesn’t move.

His torso is bare. His pants are unbuttoned, hanging loosely at his hips. The stained sweater dangles from one of his hands, as if he had taken it off and then forgotten what to do with it. The bruise on his abdomen has darkened over the hours, spreading in violet shades across his pale skin, but Chan knows it isn’t serious. They checked it. He isn’t in danger.

And yet, tears run silently down his face.

There are no sobs.

No violent shaking.

Just steady, silent tears as he stares at his own reflection as if he were looking at someone else.

“Ji…” Chan calls softly.

Nothing.

Not a different blink. Not a change in breathing.

Chan steps farther inside, feeling a tightness in his chest. He stops beside him, close enough to touch him, waiting for the smallest sign that he’s there.

But Jisung doesn’t react.

His eyes are open, fixed on the mirror, but they aren’t present. Chan understands the moment he sees him up close.

He isn’t looking at the bruise.

He isn’t crying from physical pain.

He’s reliving something.

Carefully, Chan reaches out and places his hand against his damp cheek. The skin is warm. Jisung is breathing. He looks calm, but his breathing is slightly deeper than normal, like his body is trying to regulate itself without quite succeeding.

“Jisung,” he repeats, a little firmer, but without raising his voice.

Nothing. And that is what hurts the most.

That he doesn’t startle.

That he doesn’t react even to touch. It’s as if he stepped backward somewhere inside himself.

Something in Chan breaks. Selfishly, he’s tired of seeing him cry. Tired of him carrying the invisible weight of everything. He wishes he could absorb it himself, keep the memory of the impact, the fear, the image of Minho lying motionless on the ground. He wishes he could ask the universe, anything listening, to give Jisung back the calm he fought so hard to build.

But he can’t.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do: stay.

He gently takes the stained sweater from Jisung’s hands. Jisung doesn’t resist. The fabric collapses as Chan pulls it away and tosses it out of sight, far from the mirror, far from the dried red that still stains the cloth.

Then he slowly moves until he’s standing directly in front of him, blocking the reflection. With his own body, he forces something real into Jisung’s line of sight.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

It isn’t an order.

It’s an invitation.

Jisung blinks, but his gaze still passes right through him.

From the bedroom, a muffled sound can be heard. Minho’s voice tries to call out, louder than it should be. Chan knows the effort must be hammering against his head, but he doesn’t answer with the same volume. He can’t risk making Jisung react abruptly.

He needs to handle this carefully.

With one last look at Jisung, he forces himself to step out of the bathroom.

Minho is leaning forward as much as he can, gripping the sheets, his face pale from the effort.

Chan hates leaving Jisung alone, even for a few seconds.

“Don’t get up, please. I have everything under control,” he says firmly and calmly.

Minho’s expression says too much. It says he trusts him. It says he understands. But it also says he needs to see it with his own eyes.

Without arguing, Chan is already pulling out his phone. He quickly texts Changbin, asking him to come in and stay with Minho for a few minutes. The message is brief. Urgent without being alarming.

The reply arrives almost immediately.

Chan didn’t wait any longer. He opened the room door just enough for Changbin to slip in without drawing attention. He exchanged a quick glance with Minho; Minho gave him the closest thing to irritation his condition allowed.

Then Chan went back to the bathroom. He closed the door and Jisung was exactly where he had left him.

The tears hadn’t stopped. His breathing was a little more uneven now, but there was still no conscious reaction.

The doctor had warned him: when Jisung’s body was no longer in immediate danger, when the adrenaline dropped and his system tried to relax, a brutal wave of exhaustion and heaviness could follow. A silent collapse. That was all.

Chan positioned himself in front of him again and this time brought both hands to his face, holding him carefully.

“Ji. I’m here.”

Outside, the hotel room door could be heard closing and low voices followed. Changbin was already with Minho. Chan knew he wouldn’t try to get up now.

Now you can focus.

Jisung needed him and he had no intention of letting him drift away.

Chan didn’t try to rush him. He didn’t need complicated words or explanations anymore. Just steadiness.

Little by little, Jisung began to respond to his voice, not with sentences but with small gestures: a more focused blink, a deeper inhale, a slight nod when Chan asked him to lift his arms.

He stayed silent. But he let himself be guided.

Chan finished helping him undress with practical, calm movements. There was no embarrassment. There was no room for it. When someone you love needs to be held together, the body stops being something private and becomes something to protect. Jisung didn’t cover himself, didn’t pull away. He simply trusted.

Warm water fell over his skin and the sound filled the bathroom, wrapping them in something more human, more ordinary. Chan was grateful for that steady noise breaking the heavy silence from before. He watched as the water sliding down Jisung’s body came out slightly cloudy at first. It wasn’t much blood; most of it had stayed in the clothes, but enough to tint the water for a few seconds, mixing with dirt, sweat, the invisible trace of sleepless nights and accumulated fear.

As if the water carried away more than dust.

Chan took the soap and passed it over his arms and back with gentle firmness. He made sure to avoid the bruise and not press where he shouldn’t. Jisung stayed still, letting himself be cared for, breathing more steadily now. When Chan massaged his hair to wash it, Jisung closed his eyes and, for the first time since entering the bathroom, seemed truly present.

