YESSSS FINALLY OMG i was re-reading the first 7 chapters and i literally went; "wait … since when was it this good? i really need to read the next chapters" then i remembered this was MY book so i took that as a sign to finally write the next chapter 😼
in which ∘ ∘ ∘ the murder that ended [m.name]'s five-year journey with NOVAE; a group that had eroded from genuine brotherhood into a mere stage-sharing arrangement of hollow smiles and clipped exchanges; should have been the final curtain, yet instead of oblivion, he gasps awake at twenty, back in that familiar cramped dormitory on the eve of everything he already knows will unravel. haunted by every regret, friendship he let wither, and word left unsaid until too late, [m.name] carries the weight of a future that ended violently, and now with desperate clarity, he vows to shield the bonds he once lost, unmask the truth behind his own death, and challenge the grim certainty of fate. but if he falters and lets history replay its cruel script, he knows this second chance might well be his last.
⟡ pairing male!obsessed!idols x male!idol!reader
⟡ content isekai & transmigration, system, explicit sexual content (bottom male reader), romance, BL, friends to lovers, found family, fluff & angst, obsession, a lots of jealousy, swearing, crack, panic attacks, obsessive behavior, my poor attempts at humour, toxic entertainment industry, possessiveness, codependency + more.
⟡ status ongoing
⟡ wordcount ( 8,495 in draft )
⟡ taglist OPEN ( let me know if you wanna be added! )
hai hai just wanted to know, was it on purpose to have two chapters with similar names in heaven can wait? (you don't have to carry it alone, 7 / you don't have to carry this alone, 22) thank you!! take care pls
ohh i forgot i already named a chapter like that lmao 💀
It wasn't the familiar throb behind your eyes — though that was there too, a dull, persistent ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, a constant companion you'd grown almost accustomed to over the past weeks — but something else, something sharper and more localized. It was a burning, pulling sensation that seemed to radiate from somewhere on your left side, like someone had taken a hot knife and pressed it against your ribs, then left it there, letting the heat seep into your flesh, into your bones, into the very core of your being. Every breath you took sent a fresh wave of agony through your body, each inhale a reminder that you were still alive, still here, still fighting.
You tried to frown, to make sense of the sensation, but even that small movement — the slight furrow of your brow, the barely-there twitch of your facial muscles — sent a fresh wave of pain through your skull, and you quickly abandoned the effort. Your head was pounding, a relentless, throbbing ache that seemed to fill every corner of your mind, pushing out coherent thoughts and replacing them with a foggy, disoriented haze.
God, you thought, the words forming slowly, clumsily, like wading through deep water. My head hurts. It hurts so much.
It was the kind of headache that made you want to curl into a ball and disappear completely, the kind that made you wonder if the tumor had finally decided to make its presence known in the most dramatic way possible. But even as the thought surfaced, you knew it wasn't quite right. This wasn't the tumor; this was something else entirely, something that felt less like the slow, creeping pressure that had become your constant companion and more like the aftermath of a violent collision. Like being hit by a car. Or falling from a great height. Or—
You stopped yourself.
The thought was there, hovering at the edge of your consciousness, but you couldn't quite grasp it. It slipped through your fingers like water, dissolving before you could fully form it.
What happened to me?
The question surfaced, urgent and insistent, but the answer remained frustratingly out of reach. You could feel the fog in your mind, thick and disorienting, making it hard to grasp at coherent thoughts. They slipped through your fingers again, dissolving before you could fully form them. You knew something had happened, you knew you were hurt, but the specifics eluded you, hovering just out of reach like names you couldn't quite remember.
What do I remember?
You tried to focus, tried to push through the fog, but the effort made your head throb even more painfully, and you had to stop, had to just breathe, had to let the pain wash over you and through you and out the other side. Your body felt heavy, leaden, like you were weighted down by something you couldn't see, couldn't name. Your limbs were unresponsive, your muscles weak, and even the simple act of breathing felt like a monumental effort.
I'm so tired, you thought, and the words were a sigh, a surrender. I'm so tired of being tired.
But even through the exhaustion, through the fog and the pain, something was stirring in the back of your mind — it was a memory, fragmented and hazy, trying to push its way to the surface.
The dream, you thought. I remember the dream.
The image surfaced unbidden, sharp and vivid, crashing into your consciousness with the force of a tidal wave. Your mother — young and warm and smiling, the way she used to be, the way you remembered her from before everything fell apart — standing in golden light, her arms open, her eyes full of love; then the shift, the coldness, the hands around your throat, the words that cut deeper than any knife ever could.
You killed him.
Your heart clenched, a sharp, physical ache that had nothing to do with your injuries and everything to do with the guilt that had been festering inside you for as long as you could remember. The dream — the nightmare — had felt so real. The warmth of your mother's embrace, the softness of her voice, the way she'd held you like you were still her precious son, like you were still someone worth loving; and then the cruelty, the way she'd looked at you like you were something to be discarded, something to be destroyed.
You are nothing, Y/N. You've always been nothing.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to banish the image, trying to push the words out of your head. But they lingered, stubborn and persistent, burrowing into the deepest parts of your mind, taking root in the fertile soil of your self-doubt. The guilt was a living thing inside you, a parasite that had been feeding on you for years, growing stronger with every failure, every mistake, every moment you couldn't be enough.
You should have died in that ocean. It would have been easier for everyone.
God, why did she have to be right?
You didn't know how long you lay there, suspended in that strange, liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, the pain in your head and the ache in your heart keeping you anchored to the present even as your mind tried to drift back into the darkness. The dream had felt so real — the warmth, the light, the peace, and then the cold, the darkness, the surrender. It had felt like an ending.
Am I dead?
The thought surfaced unbidden, and you turned it over in your mind, examining it from all angles.
You had been so sure, in that dream, that you were finally gone. That the pain was finally over, that you were finally free. And now you were here, in this place of familiar beeping machines and sterile smells and the constant, nagging ache of your own broken body.
If you were dead, why did you hurt so much?
Slowly, carefully, you opened your eyes.
The light was blinding — harsh and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft gold of your cruel dream. It stabbed at your pupils like needles, and you had to blink several times before the world began to resolve into something coherent: white ceiling, white walls, the distant beep of machines, a steady, rhythmic pulse that seemed to echo in time with your heartbeat, the smell of antiseptic, sharp and clinical, filling your nostrils and settling in the back of your throat.
Hospital, you realized. I'm in a hospital.
The realization settled over you like a heavy blanket, and you felt a flicker of something that might have been relief, might have been disappointment, might have been a strange, uncomfortable mix of both. You weren't dead. You were alive, and you were in a hospital, and—
The smell hit you then, sharp and antiseptic, the unmistakable scent of disinfectant and sterile sheets and the faint, underlying sweetness of illness. It was the smell of sickness, the smell of places where people came to get better or to die, and it made your stomach turn.
God, I hate hospitals, you thought, and the words were a quiet, resigned sigh in your mind. I'm so sick of hospitals.
The sterile scent wafted around you, curling into your nostrils and settling in the back of your throat, making you feel vaguely nauseous. It was the same smell that had greeted you in Dr. Hwang's office, the same smell that had clung to your clothes for days after your diagnosis, the same smell that had become synonymous with fear and uncertainty and the slow, creeping dread of an expiration date that kept getting closer no matter how hard you tried to outrun it.