He didn’t speak. But he wasn’t absent anymore.

While helping him, Chan thought about Minho. That he would be next. That he wouldn’t be able to stand under the water. He would have to fill the bathtub. The thought didn’t overwhelm him; it organized him.

When Jisung finished rinsing himself, Chan turned off the shower and handed him a towel. Their eyes met. Jisung took a second, but this time he focused entirely on him. He tried to form a small crooked smile, weak but conscious.

He was here now.

Maybe he didn’t want to talk. Maybe he still couldn’t. But he had come back.

Chan opened the door just enough to go get clean clothes. He crossed the room without stopping, without going near the bed. He heard Minho’s quiet voice trying to keep a conversation going with Changbin. He caught the insistent tone, the restrained complaint, the stubbornness intact even with his head pounding. He knew he was asking something, probably about Jisung, but Chan didn’t respond right away. He simply grabbed the clothes and returned to the bathroom.

He handed them over. Jisung dressed slowly, as if each piece marked the next step. He moved carefully, thinking more than he spoke. But he looked better. Pale, with dark circles, exhausted… yes. But more alive. More grounded.

The shower he had needed so badly had finally come.

Before leaving, Chan adjusted the bathtub faucet and tested the temperature with his hand. He left it filling to the right level, warm and steady. Minho wouldn’t be able to shower standing up. Everything had to be ready before moving him.

When he turned back to Jisung, he didn’t say anything. He just opened his arms in a silent question. You can come if you want. You can say no if you can’t.

Jisung looked at him for a second.

Then he stepped forward.

Chan hugged him tighter this time. Not suffocating, but not light either. The kind that steadies you. The kind that promises without words. He pressed his lips to Jisung’s forehead and gave him a brief, natural kiss, the way he would in any other situation, with any of them.

Jisung didn’t cry. He offered another small crooked smile.

“Ready?” Chan asked quietly.

Jisung nodded and they walked out of the bathroom together.

From the bedroom came Minho’s voice, trying to argue something between complaints. Changbin answered in a tone that left no room for negotiation. Chan could picture the scene perfectly: Minho trying to get up, Changbin blocking him firmly.

And he was deeply grateful not to be alone.

The exhaustion was beginning to settle into his own body too. It weighed on his shoulders, his neck, in his breathing, which was no longer as steady as before.

But it still wasn’t time to let it collapse.

He still had to hold them together.

Before they reached the room, Changbin leaned forward and called Chan in a tone that didn’t hide his concern. It wasn’t a shout, but it was urgent enough to tighten the air.

Jisung reacted first. His body moved before his mind did, because if Changbin sounded like that it had to be about Minho. He knew it. He also knew Bin cared about him, but right now Minho was the one in their hands. The tone finally pulled him out of the haze that lingered and he moved faster, almost without noticing Chan right behind him.

The scene became clear the moment they crossed the door. Changbin was standing beside the bed, leaning over Minho to stop him from getting up. One hand was firm on his shoulder, the other ready to catch him if he lost balance. Minho, stubborn as ever, was bent forward completely, ignoring the flash of pain crossing his face, his feet searching for the floor as if he could simply stand up and end all of this. He wanted to get up, that much was obvious, and Bin wasn’t allowing it.

Jisung stepped closer, but at that moment Minho lifted his face and saw him. Jisung had seen many versions of him, many expressions, but this… this he had only seen a few times.

Very few.

He could count them on one hand.

Minho’s face is still beautiful even like this, but Jisung wishes he would never have to see him this way again: his eyes red and bright from tears and sensitivity to light; his brow furrowed not in anger, but in pain, from the overload, from everything being too much at once. The brightness of the room, the voices, the simple fact of being awake. And when their gazes meet, something in Minho breaks a little more.

Tears track down his cheeks and he breathes with difficulty. Jisung feels that standing still and watching him without saying anything only makes it worse; the tears increase as if his presence confirms what Minho had been trying to hold back. So he doesn’t allow himself to hesitate. He moves, gently pushing Changbin aside, not roughly but with quiet determination, and positions himself between them. He kneels on the bed beside Minho and hugs him tightly, with need, almost urgency.

Minho doesn’t resist. He lets himself be pulled in as if that were the only place he had wanted to reach from the beginning. He buries his face in Jisung’s chest and cries, not in restrained silence but honestly, his body giving in completely. Jisung holds him with both hands, one on his back and the other rising to his hair, stroking it carefully, avoiding the bandage, memorizing every boundary without thinking. He says nothing. He doesn’t try to calm him with empty phrases. He simply holds him.

The room falls silent. Chan watches without intervening. Changbin steps back, understanding he no longer needs to block anything. Minho never cries, not like this, not in such an open and uncontrolled way, and Jisung could invent a thousand explanations: the pain, the concussion, the exhaustion. But before he can finish organizing them in his head, Changbin decides to speak, and when he does, his voice is no longer firm but aware of what they are all witnessing.

“He… wanted to help.”

Changbin’s voice is not accusatory or harsh. It is simply an explanation spoken softly, almost carefully.