You had spent so much time in hospitals over the past weeks — doctor's appointments, scans, consultations — that the smell had become almost familiar. It was a constant, unwelcome companion, a reminder of everything you were trying not to think about.
The tumor.
Your hand moved instinctively, your fingers twitching against the thin hospital sheet, reaching up toward your head as if you could somehow check on the tumor, confirm that it was still there, still waiting, still ticking. But the movement pulled at something in your side — a sharp, stabbing pain that made you gasp and freeze immediately.
What the freaking hell?
Your eyes darted down, following the source of the pain, and for the first time, you took in your own body.
Your torso was wrapped in thick white bandages, the kind that covered your entire left side, extending from just below your ribs to your hip. The bandages were clean, pristine, but you could still see the faint shadow of something dark beneath them — bruising, maybe, or blood that had seeped through before it was changed.
You were in a hospital gown, the one that opened in the back, and your left arm was connected to an IV, the thin tube snaking up to a bag of clear liquid that hung from a metal pole beside the bed. A heart monitor beeped steadily, its green line tracing your heartbeat across the screen, and your eyes followed the line for a moment, transfixed by its steady rise and fall.
I'm alive, you thought, and the words felt strange, foreign, like they belonged to someone else. I'm actually alive.
The fog in your mind was beginning to clear, the fragments of memory slowly piecing themselves together like a puzzle you hadn't realized you'd been trying to solve. The fight. The knife. The pain — oh, the pain — and then the darkness, the warmth, the dream that had felt so real and so cruel.
I was stabbed.
You remembered now, the image surfacing with sickening clarity. The boss's ugly face twisted into a triumphant grin, the knife glinting in the dim light, the sharp, shocking pain as the blade sank into your side. You remembered the blood — so much blood, soaking through your shirt, seeping through your fingers, pooling on the ground beneath you. You remembered Sieun's voice, desperate and terrified, telling you to stay awake. You remembered Suho's hands, shaking and warm, desperately gripping your shoulders like he was trying to hold you together.
And then nothing.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry and scratchy, and tried to process the weight of what the hell had happened. You'd been stabbed, you'd almost died, and you were now in a hospital, again, surrounded by machines and monitors and the constant, beeping reminder of your own mortality.
Somehow, you'd survived.
You didn't know how to feel about that.
You lay there for a long moment, trying to piece together the fragments of your memory, trying to understand how you'd ended up here, in this sterile room, in this hospital bed. The details were still fuzzy around the edges, blurred by pain and exhaustion and the lingering fog of unconsciousness, but you had the sense that a significant amount of time had passed. Hours? Days? You weren't sure.
I need to move.
The thought surfaced suddenly, sharp and urgent, and you tried to shift your position, tried to push yourself up onto your elbows so you could get a better look at your surroundings. But the moment you moved, the moment you put even the smallest amount of pressure on your injured side, a searing bolt of agony shot through your body, and you collapsed back onto the bed with a strangled gasp.
"Fuck," you breathed, the word barely a whisper, your voice hoarse and cracked from disuse.
The pain was excruciating, radiating outward from your left side and spreading through your entire torso, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to think, impossible to do anything other than lie there and wait for it to pass. Your hands fisted in the thin hospital sheet, your knuckles going white, and you squeezed your eyes shut, riding out the wave of agony until it slowly, mercifully, began to recede. It was like the knife was still there, still buried in your side, still twisting with every movement, every breath, every beat of your heart.
It was only when the pain had dulled to a manageable ache that you noticed the weight on your legs.
You'd been so focused on the pain, so consumed by the disorientation of waking up, that you hadn't registered the sensation at first. But now, with your body still and your attention no longer completely consumed by the agony in your side, you became aware of it — a warmth, a pressure, a solid weight resting across your thighs.
What the—
Your eyes darted down, and your heart stopped.
For a moment, just a moment, you couldn't breathe. The world seemed to freeze around you, the beeping of the monitors fading into the background, the sterile smell of the hospital disappearing entirely. All you could see was the figure curled against your legs, the familiar dark hair, the delicate curve of a jaw, the soft rise and fall of a chest.
Sieun.
Sieun was sleeping on you.
Sieun was sleeping with his head resting on your thighs, his arms wrapped around your legs like he was holding onto you, anchoring you to the present, refusing to let go even in sleep. His face was turned slightly toward you, his features relaxed, peaceful, the tension that usually lived in his jaw and around his eyes completely absent. His dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted, and he looked—
God, he looked like an angel.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Your heart, which had been pounding with the effort of waking up and the pain of your injury, suddenly shifted into a different rhythm entirely — faster, lighter, full of something that felt terrifyingly like hope. The weight on your legs was warm, solid, and real. Sieun was really here. Sieun had really stayed. Sieun had really fallen asleep on your legs, his head pillowed on your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Oh my God, you thought, and your mind was a jumble of emotions too big and too fast to process. He's here. He's actually here. He stayed with me. He—
Your eyes traced the lines of Sieun's face, memorizing every single detail — the soft curve of his cheek, the slight furrow of his brow even in sleep, the way his fingers were curled loosely around the fabric of your hospital gown. He looked so exhausted, you realized. There were shadows under Sieun's eyes, dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry. His face was way paler than usual, and there was a tightness around his mouth that even sleep couldn't completely erase. There were faint lines on Sieun's face from where he'd been pressed against the blanket, and his hair was mussed and disheveled.
How long has he been here? you wondered, and the question sent a fresh wave of guilt through you. How long has he been sitting in this uncomfortable chair, waiting for me to wake up, worrying about me?
Sieun stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping his lips, and you froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid that any sound or movement would shatter this fragile, perfect moment. You watched Sieun's brow furrow, his head shifting slightly against your thigh, his fingers twitching against the hospital gown. His lips moved soundlessly, forming words you couldn't hear, and something that might have been a dream or a nightmare flickered across his face.
He's waking up, you realized, and your heart began to race even faster.
For a moment, you didn't know what to do.
You were still groggy, still disoriented, still trying to process the fact that you were alive and in a hospital and that Sieun was here, right here, close enough to touch. Your mind was a jumble of emotions — relief and guilt and love and fear all tangled up together, impossible to separate. You wanted to reach out and touch Sieun's face, to brush the hair from his forehead, to whisper something soft and reassuring. But you were afraid; afraid of waking Sieun too abruptly, afraid of breaking the spell, afraid of what you might see in Sieun's eyes when he fully woke up.
But then Sieun's eyes began to flutter open, and all of your frantic thoughts simply stopped.
Sieun blinked, once, twice, his eyes unfocused, still hazy with sleep. He looked disoriented for a moment, like he wasn't sure where he was or why he was there. His gaze drifted across the hospital room, taking in the monitors, the IV, the sterile white walls, before slowly, slowly, it landed on your face.
And then he saw you.
Sieun's eyes widened, his entire body going rigid for a second, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
His mouth opened, closed, opened again, but no sound came out. He just stared at you, his dark eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your chest ache. There was disbelief there, and shock, and a desperate, trembling hope that made your heart crack open.
"...Jiyong?" Sieun's voice was rough, hoarse, barely more than a whisper. It cracked on the second syllable, and there was something in it, something raw and vulnerable and so full of longing that you felt your heart swell until it hurt in response. "Jiyong, is that—are you—"
"Hi, Sieun."
Your voice came out quieter than you'd intended, softer, like you were afraid of breaking the spell.