Jisung’s eyes widen as he holds Minho in his arms. He feels him sobbing against his chest, but it isn’t a cry of physical pain. It’s helplessness. It’s anger. It’s the frustration of the last hours condensed into a single moment. And Jisung understands, with a clarity that tightens his stomach, that he’s also crying for him. Because it’s Minho. And Minho has always shown him that nothing is more important than him in his life.

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t get up. He didn’t know what was happening behind the closed bathroom door. He didn’t know why Chan had to call Changbin to take care of him if he couldn’t handle both of them.

And suddenly Jisung reacts. Truly reacts.

It’s as if he wakes from a dream that was too deep, as if he finally surfaces from a wave that had dragged him under without letting him breathe. Everything settles in his mind at once: Minho trying to get up, Changbin blocking him, Chan moving between them, the weight of what had happened. He makes a small grimace because hearing Minho cry breaks something inside him and he wants to cry too, but he doesn’t allow himself to. Not now. Not anymore. He has to hold on. He has to take care of himself along with Minho. Everything… everything is going to be okay.

He slides his fingers gently through Minho’s hair, carefully avoiding the bandage.

“Baby… if you keep crying your head is going to hurt more,” he says softly and delicately, as if speaking to something fragile in his hands.

A silence stretches beyond what feels real, a minute or several that feel tense and heavy, while Minho tries to regulate his breathing, to swallow the trembling.

And then, with his voice still unsteady, he murmurs:

“I’m not crying. You’re the one crying.”

That draws an inevitable snort from Changbin and an almost amused exhale from Chan. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it loosens a little.

Jisung smiles, small and sincere, because of course it’s Minho. Of course he’s not going to admit it.

“I’m not crying, jagi.”

Minho doesn’t lift his face. Jisung knows he doesn’t want to be seen like this, not yet. Not exactly out of shame, but because he’s Minho. Because showing himself unguarded is difficult.

“If you’re not crying, then someone is, but it’s not me.”

“But no one is—” Jisung starts to deny it, until the very clear sound of someone sniffing interrupts him.

Jisung looks up.

Changbin has a smile on his face, but his eyes are visibly wet.

Of course.

The boys.

Everyone must be very worried. And the only one who has truly been aware, the only one who saw part of what happened and had to process it almost at the same time as them, has been Changbin. The only one who stayed when Chan needed to step away. The only one who is here now, holding the scene together in silence.

And suddenly Jisung understands that this is more serious than it seemed. That even if from the outside it might look like just another incident, for them it means too much. Because it isn’t just about the blow. It’s about almost losing him. It’s about what could have been.

And only now is he beginning to understand everything.

“See? Someone is crying and it’s not me,” Minho says, his voice still tangled between sobs and wounded pride.

“Yes, honey… our alpha male looks like a snotty kid.”

“Hey!” Changbin protests, though he can’t hide the smile slipping out.

Chan smiles too, but the exhaustion shows in every movement; it shows in his slumped shoulders, in the way he exhales more slowly than usual. Jisung sees it and understands that if he doesn’t want the night to stretch until dawn, they need to move. They need to bathe Minho. They need to sleep. Please, they need to sleep.

“Jagi, you’re still—” Jisung murmurs, still stroking his hair. “Let’s take a bath and rest, okay? Tomorrow we’ll see when they give us the green light to fly and we’ll organize everything.”

“I don’t want to,” Minho refuses without lifting his face from his chest. The clean shirt is already wet with tears.

“Come on. You were the one who said you were dirty earlier… and now that I’m clean, you look a little gross to me.” He jokes.

“Tch… that’s not fair.”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at him, but as soon as the light reaches his face, he makes a pained expression, squeezes his eyes shut, and buries himself against his chest again.

“Who turned on the sun? Damn it.”

“It’s night,” Changbin murmurs.

“Oh my God, shut up—”

“Don’t swear,” Chan says automatically.

“Don’t say bad words,” Minho imitates in a high-pitched voice.

Changbin lets out another quiet laugh.

“Can I bathe in the dark? How is that even possible?”

“I can bring candles if you want,” Changbin says, and he doesn’t even wait for an answer; he is already heading toward the door.

Meanwhile, Chan moves into action: he gathers the clean clothes, prepares the towel, and puts Jisung’s stained clothes into a black bag without making any comments. Jisung promises himself he’ll thank him a thousand times when all this is over, when they can sit down and process it without worrying about anything else.

Between the two of them they help Minho stand. They do it slowly, coordinated, as if they had rehearsed the movement. They guide him to the bathroom carefully, sensing every small imbalance. Chan finishes adjusting the temperature of the tub while Jisung, with Minho sitting on the toilet, begins removing his clothes gently, avoiding any pulling or sudden movements.

Minho complains a little, but he doesn’t resist.

Changbin returns with a bag in his hand and begins lighting candles around the bathroom. The light changes. It becomes warm, soft, far kinder than the white ceiling lamp. By the time they finally help Minho sink into the warm water, the atmosphere no longer feels so harsh.

Changbin and Chan exchange a brief look. They give them space. The door remains slightly open, but the room falls silent again.

Minho speaks first.