You tried to smile, tried to reassure Sieun that you were okay, that you were alive, that you were here. But the smile that curved your lips was wobbly and uncertain, and your eyes were already beginning to sting with the threat of tears. You felt like you were dreaming, like any moment you might wake up and find that this was just another layer of the nightmare.
The expression on Sieun's face was unlike anything you had ever seen before.
It was like watching a dam break — all that carefully constructed control, all those walls Sieun had spent years building, simply crumbling away. The surprise was there, yes, the shock of seeing you awake after days of waiting. But beneath it was something deeper, something more profound. Worry — the kind of worry that had carved deep grooves into Sieun's brow, that had left dark shadows under his eyes. Relief — so potent, so overwhelming, that you could practically feel it radiating off him in waves. Pain — the pain of watching someone you cherish suffer, of being helpless to stop it, of not knowing if they would wake up.
And above all else, love.
So much love that you could barely breathe under the weight of it.
It was in the way Sieun's eyes softened, the hard edges melting away like ice under a warm Sun. It was in the way his lips parted slightly, the barest trembling at the corners, like he was holding back words he couldn't quite say. It was in the way his whole body seemed to relax, the tension draining out of his shoulders, his spine, his hands that were still fisted in your hospital gown.
This was Sieun, you realized, but not the Sieun you'd known. This was Sieun with his armor off, Sieun with his defenses down, Sieun completely, utterly open and vulnerable and so beautiful that your heart ached with the sight of him. This was the Sieun that only you got to see — the boy who hid behind walls so high that no one else could climb them, but who had let you in anyway.
Without thinking, without a single conscious thought, you reached out.
Your hand was heavy, so heavy, the effort of lifting it almost too much. But you pushed through the exhaustion, pushed through the pain, pushed through the fog that was still clouding your mind. Your fingers trembled slightly as they crossed the distance between you, and for a moment, you were afraid you wouldn't make it, that your arm would give out before you could reach your goal.
But then your hand was there, hovering just above Sieun's cheek, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough to see the individual lashes framing his dark eyes, close enough to count the tiny freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.
You hesitated.
What if this isn't what Sieun wants? What if he's just relieved I'm alive, and I'm reading way too much into it? What if Sieun runs away—
But then Sieun's eyes fluttered closed, his head tilting slightly, leaning into your hand like he was seeking the warmth, like he was desperate for the contact, and all of your doubts simply melted away. The gesture was so vulnerable, so completely trusting that you felt something shift inside you, something fundamental and irreversible.
You let your palm rest against Sieun's cheek.
His skin was so soft, so warm, so impossibly real. You could feel the faint stubble on his jaw, the delicate curve of his cheekbone, the flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips. It was such a small thing, such a simple gesture, but it felt monumental, like you were touching something sacred, something you had no right to but couldn't bear to let go of. It was like holding a flame in your palm, warm and bright and so fragile that you were terrified of snuffing it out.
Sieun's breath hitched — it was a really soft, almost imperceptible sound — and you felt your heart clench in response. You could feel Sieun's pulse beneath your fingertips, rapid and uneven, matching the frantic rhythm of your own heart. You were both trembling, you realized. Both of you, caught in this moment, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell had brought you here.
Slowly, so slowly, you began to move your thumb across Sieun's cheek. The motion was gentle, reverent, like you were touching something fragile and precious that might shatter if you weren't careful. You traced the line of Sieun's cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the soft skin just beneath his eye. Your thumb brushed against the corner of Sieun's mouth, and you felt Sieun's lips part slightly, a soft exhale escaping.
And then, so softly that you almost missed it, Sieun pressed his face a little closer into your palm.
The gesture was small, but it said everything. It said I trust you. It said I want this. It said I need you.
Sieun looked like a kitten, you thought, your mind fuzzy with emotion. A cute little kitten who'd just woken up and was seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking the one person who made him feel safe. He looked small, vulnerable, nothing like the controlled, composed boy you'd first met.
Your heart, which had been pounding so hard it felt like it might burst, began to calm. The frantic rhythm smoothed out, settling into something slower, steadier, more peaceful. The ache in your chest — the one that had been there for so long, the one that had nothing to do with your injuries — began to ease, replaced by something warmer, something softer, something that felt almost like hope.
You were alive. You were here. And Sieun was with you, his face pressed into your palm, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and even.
You wanted to stay like this forever.
You wanted to freeze this moment, to hold onto it, to keep it safe in the deepest part of your heart where nothing could touch it. You wanted to memorize every detail — the warmth of Sieun's skin, the softness of his hair, the way his lashes brushed against your fingers when he blinked. You wanted to capture the sound of Sieun's breath, the beat of Sieun's heart, the way Sieun's whole body seemed to naturally lean into your touch.
"I thought I lost you."
Sieun's voice was barely a whisper, so soft that you almost didn't hear it. The boy's eyes were still closed, his face still pressed into your palm, and there was something in his voice — something raw and broken and so full of pain that your heart ached in response.
"I thought—" Sieun stopped, his throat working, and you could feel the tremor that ran through his body. "When you didn't wake up, when the doctors said they didn't know if you would, I thought—"
Sieun's voice cracked, and he couldn't finish the sentence.
Your thumb moved again, tracing the curve of Sieun's cheek, wiping away an uncommon tear that had escaped from beneath his closed lashes. Sieun's eyelashes were wet, you realized, and his cheeks were damp, and the boy was crying — silent, steady tears that spoke of hours and hours of fear and worry and desperate hope.
"Sieun," you said, and your voice was rough, thick with emotion. "Sieun, look at me."
Slowly, Sieun opened his eyes.
His dark eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes wet, his cheeks flushed with tears. He looked wrecked, exhausted, completely and utterly undone. But beneath all of that, beneath the exhaustion and the worry and the pain, there was something else; something so warm and so bright and full of a love so vast it seemed to fill the entire room.
"I'm here," you said, and your voice was steadier now, stronger. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Sieun's breath hitched, and he pressed his face more firmly into your palm, his eyes closing again. A soft sound escaped his lips — between a sob and a sigh — and you felt your heart break and mend at the same time.
"Don't ever do that again," Sieun whispered, and there was a fierce edge to his voice, a desperate, aching plea. "Don't ever scare me like that again."
"I'll try," you said, and you meant it. "I'll try my best."
You stayed like that for a long moment, suspended in the quiet intimacy of the hospital room. The beeping of the monitors faded into the background, the sterile smell of the hospital receded, and all that was left was the warmth of Sieun's cheek against your palm and the steady beat of both of your hearts, synchronized in a rhythm that felt almost like a promise.
Finally, Sieun pulled back, just enough to look at your face. His eyes were still wet, but there was a tentative smile curving his lips — small and fragile, but real.
"You look terrible," Sieun said, and there was a hint of his usual dry humor in his voice, a flicker of the old Sieun beneath the exhaustion.
You laughed, a soft, breathless sound that sent a spike of pain through your side, but you didn't care.
"You should see the other guy."
"Don't joke about that," Sieun said, but there was no heat in his voice. His hand came up to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his cheek. "Don't joke about getting hurt. It's not funny."
"Sorry," you said with a clumsy smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry."
Sieun shook his head, his eyes dropping to where your hands were intertwined against his cheek.
"I'm going to worry about you anyway. That's just—that's what happens when you care about someone."
The words hung in the air between you, fragile and precious, and you felt your heart swell.
"Sieun—"
"I was so scared," Sieun interrupted, the words tumbling out in a rush, like he couldn't hold them in any longer. "When they brought you in, when they took you to surgery, when I had to sit in that waiting room for hours and hours and not know if you were going to—" Sieun stopped, his throat working, and you could see the tears welling up in his eyes again. "I've never been that scared before. Not ever."
Your hand, still pressed against Sieun's cheek, trembled slightly. You wanted to pull Sieun into your arms, to hold him close and never let go. But your body was weak, your injuries too severe, and all you could do was offer what little comfort you could through the touch of your palm.
"I'm sorry," you said, and the words felt so inadequate, so small in the face of everything Sieun had been through. "I'm so sorry, Sieun. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," Sieun said, and his voice was fierce again, sharp with emotion. "Don't you dare apologize for surviving. You're alive. That's all that matters."
Your eyes burned, and you blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. You wanted to say so many things — you wanted to tell Sieun how much he meant to you, how grateful you were, how terrified you'd been in those final moments, not for yourself, but for the thought of leaving Sieun behind. But the words simply wouldn't come, lodged somewhere deep in your throat, too heavy to push out.
So you just nodded, a small, jerky movement, and let your thumb trace another gentle arc across Sieun's cheek.
Sieun's eyes fluttered closed again, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He looked so exhausted, so completely drained, and you felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over you.
"Have you been sleeping?" you asked quietly. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
Sieun's eyes opened, and there was a flicker of something almost sheepish in his expression. "I've been... busy."
"Busy," you repeated, your eyebrow arching. "You've been busy sitting in this chair and worrying about me."
"Someone had to make sure you didn't die," Sieun said, and there was a hint of his usual dry humor in his voice. "Suho was here too, but he had to go home. His grandmother was worried. And he needed to shower and change and—"
"How long has it been? How long was I out?"
Sieun's expression flickered, something dark and painful passing over his face.
"Three days," he said quietly. "You were unconscious for three days."
Three days. The words echoed in your mind, heavy and disorienting. You'd been unconscious for three days. Three days of Sieun sitting by your bedside, waiting and worrying and hoping. Three days of Suho not knowing if his best friend was going to wake up. Three days of the doctors and nurses doing everything they could to keep you alive.
"I'm sorry," you said again, and the words felt so inadequate, so small in the face of everything. "I'm sorry I made you wait."
Sieun slowly shook his head, his smaller fingers tightening around your hand.
"You don't have to apologize. Just—just don't do it again. Please."
You smiled, a small, tired thing. "I'll try."
Sieun didn't answer, but something in his expression softened, and he leaned his face back into your palm, his eyes drifting closed again. The gesture was so tender, so vulnerable, that you felt your heart ache.
You stayed like that for another long moment, the silence between you filled with unspoken words and shared understanding. The hospital room felt completely different now — less cold, less sterile. The beeping of the monitors was a gentle rhythm, a reminder that you were still alive, still here, still fighting. Sieun's warmth was a promise, a comfort, a reason to keep going.
You were alive. You were here. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Your eyes drifted to the window, where the late afternoon sun was filtering through the blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the floor. You thought about your mother, about the dream, about the cruel words she'd spoken in the darkness of your own mind. You thought about Suho, about the worry he must have been feeling, about the guilt that had been festering inside you for so long.
You thought about Sieun, about the way he'd stayed by your side even when he didn't have to, even when it was hard, even when he was scared. You thought about the love in Sieun's eyes, the love that you hadn't even realized you'd been craving until you saw it.
Maybe you weren't as alone as you'd always thought.
You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of Sieun's presence wash over you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something that might have been peace.
But even as the thought surfaced, you knew it couldn't last. The world was still out there, pressing in on all sides, waiting to intrude on this fragile, perfect moment. The hospital, the doctors, the questions that would inevitably come. The tumor. The secret you'd been hiding for so long. The weight of everything you'd been carrying would come crashing back down on you eventually.
You didn't want to think about any of it.
You just wanted to stay here, in this small pocket of peace, with Sieun's cheek warm against your palm and the steady beat of his heart echoing in your ears.
"Sieun—"
Your voice came out softer than you'd intended, barely more than a whisper. You weren't sure what you were going to say; maybe something stupid and embarrassing, something that would make you want to crawl under the covers and disappear. Maybe something honest, something that would lay your heart bare and leave you completely vulnerable.
But before you could finish the thought, before you could even figure out what you wanted to say, the door to the hospital room opened.
Your head snapped up, your hand instinctively pulling back from Sieun's cheek. The loss of contact was immediate and sharp, a sudden coldness that made you want to reach out and reclaim the warmth. But you stopped yourself, your hand hovering awkwardly in the air before you let it fall back to the bed. Your heart was pounding again, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with your injuries.
The man who entered the room was not a stranger.
Your heart seized in your chest. Your eyes widened, your breath catching in your throat as you took in the familiar face, the crisp white coat, the calm, professional demeanor that had become so intimately familiar over the past weeks.
Dr. Hwang.
The doctor who had diagnosed you. The doctor who had told you about the tumor. The doctor who had given you a timeline, a countdown, a number of months that had been ticking away in the back of your mind ever since. The man who had changed everything with a single sentence.
What is he doing here?
Your mind raced, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear anything else. This was your doctor, the one who was supposed to be treating your tumor. The one who had been tracking its progress, monitoring its growth, waiting for the day when it would finally become too much to bear. The one who knew exactly how long you had left.
Why is he here? He's not a surgeon. He's not an emergency doctor. He has no reason to be here unless—
Unless he's here because of the tumor.
Your blood ran cold. Your eyes darted around the room, taking in the monitors, the IV, the hospital bed. You thought about the coma, the three days you'd apparently been unconscious, the dream that had felt so real and so terrifying. You thought about your mother's hands around your throat, her cruel words echoing in your mind.
Was it the tumor? Had something happened to it while you were out? Had it grown? Had it spread? Were you running out of time even faster than you thought?
Your chest tightened, your breathing becoming shallow and rapid. You could feel the panic building inside you, a rising tide that threatened to sweep you away. Your hands were trembling, your palms slick with sweat, and you had to grip the thin hospital sheet just to keep them still.
Do Suho and Sieun know?
The thought hit you like a physical blow, and your eyes darted to Sieun, who was still sitting beside the bed, his dark eyes fixed on Dr. Hwang with an expression that was hard to read. There was something in his posture; a wariness, a protectiveness, that made your stomach twist.
Does he know about the tumor? Does Suho know? Have they found out while I was unconscious? Are they mad at me for not telling them?
Your heart was racing, a frantic, panicked rhythm that made it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything other than stare at Dr. Hwang and try to figure out what was happening. You felt like you were drowning, like the walls were closing in, like everything you'd been trying so hard to keep hidden was about to come crashing down around you.
"Y/N," Dr. Hwang said, and his voice was calm, professional, the same voice he'd used when he'd delivered the diagnosis weeks ago. "It's good to see you awake."
You didn't respond. You couldn't; your mouth was dry, your throat tight, your mind a whirlwind of fear and guilt and confusion. Your hands were shaking, your whole body trembling with the effort of keeping yourself together.
Dr. Hwang's gaze shifted to Sieun, and there was something almost apologetic in his expression. He seemed to understand, in that moment, that he was intruding on something private, something precious. But his duty was to his patient, and he couldn't ignore that.