“This isn’t… this isn’t how I expected to spend our anniversary,” he murmurs, settling against the edge of the tub. “Although I have to admit it’s pretty romantic. What more could I ask for? My boyfriend giving me a candlelit bath that smells like…” he inhales dramatically “…cinnamon. Yes. Perfect.”

Jisung lets out a soft laugh. He knows exactly what Minho is doing: disguising the unpleasant with jokes, hiding the pain and the trembling with sarcasm. And this time he lets him. Because he needs a little normality too.

“Changbin is a romantic,” he replies, taking the sponge and gently passing it over his shoulder. “Although I’m pretty sure he stole the candles from Hyunjin. The hotel doesn’t have them.”

Minho smiles faintly, eyes closed, letting the water and the touch relax his muscles. And even though exhaustion weighs on them, even though the day has left them wrecked, for a few minutes the world shrinks to warm water, dim light, and breaths that slowly begin to fall back into rhythm.

Minho feels the relief almost immediately. The warm water loosens the stiffness he didn’t even realize he was holding so tightly. The dull ache in his muscles doesn’t disappear, but it becomes bearable, distant. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and lets the heat work.

Jisung’s movements are clumsy, but incredibly careful. He starts with the shoulders, moves down the uninjured arm, and precisely avoids the side where the bruises look darker. He is so careful that any extra pressure might break him.

Minho opens one eye.

“Called it.”

“Mmm?”

“If you keep washing the same shoulder, you’re going to wear it out.”

Jisung blinks. He realizes he’s been repeating exactly the same movement for several seconds.

“Sorry.”

He switches sides immediately, passing the sponge gently across Minho’s chest. The silence that settles isn’t uncomfortable or heavy. Though after a while, Minho speaks again.

“What a horrible anniversary.”

There it is. The reality Jisung wanted to avoid, but it was inevitable.

Jisung stops. “Don’t start.”

“I had something better planned than this… I’m sorry.”

“I had planned for you to keep breathing,” Jisung replies seriously.

Minho looks at him. That trembling firmness in his voice tightens his chest.

“Dramatic.”

“Realistic.”

Minho lets out a quiet laugh that ends in a wince when the movement pulls slightly at his head.

Jisung leans in immediately.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when you get that intense.”

Jisung tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite come out.

He keeps washing him, this time setting the sponge aside to rinse the soap away with his hands. His fingers move slowly, deliberately, almost reverently. No hurry. No intention except to care. Minho feels every touch with strange clarity, as if his body were more awake than ever. They hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds that weigh more than the entire previous day.

Jisung looks away first. He carefully rinses Minho’s chest, then takes a small towel and dries his hair with gentle presses, making sure not to touch the white bandage that contrasts too sharply with his skin.

Minho rests his forehead against Jisung’s shoulder without asking. Jisung freezes for a moment, as if he needs to decide something, but then he places a steady hand on his back.

“I’m sorry,” Minho murmurs against his damp shirt.

“Don’t apologize again.”

“I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

Minho lifts his face slightly.

“I promised you something quiet.”

Jisung looks at him directly, without hesitation.

“How calm. You’re here. What more could I ask for? These candles and having you naked in front of me is already too romantic.”

Minho smiles, small and sincere.

The water begins to cool. Jisung stands first and offers him his hand. He calls softly for Chan, who is waiting outside. Both of them help him out, wrap him carefully, and dress him slowly.

The room now has only a small lamp turned on. The light is warm. Jisung silently appreciates that they always think of everything. He doesn’t let go of Minho’s waist as they guide him to the bed, fingers firm, holding him longer than necessary. They move at the pace Minho can tolerate. Every step measured. Every breath coordinated. They help him sit first. Minho keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds, his pulse still slightly elevated, his breathing searching for its rhythm. Jisung doesn’t let go of his hand for a second.

“Nausea?” Chan asks attentively.

“A little.”

“Then lie down now.”

It isn’t a suggestion. It’s a soft but firm decision.

They settle him carefully against the pillows, slightly propped up to prevent the dizziness from getting worse. Jisung stays seated at the edge of the bed, too focused on every breath, as if he could hold it in place just by watching.

Minho opens his eyes slowly.

“Don’t look at me like I’m about to faint.”

“We’re not looking at you like that,” Jisung says.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “I am.”

Minho rolls his eyes, though the gesture costs him more energy than he wants to admit.

“Traitor.”

But he no longer has the strength to argue. The exhaustion shows in the heaviness of his eyelids and in how his voice loses its sharpness.

Chan crosses his arms and watches them for a moment. “This is what’s going to happen. Minho stays in bed for the rest of the night. No walking, no heroic acts. Sung, you lie down too.”

Jisung blinks.

“I’m fine.”

Chan looks at him directly, that look that never raises its voice but leaves no room for lies.

“You haven’t stopped since yesterday.”

Jisung opens his mouth to argue, but Minho beats him to it.

“He’s right.”

Jisung looks at him, offended. “You’re not helping.”

“I got hit in the head, not in the logic.”

Chan almost smiles. “Exactly.”

The silence that follows isn’t tense, just tired. Minho speaks again, softer.