"I need to examine Jiyong," Dr. Hwang said, his voice gentle but firm. "Would you mind stepping out for a few minutes?"
Sieun's eyes darted to you, his expression uncertain, his body language clearly showing his reluctance to leave. For a moment, you thought he might refuse, might insist on staying, might demand to know what was going on. You could see the conflict on Sieun's face — the desire to protect you warring with the knowledge that the doctor was just doing his job.
But then Sieun's gaze met yours, and you forced yourself to smile — a small, shaky thing, but a smile nonetheless. You reached out with your right hand, your fingers brushing against Sieun's, and gave a gentle squeeze. The contact was brief, but it said everything.
"It's okay," you said, your voice hoarse but steady. "I'll be fine. Go ahead."
Sieun's jaw tightened, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to read the truth hidden beneath the words. But then he nodded, a small, reluctant movement, and slowly pulled his hand away from yours. The loss of contact was sharp, a sudden coldness that made you want to reach out and pull him back.
"I'll be right outside," Sieun said, and his voice was low, quiet, meant only for you. "If you need me—"
"I know."
Sieun held your gaze for another moment, his dark eyes filled with a thousand unspoken words.
Then he turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps soft on the linoleum floor. The door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone with Dr. Hwang.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, filled with all the things you didn't want to say and all the things you knew you couldn't avoid. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the sweat beading on your forehead, the familiar weight of fear settling over you like a shroud.
Dr. Hwang moved to the side of the bed, his hands going to the chart that hung from the foot of the bed. He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the notes, his expression giving absolutely nothing away. The silence stretched between you, filled with the beep of the monitors and the distant hum of the hospital.
"Three days," Dr. Hwang said finally, and his voice was soft. "You were unconscious for three days, Y/N."
You swallowed hard, your throat dry.
"I know. Sieun told me."
Dr. Hwang nodded slowly, setting the chart down on the bed. His eyes met yours, and there was something careful and measured in them that made your stomach twist.
"How are you feeling?" Dr. Hwang asked.
You let out a breath, a shaky exhale that did nothing to calm your nerves.
"Like I got stabbed," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word. "Like someone took a knife and—"
"I know," Dr. Hwang said, and his voice was gentle, reassuring. "I know it hurts. But the surgery went well. We were able to repair the internal damage and stop the bleeding. Your body is healing."
Your eyes darted to the bandages wrapped around your torso, then back to Dr. Hwang's face.
"But the tumor," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. "Is it—did it—"
Dr. Hwang held up a hand, a gesture of reassurance.
"Your tumor is stable," he said, and the words were so unexpected, so completely contrary to everything you'd been fearing, that you didn't know how to process them. "It hasn't grown, nor spread. The coma wasn't caused by the tumor—it was caused by the trauma and the blood loss."
You stared at him, your mind struggling to catch up.
"But then why—"
"The tumor makes you more vulnerable," Dr. Hwang explained, his voice patient, careful. "Your body is already under significant strain, Y/N. The tumor puts pressure on your brain, affects your body's ability to recover from injury, makes you more susceptible to complications. The trauma of the stabbing, combined with the blood loss, was enough to push your body past its breaking point."
He paused, his eyes meeting yours, and there was something in them that looked almost like concern.
"You need to be more careful," Dr. Hwang said, and there was such a gentle firmness in his voice that made your chest ache. "Your body is fragile, Y/N. More fragile than you realize. If something like this happens again, if you suffer another major injury, your body might not be able to recover. The tumor puts you at risk for complications that a healthy person wouldn't face."
Your throat tightened, and you felt something heavy settle in your chest. The fear was still there, the same fear that had been with you since the diagnosis, but it was quieter now, more subdued, overshadowed by the weight of everything Dr. Hwang was saying. You thought about the dream, about your mother's hands around your throat, about the cruel words that had echoed in your mind.
You thought about the guilt, the shame, the endless, crushing weight of your own self-doubt.
"Does that mean it's getting worse?" you asked, and your voice was small, fragile. "The tumor—does this mean it's getting worse?"
Dr. Hwang was quiet for a little moment, his eyes searching your face.
"The tumor itself is stable," he said carefully. "But your body is under more stress than it was before. The trauma of the injury, the blood loss, the time you spent unconscious—all of it has taken a toll. Your body is working hard to heal, and that takes energy away from fighting the tumor."
Your hands fisted in the sheets.
"How long do I have?"
The question hung in the air between you, heavy and unanswerable. You felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to crumble beneath your feet.
"I can't give you a specific timeline," Dr. Hwang said, and his voice was still gentle but firm. "What I can tell you is that you need to take care of yourself. That means avoiding dangerous situations, listening to your body, resting when you need to, not pushing yourself too hard. And it means—" he paused, his gaze steady. "—it means letting the people who care about you know what's going on."
You looked away, your jaw tightening.
You knew what Dr. Hwang was getting at. You knew you should have told your friends about the tumor, should have let them in, should have stopped carrying the weight alone. But the simple thought of it — of seeing the pity in their eyes, the fear, the sadness — was almost too much to bear.
"I know," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you'd intended. "I know I should have told them. I just—I didn't know how. I didn't want them to—"
"To what?"
You hesitated.
Your throat was tight, and the words felt too big, too heavy to push out into the open. You could feel the guilt coiling in your chest, sharp and hot, and you hated yourself for it. You hated yourself for being too scared to tell the truth, for hiding behind lies and excuses and false smiles. You hated yourself for the burden you were placing on your friends, for the worry you were causing, for the secrets you were keeping.
"I didn't want them to worry about me," you said finally, and even as you said it, you knew how stupid it sounded. "I didn't want them to look at me differently, to treat me like I was broken, like I was already—"
You stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
Dr. Hwang didn't push. He just stood there, patient, his eyes kind, waiting for you to find the words. The silence between you was heavy, but not unkind.
"They're going to find out eventually," you continued, and your voice cracked on the last word. "I can't keep it from them forever. I just—I wanted to protect them. I wanted to give them as much normal as I could before—"
Before I die.
You didn't say it. The words were too heavy, too real, too final. But you knew Dr. Hwang heard them anyway.
"Y/N," Dr. Hwang said, and his voice was soft, so different from the clinical tone he'd used when he first delivered the diagnosis. "You don't have to carry this alone. That's what the people who care about you are for. They want to be there for you. They want to help. You just have to let them."
Your eyes burned, and you blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears that were threatening to spill.
"I know," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. "I just—I don't know if I'm ready."
Dr. Hwang nodded slowly, his expression understanding.
"You don't have to be ready right now," he said. "But I want you to think about it, okay? When you're ready, when you feel like you can, I want you to tell them. They deserve to know. And you deserve to have their support."
You nodded, a small, jerky movement, and you couldn't quite bring yourself to meet Dr. Hwang's eyes. The guilt was still there, a familiar weight in your chest, but it was quieter now, less overwhelming.
"Thank you," you said, your voice rough. "For being honest with me."
Dr. Hwang smiled, a small, reassuring thing.
"That's my job," the doctor said. "Now, I need to check your bandages and make sure everything is healing properly. Are you ready?"
You nodded, and Dr. Hwang moved closer, his hands gentle and professional as he began to examine the wound. The pain was still there, a dull, persistent ache, but it was easier to bear now, knowing that the tumor wasn't the cause.
When Dr. Hwang was finished, he stepped back and jotted something down on his chart.
"You're healing well," he said. "The wound is clean, and there's no sign of infection. I'll check in again tomorrow, but for now, you should rest."
You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you.
"Thank you," you said again.
Dr. Hwang paused at the door, his hand on the handle.
"Jiyong," he said, his voice soft. "Think about what I said. About telling your friends. They deserve to know the truth."
Your throat tightened, and you nodded, unable to speak.
The door clicked shut behind Dr. Hwang, and you were alone again.
You lay there in the silence, the beeping of the monitors the only sound in the room, and you stared up at the white ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of guilt and fear and sadness. The tears you'd been holding back finally began to fall, silent and hot, tracing paths down your cheeks and disappearing into the thin hospital pillow.
You were alive. You were here. And you were more alone than you'd ever been.
The hospital room had transformed somehow, the sterile white walls seeming a little less oppressive, the beeping of the monitors a little less urgent, the harsh fluorescent light a little softer around the edges. It wasn't that anything had physically changed — the room was still the exact same room, the machines still hummed their mechanical lullabies, the antiseptic smell still lingered in the air — but the atmosphere had shifted entirely, warmed by the presence of the people who had crowded into the small space.
You propped yourself up against the pillows, careful not to jostle your injured side, and watched as Suho paced back and forth at the foot of the bed like a caged animal. Your best friend's eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed, his hands gesturing wildly as he launched into what was clearly the third or fourth retelling of his dramatic arrival.
"I literally ran here," Suho said, his voice climbing an octave with every word. "I was at work, right? Doing my shift, being a model employee, stacking shelves, organizing the drinks, the whole thing. And then Beomseok texted me saying Sieun said you were awake, and I just—" He mimed dropping something, his hands flying apart. "I just left. I didn't even clock out. I just grabbed my bag and ran. I didn't even tell my manager. I just—gone. Poof. Like a ghost."
"You're going to get fired," you said, but your voice was warm, amused, the first real smile you'd managed since waking up tugging at the corners of your mouth. "You can't just abandon your shift like that."
Suho waved a dismissive hand, the gesture so grand it almost knocked over a cup of water on the bedside table.
"Worth it. My manager can deal. He's always telling me I need to be more 'committed to the job' or whatever, but you know what? I am committed. I'm committed to my friends. That's way more important than stocking chips." Suho paused, his expression softening. "I had to see you, man. I had to make sure you were actually alive and not just some really elaborate hallucination my brain cooked up because I haven't slept in three days."
"You haven't slept in three days?" Your eyebrows shot up. "Suho, that's—"
"Dramatic license," Suho interrupted, waving his hand once again. "Okay, maybe a little bit of actual sleep deprivation. But that's not the point. The point is that you—" He jabbed a finger in your direction, his voice fierce. "—you absolute idiot, scared the living hell out of me. Do you have any idea how worried I was? How worried we all were?"
Your smile faltered, guilt creeping back in.
You opened your mouth to apologize, to say something that would make it better, but Suho was already moving, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. Before you could react, Suho had launched himself onto the bed, his arms wrapping around you in a hug that was way too tight and way too warm and absolutely perfect.
"Ow—Suho, my side—" You winced, but you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you, breathless and surprised.
The pressure on your bandages was uncomfortable, but the warmth of Suho's embrace was worth it.
"Shut up," Suho said, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I don't care about your side. You're alive. You're awake. I'm hugging you, and you're going to let me. This is non-negotiable."
Your arms came up slowly, carefully, your fingers curling into the fabric of Suho's jacket. You could feel your best friend's heart pounding, the rapid, frantic rhythm of someone who had been holding themselves together for too long and was finally, finally letting go.
Suho's shoulders were trembling slightly, barely perceptible, and you realized that Suho was holding back tears.
"I'm okay," you said softly, the words meant for Suho alone. "I'm okay. I promise. I'm not going anywhere."
"You better be," Suho muttered, pulling back just enough to look you in the face. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression fierce that was masking something softer underneath. "Because if you ever do something like that again, I'll kill you. And I mean it. I'll find a way to bring you back from the dead just so I can kill you myself."
You laughed one more time, the sound surprising even you with its lightness.
"That's very aggressive for someone who just said he was happy I'm alive."
"I'm multidimensional," Suho said, sitting back on the edge of the bed. He crossed his arms, but there was no heat in the gesture. "I can be happy you're alive and also furious with you for scaring me. It's called range. I have a lot of range."
Behind him, Beomseok stepped forward, his glasses slightly askew, his expression a mixture of relief and awkwardness. The glasses boy hovered at the edge of the bed, his hands clasped in front of him, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to get closer. His fingers were twisting together nervously, a habit you had noticed before.
"I'm really glad you're okay," Beomseok said, his voice soft but genuine. "We were all really worried about you. I was so scared when I heard what happened. I couldn't even focus on my classes. I just kept thinking about you and hoping you would wake up."
Your chest tightened, the familiar guilt coiling in your stomach. You'd done this to them. You'd made them worry, made them wait, made them sit in a hospital room for three days while you slept and they could do nothing but watch.
The weight of it pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating.
"Thanks, Beomseok," you said, and you meant it. "I'm sorry I made you all worry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," Beomseok said quickly, shaking his head. His glasses slipped further down his nose, and he pushed them back up with a nervous gesture. "It wasn't your fault. It was that—" He paused, his jaw tightening, a rare flash of anger crossing his usually gentle features. "It was that man. He hurt you. You didn't do anything wrong."
You blinked, surprised by the fierceness in Beomseok's voice. The quiet boy with the glasses and the nervous energy had a spine after all. There was steel beneath the softness, a protective instinct that you hadn't expected.
"Yeah," Suho agreed, his voice hardening. "That bastard is lucky the cops got to him before I did, because if I'd had one more minute alone with him—" He didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear.
"Suho," you said, a warning note in your voice.
You didn't want your best friend getting into trouble over this. You'd already been through enough.
"I'm just saying." Suho held up his hands, but there was a glint in his eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely joking. "He hurt my best friend. He stabbed you. He's lucky I have self-control. And that's only because Beomseok held me back when I tried to go after him."
Beomseok's cheeks flushed. "You were going to do something reckless. Someone had to stop you."
"I was going to do something necessary," Suho corrected.
You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. Your friends were ridiculous. Your friends were wonderful. You were so, so lucky to have them.
Beomseok, who had found a chair and settled into it, leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. His expression had shifted from relief to something more serious, more businesslike.
"Speaking of the police, they've been trying to talk to you," Beomseok said, adjusting his glasses. "They came by the hospital a couple of times, but you were still unconscious. They need a statement about what happened—what that man did to you, what you saw, everything. But they said you can wait until you feel better. There's no rush."
You nodded slowly, processing the information. The gang. The boss. The knife. It all felt distant now, like something that had happened to someone else, in another life. The memory was hazy, fragmented, like a dream you couldn't quite grasp.
"Later," you agreed. "I'll talk to them later. When I'm feeling up to it."
The conversation drifted after that, settling into something lighter, more comfortable.
Suho launched into a dramatic retelling of his shift at his work, complete with exaggerated impressions of difficult customers and a detailed account of the time a middle-aged woman had tried to return a half-eaten sandwich.
"And she was so serious about it," Suho said, his voice climbing with indignation. "She looked me dead in the eye and said, 'This sandwich is defective. It doesn't taste right'. And I looked at it—there was a bite taken out of it—and I said, 'Ma'am, it looks like you ate half of it'. And she said, 'Exactly. That's the defective part'."