“The others…?”

“They’re in their room,” Chan replies before he can finish the sentence. “They’re desperate to see you, but not tonight.”

Minho nods faintly. He doesn’t argue. He can barely keep his thoughts from drifting.

Jisung squeezes his hand.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Chan confirms.

Then Jisung really looks at Chan: the dark circles under his eyes, the rigid posture, the shoulders that haven’t relaxed for hours.

“You haven’t slept either.”

Chan looks away. “I’m fine.”

Jisung lets out a small laugh, humorless.

“That’s a lie.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“Hyung,” Minho says, barely a word. But it carries weight.

Chan sighs. “I’m going to shower.”

“And sleep,” Jisung adds.

“An hour.”

“Several,” Minho corrects, already half-closing his eyes.

Chan looks at both of them, defeated by their quiet persistence.

“Alright. I’ll shower… and sleep a bit.”

He approaches Minho first and adjusts the pillow behind his neck. He squeezes his shoulder carefully, almost like a silent promise, and then looks at Jisung.

“If anything changes, call me.”

“Okay.”

“Even if it’s small.”

“I know.”

Changbin blows them an exaggerated kiss and heads toward the door, which is slightly open, waiting for Chan. Chan nods and lingers a second longer than necessary, as if making sure the room is no longer vibrating with urgency. When he finally disappears toward his room, the silence becomes more intimate.

Jisung lies down beside Minho carefully, trying not to move the mattress too much. He rests his head near his shoulder, avoiding the bandage.

“Still dizzy?” he whispers.

“A little.”

Minho turns his head slightly toward him. The dim light from the lamp draws soft shadows across his face. He tilts his head toward Jisung, so close that their breaths mix. Jisung sees something in his gaze. Hesitation. Vulnerability. Something he doesn’t usually ask for.

“What?” he asks softly.

“Kiss me.”

The word falls softly but directly. And Jisung would never, in his entire life, deny his other half a kiss. He leans in carefully, attentive to every movement, brushing Minho’s lips first before pressing them gently. It isn’t urgent or desperate. It’s slow. Sweet. Their lips fit as if they had never stopped belonging to each other. No fear, no noise, no weight of the day. Just them.

It feels like home.

When they separate, Minho looks at him for a moment longer before closing his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, overwhelmed by exhaustion.

Jisung lets his forehead rest against his.

“I love you.”

His hand moves slowly over the sheets, as if even that gesture has to pass through a thin fog. He searches without opening his eyes, guided more by habit than by strength. Jisung understands before the movement finishes; he doesn’t wait for Minho’s fingers to hang in empty space, but slides his own between them, fitting them carefully. They interlace without pressure, without squeezing, but with just enough firmness to feel real, present.

“Sleep,” Minho murmurs, his voice low, heavy with the sleep already claiming him.

“You too.”

They don’t need to say anything else. The silence no longer weighs on them; now it’s different, no longer filled with fear or uncertainty, but with a fragile calm that finally allows itself to exist. Their breathing slowly steadies, Minho’s uneven rhythm stabilizing, Jisung releasing the last tension left in his chest.

They remain like that, fingers intertwined over the sheets, as if that single contact were enough of an anchor against anything that might try to drag them away. And when sleep finally takes them, there is nothing left but that quiet certainty beating between them: they are alive, they are together, and for now, that is enough.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*•✯

The next morning does not arrive like an explosion, but like something soft, almost shy. The light filters carefully through the hotel curtains and Jisung takes a few seconds to remember where he is. It is not his bed. It is not his home. It is not a dream. Minho is beside him, breathing more easily than the night before, the bandage still wrapped around his head, his face still marked with some bruises, but he is no longer the chaotic image of blood and asphalt. It is Minho. He is here.

Before Jisung could move too much, Chan entered after sleeping a few hours in the adjoining room. He did not say good morning immediately. First he observed. Evaluated. Confirmed with his eyes that both of them were fine. Only then did he nod slightly, as if something inside him could finally lower its guard.

He arrives discreetly and informs them as soon as Minho opens his eyes. There is already an official statement. Brief. Controlled. It reports that Minho suffered an assault while he was in the city, that he received immediate medical attention and is stable. There are no details or dramatics. Only what is necessary. The agency is managing the legal process with the local authorities and cooperating fully.

The police also contacted them again. The second suspect was arrested hours later. Both are in custody, awaiting the formal procedure and sentencing. The man Minho struck has a confirmed nasal fracture and several bruises; nothing life-threatening. The irony of that information does not go unnoticed by Jisung. Minho, sick and with a fever, managed to stay on his feet long enough to defend him. Minho will have to give a supplementary statement before leaving the country, a brief statement, accompanied by the agency.

After a while, without dramatics, without interrogations, without that uncomfortable tension that sometimes settles in when no one knows what to say, the boys enter the room one by one.

The door opens slowly each time, as if they had all silently agreed not to make noise. The air changes with every step.

Hyunjin tries to pretend normalcy. He even fixes his hair before entering, as if that could also put things in order. But his eyes betray him the moment he sees Minho in the bed: too attentive, too bright. And when, almost immediately, he looks for Jisung on the other side of the bed, his gaze softens a little more.

Seungmin leaves a bag with drinks on the small table. The plastic rustles in the silence and the sound seems exaggerated. He remains near the window, hands in his pockets at first, then out, and finally crossed. As if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them now that there is nothing urgent to fix. However, his gaze does not stop in one place: it moves from Minho to Jisung, evaluating, measuring, making sure that both of them are really there.

Felix enters next. His eyes are still red, the skin around them a little swollen, but he smiles anyway. He always smiles. Although this time the smile is more fragile, as if he were holding it carefully. He pauses a second longer than usual beside Jisung before approaching the bed, as if he needs to check that he is breathing calmly too.

Jeongin peeks his head in before entering completely. He looks around, then at Minho, then his gaze goes to Jisung, faster, more anxious. He advances in short steps, almost ceremonial, as if he feared that the slightest noise might break something invisible that had just been put back together… in either of them.

Changbin was already there. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed and jaw firm. He says nothing. He only watches. As if he needs to see with his own eyes that Minho’s chest rises and falls normally. And from time to time, almost without anyone noticing, his gaze also lingers on Jisung a second longer than usual.

And Chan… Chan had never really left. He was sitting near the bed, leaning slightly forward, as if he were still ready to stand up at the slightest change. His hand rested on the edge of the mattress, not only on Minho’s side, but close enough to reach Jisung as well if necessary.

All eight.

The room feels different when they are all there. Smaller. Warmer. More alive. The space seems to compress with their presence, but at the same time it fills with something soft, something lighter than the fear that had been there before. It is not only relief for Minho. It is relief because both of them are there.

Felix is the first to step too close, leaning in until he almost invades Minho’s personal space. He watches him as if he wants to memorize every detail: the bandages, the paleness, the regained brightness in his eyes. But before speaking, he extends his hand and gently squeezes Jisung’s shoulder, brief but firm. As if saying: “You too.”

—Don’t look at me like that —Minho murmurs, his voice still a little hoarse, but clearly conscious—. I’m not on display.

Felix blinks, surprised. Then he lets out a nervous little laugh, the kind that slips out when relief has not quite settled yet.

Hyunjin steps a little closer, hands behind his back and leaning slightly forward.

—You look… —he begins, searching for a word that doesn’t sound too honest.

—Handsome even with stitches? I know. —Minho interrupts without hesitation.

There is a second of silence, and then the collective sound of several breaths at the same time. Not only because of the joke. Because of the certainty that he can joke.

Seungmin rolls his eyes immediately.

—You look like a mummy —he corrects without changing his expression—. You’re wearing a bandage that looks like an improvised turban.

Minho raises a hand to his head with exaggerated care, as if he had just discovered the accessory.

—It’s an international trend —he replies without hesitation—. Singapore is going to copy it.

Changbin lets out a brief laugh. Jeongin smiles more openly. Felix leans in again, this time only enough to brush the edge of the bed with his fingers. Even Chan exhales a sigh that is almost a laugh. The atmosphere shifts slightly, as if someone had opened an invisible window. The weight does not disappear, but it becomes breathable. His hand, which had remained tense on the edge of the mattress, finally relaxes.

Jeongin steps a little closer, leaning toward the edge of the bed. He looks first at Minho… then at Jisung. His eyes say more than his voice allows.

—Hyung… you almost scared us to death.

—Don’t exaggerate —Minho replies—. I’m still the toughest one here.

Changbin snorts, uncrossing his arms for the first time.

—Tough, says the one who got dizzy ten minutes ago trying to sit up.

—That was strategy —Minho replies—. Dramatic, but strategic.

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders is no longer the same.

—Do you know how upset I was? I was about to leave the hotel even if they arrested me for walking around disguised as a suspicious tourist.

—You’d look even more suspicious —Seungmin says immediately, not missing the opportunity.

—Exactly —Minho adds—. Thanks for not ruining my international image.

Even Jeongin laughs quietly, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Felix shakes his head, but his smile is firmer now.

Jisung watches everything in silence. The way Minho keeps a light tone, how he deflects the concern with small provocations, how he tries to give them a bit of normalcy back. But he also sees what others might not notice: the slight fatigue after each joke, how his fingers try to make sure that Jisung is still there.

Their hands remain intertwined.

Minho squeezes gently. Almost imperceptible. A direct and private message: I’m here. I’m still me.

Jisung responds the same way, squeezing back. And although he says nothing, Chan notices. And Seungmin too. And perhaps everyone. Because there is a different calm when the two of them do not let go.

—So the event got canceled and you owe me a double celebration? —Minho adds, looking at Chan—. Technically, I fought while sick. That should count as extra merit.

Chan raises an eyebrow, but the corner of his lips trembles.

—First you officially survive —he says quietly—. Then we negotiate.

Hyunjin makes a dramatic gesture, placing a hand on his chest.

—Seriously, hyung, you almost gave us a collective heart attack and you want cake.

—It’s not cake —Minho corrects, turning his head slightly with care—. Something more expensive.

—Don’t even dream about it —Seungmin says.