Beomseok laughed, a soft, surprised sound.
"What did you do?"
"I told her I couldn't return it, obviously. She got really upset and said she was going to call corporate. I said, 'Go ahead. I'll wait'. She didn't call corporate. She just stormed out in a huff and left the sandwich on the counter." Suho shook his head. "People are wild, man. Absolutely wild."
You listened, your smile growing wider, the tension in your shoulders slowly easing.
This was what you'd missed. This easy camaraderie, this comfortable silence punctuated by laughter and teasing and the simple pleasure of being with people who cared about you. It was like a balm on your frayed nerves, soothing the rawness that had been there since you woke up.
At some point, Suho and Beomseok had gotten into a heated debate about a racing game you'd never played, their voices rising and falling as they argued about the best strategy for a particular level. Suho was gesturing emphatically, his hands moving so fast they were almost a blur. Beomseok was calmly countering each point with quiet logic, his voice steady and measured.
You watched them for a moment, your heart full, and then your gaze drifted to Sieun.
Sieun was still sitting beside the bed, his chair pulled as close as possible, his hand still wrapped around yours. The two of you had been holding hands since Suho and Beomseok had arrived — or maybe since before then, you couldn't quite remember — and neither of you had made any move to let go. The contact was warm, grounding, a constant reminder that Sieun was there.
Your fingers tightened around Sieun's, a small, unconscious gesture, and Sieun's eyes met yours.
The warmth in that beautiful gaze made your breath catch. It was so open, so unguarded, so completely different from the careful, controlled expression Sieun usually wore. He was looking at you like you were the only person in the room, like the noise and the laughter and the chaos around you didn't exist.
Like nothing else mattered.
You smiled, and Sieun's lips curved in response, a small, soft thing that made your heart flutter. It was such a simple expression, but it held so much — relief, love, a quiet, steady devotion that made your chest ache.
"I'm really glad you're here," you said, your voice low enough that only Sieun could hear. The words felt inadequate, too small for the enormity of what you were feeling, but they were all you had right now.
Sieun's hand tightened around yours.
"Where else would I be?"
The simple words, spoken so matter-of-factly, hit you like a really violent wave. You felt your throat tighten, your eyes prickle with warmth, and you had to look away for a moment, blinking rapidly. The emotion was just too much, too big, threatening to spill over.
"You don't have to stay," you said, and even you weren't sure why you were saying it.
Maybe it was the cavernous guilt again, the persistent voice that whispered you didn't deserve this, didn't deserve Sieun's time or attention or care. Maybe it was the profound fear that this was all too good to be true, that it would vanish the moment you got too comfortable.
"I know you probably have things to do. Classes, studying, all that stuff. You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Sieun's voice was soft but firm, cutting through your rambling like a knife through fog. He squeezed your hand again, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of it, a gentle, soothing rhythm.
"I want to be here," Sieun continued, his dark eyes steady on yours. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be. Not studying, not anywhere. I want to be right here, with you."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the familiar warmth that always seemed to appear whenever Sieun said something unexpectedly tender. It was like Sieun had a direct line to your heart, knew exactly which words would make it race.
"Okay," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."
You fell into silence, but it wasn't the heavy, uncomfortable kind. It was the kind that felt like a blanket, warm and soft and safe, wrapping around you and blocking out the rest of the world. Suho and Beomseok were still arguing in the background, their voices a distant hum, but you barely heard them. All you could focus on was Sieun's hand in yours, the gentle pressure of his fingers, the way his thumb kept moving in those small, soothing circles.
Your gaze drifted to Sieun's face, taking in the details you hadn't had a chance to really look at before.
The shadows under his eyes were still there, dark and pronounced, evidence of the sleepless nights he'd spent at your bedside. His skin was paler than usual, his features drawn with fatigue. His hair was mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it. There was a faint crease on his cheek from where he'd been leaning against your legs.
But there was a softness there too, a gentleness that made your chest ache.
The tension that usually lived in Sieun's jaw was gone, replaced by something relaxed, something peaceful. He looked younger like this, way more vulnerable.
"Have you been sleeping?" you asked, your voice quiet.
You already knew the answer, but you still wanted to hear Sieun say it. Sieun blinked a few times, clearly caught off guard by the question.
"I—"
"Don't lie to me," you said, and there was no accusation in your voice, just concern. "You look exhausted. You look like you haven't slept in days."
Sieun opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed.
"Not much," he admitted. "I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I just kept thinking about—" Sieun stopped, his jaw tightening. The words seemed to stick in his throat, too painful to push out. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine."
"You're not fine," you said, and you reached up with your free hand, your fingers brushing against Sieun's cheek.
The touch was light, barely there, but Sieun leaned into it anyway, his eyes fluttering half-closed.
"You need to take care of yourself, Sieun. You can't just—"
"I'll sleep when you're better," Sieun said, and there was a stubborn set to his jaw that you recognized. It was the same stubbornness that had kept him going through the fight, the same stubbornness that had made him stay by your side for three days. "Right now, I need to be here."
Your heart ached.
You wanted to argue, you wanted to insist that Sieun go home and rest, but you knew it would be useless.
Sieun was just as stubborn as you were, maybe even more so. It was one of the things you loved so much about him — that quiet, unyielding determination.
So instead, you let your hand slide from Sieun's cheek to his hair, your fingers threading through the soft strands. The movement was gentle, soothing, and you watched as Sieun's eyes closed fully, his head tilting slightly into the touch. Sieun really looked like he was melting, all the tension draining out of his body at once.
"You're like a kitten," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They were soft, almost teasing, full of affection.
Sieun's eyes opened, a question in them. "What?"
"A kitten," you repeated, and you couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. "You're like a cute little kitten. All grumpy and aloof on the outside, but really you just want to be petted. You pretend you don't need anyone, but you lean into every touch."
Sieun's ears turned pink, the color spreading to his cheeks.
"I don't—that's not—"
"You literally just leaned into my hand," you pointed out, your smile widening. "Like a kitten seeking attention. You practically purred."
"I didn't—" Sieun started, but the pink in his cheeks was deepening, spreading down his neck. He looked flustered, adorably so, and you felt your heart swell. "That's not—you're making that up."
"I'm not making anything up," you said, your voice warm with affection. "You're so cute when you're flustered. It's one of my favorite things."
Sieun opened his mouth to respond — probably to argue, probably to deny everything — but whatever he was about to say was cut off by Suho's voice, loud and teasing, cutting through your private bubble like a knife;
"Okay, okay, I see what's happening here." Suho had abandoned his phone, his attention now fully on you and Sieun. His eyes were gleaming with mischief, a grin spreading across his face. "You two are having a moment. A whole moment. Right in front of me and Beomseok."
Your face flushed, your hand dropping from Sieun's hair.
"We're not—"
"Don't even try to deny it," Suho said, leaning forward with obvious delight. "I saw you. Both of you. The hand-holding, the gazing into each other's eyes, the petting—" He made an exaggerated gesture, his hands mimicking the movement of stroking hair. "It's like I'm watching a romance drama in real time. I should be getting paid for this."
"Suho," you said, a warning in your voice, but you couldn't quite keep the smile off your face. "Shut the fuck up."