—No cake if the doctor doesn’t authorize sugar —Changbin adds in a serious tone, as if it were an unbreakable rule.

—And you either —Felix suddenly adds, looking at Jisung with feigned severity—. Don’t run out of battery just because you’re keeping him company.

Jisung looks up, surprised, and lets out a small laugh that sounds more fragile than he would like.

—I didn’t.

—Almost —Jeongin murmurs.

Minho turns his head slightly toward Jisung.

—He doesn’t faint —he says with calm certainty—. He just dramatizes better than I do.

—Lie —Jisung finally replies, soft but firm—. That’s impossible.

A collective murmur runs through the room. It isn’t just laughter. It’s relief. It’s the certainty that they can talk like this again.

—Traitors —Minho mutters, pretending to be offended.

Felix leans in a little more, resting his hands on the edge of the mattress, as if he were holding the emotion inside his chest.

—Stay is sending a lot of messages. So many. They’re worried, but also very proud.

Minho frowns slightly, more out of habit than annoyance.

—Don’t tell them I almost fainted.

—Too late —Hyunjin says, shrugging.

Chan finally intervenes, his voice calmer but firm, that voice that always appears when things need structure.

—A statement has already been released. Just that you suffered an assault, that you’re stable, and that the agency is handling the rest. Nothing more.

Minho nods slowly. The word “assault” seems to float in the air for a second, heavier than the others. His eyes move across each of them, as if counting, as if checking that they are still eight. He stops a second longer on Jisung.

—Then we’re okay —he says.

No one answers immediately, but the answer is there, floating in the room. As if no one had left. As if they remained too close to one another.

Jeongin moves a little closer, leaning slightly toward him.

—When you’re better… we’ll be able to officially make fun of your bandage.

Minho raises an eyebrow. —You have permission.

—And I’m going to record it —Felix adds, already half raising his phone in a threatening gesture.

—Don’t you dare.

The laughter is soft, but genuine. It moves through the room like something warm, dissolving the last traces of tension.

Minho tries to sit up a little again, as if he wanted to do it by himself, to regain some ground. But the dizziness catches him immediately; his expression changes for a moment, enough for everyone to notice.

Chan moves forward without thinking. Jisung instinctively tightens his hand around his, holding him firmly. Changbin is already ready on the other side, by pure reflex.

—Hey, hero —Chan says softly—. Easy.

—I’m fine —Minho replies, although his voice loses some firmness—. I just wanted to check that I’m still the strongest one here.

—We seriously doubt it —Seungmin says without blinking.

—Very seriously —Hyunjin adds, crossing his arms.

—Prove it when I don’t have stitches —Minho replies, breathing a little slower until the dizziness fades.

Minho smiles slightly, but it doesn’t last long. The tiredness weighs on his eyelids, as if every joke had required a small extra effort.

And while everyone surrounds him, Jisung is there too. He isn’t behind. He isn’t hidden. But he isn’t in the center either. He is right where he can see all of them… and all of them can see him.

The boys know, because Chan told them, that Minho took the physical blows, but that Jisung carried something different. The shock. The panic. The image that kept repeating in his head. His history with anxiety is no secret among them, and a hit like that can open cracks that take time to close.

Felix is the first to approach him.

—Are you okay?

—I’m okay —Jisung says almost by reflex.

—We’re not asking if you’re okay out of courtesy —Seungmin replies gently—. We’re looking at you, we care about you.

Changbin uncrosses his arms and steps closer too.

—What you went through… —he starts, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

Hyunjin takes a deep breath.

—Hyung, we know you.

Jisung isn’t okay, but he is better. Even so, his body reacts before his mind. Sometimes his pulse speeds up without warning. Sometimes his breathing catches in his chest when he hears a louder sound than usual. Sometimes his memory replays images he doesn’t want to see.

But when he looks around and sees all of them there, when he feels Chan’s constant presence nearby, when Minho extends his hand toward him as if it were the most natural thing in the world… the ground feels solid again.

He is not the least important. And they make that clear without turning it into a spectacle.

Jisung tries to look away, as if he could dodge the intensity of all that by lowering his gaze a little. But Minho doesn’t let him. Without letting go of his hand, he lifts their intertwined fingers a little, gently forcing him to look at him.

It isn’t a rough gesture. It’s firm.

—Don’t use me as an excuse not to take care of yourself —Minho murmurs, his voice low, still rough from the headache.

He doesn’t say it in a reproachful tone. He says it like someone who knows his mechanisms too well.

That disarms him more than anything else.

Because Jisung knows it’s true. That when something hurts someone, he focuses on that. He focuses on hugging, on distracting, on being available… and leaves his own trembling for later.

Felix speaks again, this time more serious.

—If you need space, we’ll go with you.

—If you need to talk, we’ll talk —Jeongin adds, moving a little closer, as if the offer were literal and immediate.

—If you don’t need to talk, that too —Seungmin says, practical, but with an almost imperceptible softness.

Changbin nods and holds his gaze.

—But don’t carry it alone again.

It isn’t an order. It’s a caring boundary.

Jisung swallows. Now he notices small details he had ignored: how his shoulders hurt from the tension, how it is still hard for him to breathe completely. How his body remains alert even though the room is full of familiar voices.

Minho squeezes his hand again.

—I don’t need you to be strong for me —he adds, softer—. Just stay.

Something in Jisung’s chest changes.

It isn’t anxiety. It isn’t guilt.

It is the clear sensation, almost physical, of an invisible net holding him up. Of hands that don’t let go even if he tries to first. Of people who don’t see him as fragile, but who also won’t allow him to hide behind automatic strength.

Chan steps in, now more practical, bringing the conversation back to something concrete. Something manageable.

—We fly tomorrow. The agency already has everything organized. A discreet flight, private departure. No press. No noise.

The information settles like a solid structure in the middle of the gently emotional atmosphere. A plan. A next step.

Minho sighs, adjusting his head slightly against the pillow.

—Will they let me wear dramatic dark sunglasses?

Chan looks at him for a second, evaluating whether he’s serious.

—You still can’t be exposed to too much light —he replies patiently—. The doctor was clear.

—Then they’ll be medical —Minho answers without losing the tone—, but dramatic.

Hyunjin lets out a quiet laugh.

—If they’re dramatic, they have to match the bandage.

—Please don’t give him ideas —Seungmin mutters, shaking his head—. Unbearable even with stitches.

Changbin snorts, but the tension in his shoulders has disappeared.

Felix smiles openly.

And Jisung… Jisung really smiles this time.

It isn’t the automatic smile he uses to reassure the others. It isn’t the small, cautious curve from before. It’s one that reaches his eyes. That relaxes his jaw. That gives him back a certain lightness.

Minho notices. He always notices.

Later, when the laughter has settled and fatigue begins to take over everyone, the atmosphere shifts again. Not with tension, but with order.

Minho finally manages to give his formal statement. It isn’t long. It’s clear, direct, without embellishment. Chan stays close the entire time, not interrupting, only making sure nothing has to be repeated unnecessarily.

Shortly after, the private doctor sent by the agency arrives. He examines Minho meticulously: he checks his blood pressure, his pupils, and the sensitivity around the wound. He removes the bandage with steady movements, revealing the stitches, already clean. The new one is more discreet, fits better, and is less bulky than the previous one.

—More subtle —murmurs Hyunjin, approving the change.

—I’m losing international presence —Minho replies, though this time his tone is softer.

The doctor doesn’t smile, but his eyes do.

Then comes the part no one expected to be so formal: the explanation.

How to clean the area.
How to disinfect without pressing too hard.
How to place the new bandage without tightening it.
How often to check the swelling.
What signs to pay attention to.

No one leaves the room. Not a single one.

They arrange themselves around him as if it were an improvised class. Changbin watches with his arms crossed, but attentive to every instruction. Seungmin asks practical questions. Felix watches the process twice, as if memorizing every step. Jeongin even repeats the instructions quietly so he won’t forget them.

—You can’t all do it at the same time —the doctor warns.

—Shifts —Chan says immediately.

They also give them a cream for the bruises. Minho’s knuckles are still swollen, the skin tight and reddened from the blows. On his abdomen, beneath the shirt, the bruise has darkened on both sides, a violet shadow that hurts more than he admits.

—Apply gently —the doctor instructs—. Don’t rub.

Minho rolls his eyes. —It was going to hurt anyway.

—Exactly —Seungmin replies.

Before leaving, the doctor also checks Jisung’s wrist. It isn’t serious. Just some swelling.

—Relative rest —he orders—. Don’t strain it unnecessarily, no exercise.

Jisung nods, a little embarrassed to be examined.

Chan doesn’t make any comment, but he registers it.

The day ends with a strange feeling in Jisung’s chest.

It isn’t anguish. Not exactly.

It’s as if his body still doesn’t understand that everything is over. As if it still expects something to break the silence at any moment. Every time he closes his eyes for more than a few seconds, the images return with too much clarity. The metallic flash. The pressure. The voice. The dull, sharp sound of the blow.

They aren’t long memories. They are flashes. Brief. Precise. But when he opens his eyes, Minho is there.

He breathes, watches his chest rise and fall, and that is the only thing that matters.

He no longer feels guilty like he did at the beginning. He doesn’t replay the scene searching for a different movement, a faster reaction, a possibility that never existed. He has thought about it enough to understand that it was a disadvantage from the first second, that there was no real margin to do anything differently. What remains instead is something deeper and quieter: the concrete fear of having lost him, not as a dramatic idea, but as a tangible possibility that came too close. The image of a world where Minho is no longer there, where that bed would be empty, where the air in the room would feel different.

That thought still takes his breath away sometimes. It doesn’t destroy him, it doesn’t make him tremble like before, but it settles in his chest with a persistent weight.

That’s why he doesn’t move too far away. He doesn’t suffocate him, doesn’t watch him as if he might break with the slightest movement, doesn’t invade his space or turn affection into obsession. He simply stays, close enough to feel the warmth of his hand when their fingers intertwine, calm enough that the closeness doesn’t become suffocating. It is a constant, silent presence, almost invisible to anyone who isn’t looking closely, but firm like a promise that doesn’t need to be spoken.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*•✯