"Never." Suho leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "You know what this means, right? You owe me. I've been saying you two were going to get together for weeks. Weeks. You owe me for all the times you said I was crazy."
"Nobody said you were crazy," you said, but your protest was weak. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, the embarrassment mixing with something warm and happy.
"I'm not crazy," Suho said, and there was a triumphant note in his voice that made you want to throw a pillow at him. "I'm a visionary. I see things before they happen. I'm like a prophet, but cooler."
"Not about this," Beomseok added, and he was smiling, a small, shy thing that made his whole face light up. He looked almost proud of himself for joining in the teasing.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the warmth that spread through your chest.
Suho's teasing was familiar, comfortable, the kind of easy banter that had been a constant in your life for years. Even in the hospital, even with everything that had happened, it felt good. It felt like normal. It felt like home.
"Fine," you said, and you squeezed Sieun's hand, a small, secret gesture that made Sieun's ears turn pink again. "Maybe I owe you. Maybe you were right."
Suho's grin widened.
"I knew it. I knew it. I am the best friend in the entire world. I should get an award for this. A plaque. A statue. Something."
"How are you getting an award?" Beomseok asked, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "You didn't do anything. You just happened to be there."
"I created the circumstances," Suho said, waving a dismissive hand. "I set the stage. I brought them together. Without me, they never would have—"
"Okay, that's enough," you interrupted, though you were laughing. "I'm not letting you take credit for everything just because you happened to be in the same room when we met. That's not how it works."
"Fine, fine," Suho said, but his eyes were dancing with amusement. "But you're never going to live this down. I'm going to bring this up at your wedding. I'm going to be the best man, and I'm going to give a speech about how I knew before you did, and everyone's going to cry because it's so beautiful. It'll be legendary."
You buried your face in your free hand, your cheeks burning.
"I hate you."
"You love me," Suho said cheerfully.
"Unfortunately."
The laughter that followed was bright and warm, filling the hospital room and chasing away the shadows. Even Sieun was smiling, a small, private thing that made your heart stutter. It was the kind of smile that made everything else fade away, that made the hospital room feel less like a place of sickness and more like a place of healing.
The conversation drifted after that, flowing and ebbing like a tide. Suho launched into another story, this one about a customer at his part-time job who had tried to pay for a pack of gum with a winning lottery ticket. He acted out the whole scene, his voice shifting into a high-pitched impression of the customer, his hands gesturing wildly.
"She kept saying, 'But I won! I won the lottery! Why can't I use this to pay for my gum?' And I had to explain to her that a lottery ticket isn't legal tender. She didn't believe me. She said, 'The government says it's money'. And I said, 'The government says a lot of things'."
Beomseok laughed, his quiet chuckle filling the room.
"What happened?"
"I told her to go to a bank and cash it in, and then she could come back and buy all the gum she wanted. She didn't do that. She just left the gum on the counter and walked out." Suho shook his head, a grin on his face.
You listened, chiming in occasionally, your hand still intertwined with Sieun's. You felt lighter than you had in days, the weight on your chest easing with every laugh, every shared moment.
At some point, Suho and Beomseok had pulled out their phones again, their heads bent together as they strategized their way through a particularly difficult level. Their voices were a low murmur in the background, the occasional exclamation of frustration or triumph punctuating the quiet.
Your attention shifted back to Sieun.
Sieun was already watching you, his dark eyes soft and thoughtful. There was something in his expression, something that made your heart skip a beat. It was the kind of look that held a thousand unspoken words, a quiet intensity that made you feel seen.
"What?" you asked, your voice quiet, the word meant only for Sieun.
Sieun shook his head, a small movement.
"Nothing. I was just—" Sieun paused, his gaze dropping to your joined hands. "I was just thinking about how close I came to losing you. How I almost never got to have this moment with you."
Your throat tightened again. You squeezed Sieun's hand, a silent reassurance.
"But I'm here," you said even more softly. "I'm okay. You didn't lose me."
"You almost weren't," Sieun said, his voice strained. "If the ambulance had been even a few minutes later—if the doctors hadn't been able to stop the bleeding—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I keep thinking about it. What if I'd been too slow? What if I hadn't been there? What if—"
"Sieun." Your voice was gentle, but firm. You reached up, your hand finding Sieun's cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin. "I'm here. I'm okay. You don't have to think about what could have happened. Just think about what did happen. I'm alive. I'm awake. I'm right here with you."
Sieun leaned into the touch, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them, there was something raw in his gaze, something vulnerable that made your chest ache.
"I was so scared," Sieun said, and the words came out in a whisper, like a confession. "I've never been that scared before. When I saw you fall—when I saw all that blood—I thought—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I thought I was going to lose you just like that. And I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to—"
Your hand moved from Sieun's cheek to the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his hair. You pulled him closer, gently, until your foreheads were almost touching.
You were so close you could feel Sieun's breath on your lips, could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I made you worry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't," Sieun said, his voice rough. "Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault. It was never your fault."
Your eyes burned, the tears threatening again, but you blinked them back. You couldn't cry. Not now. Not when Sieun was looking at you like that, like you were something precious, something worth holding onto.
"Okay," you managed, your voice barely audible. "Okay."
You stayed like that for a long moment, your foreheads touching, your breath mingling. You could feel Sieun's pulse, rapid and steady, the warmth of his skin, the softness of his hair beneath your fingers. It was intimate, more intimate than anything you'd done before, yet it felt natural, like this was exactly where you were supposed to be.
"Hey," Suho's voice cut through the quiet, and you pulled back rapidly, your cheeks flushing. "We're still here, you know. We can see you."
"Then look away," you said, but your voice was warm, not annoyed. You couldn't bring yourself to be annoyed, not when your heart was so full.
"I'm trying," Suho said, his tone mock-offended. "But you guys are so cute it's literally blinding me. I can't look anywhere else. It's a problem."
"Maybe you should get your eyes checked," you said, a smile tugging at your lips.
"Yeah, maybe I should," Suho agreed. "Maybe the problem is my vision is so good I can't escape the cuteness. I'm a victim here. A victim of your adorable romance."
Beomseok laughed, a soft, surprised sound that made everyone turn to look at him. He flushed, his glasses slipping down his nose, but he was smiling.
"Sorry," he said, clearly embarrassed. "It's just—you guys are funny. I like hanging out with you."
Your heart swelled. You looked around at the three of them — Suho, your best friend since childhood, loud and dramatic and fiercely loyal; Beomseok, quiet and earnest, always trying to help, always there; Sieun, with his dark eyes and his soft smile, his hand still warm in yours.
You were lucky. So impossibly lucky.
Even with everything — the tumor, the fear, the secrets you were still keeping — you were lucky.
"Thanks," you said, and your voice was a little thick. "For being here. For staying. For—" You paused, searching for the right words. "For everything. I don't think I say it enough, but you guys mean the world to me."
Suho's expression softened, the teasing fading away.
"You don't have to thank us, man. That's what friends are for. We're not going anywhere. Ever."
"Ever," Beomseok added, his voice earnest.
Your eyes felt wet again, but you blinked back the tears.
You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so full, so warm, so completely and utterly at peace. It was a fragile peace, you knew, built on the shaky ground of your secrets and your fears, but for now, it was enough.
You were still scared.
The tumor was still there, still ticking, still waiting. You still had secrets you were too afraid to share, guilt weighing on your chest like a stone. You still didn't know how to tell your friends the truth, didn't know if you'd ever find the courage.
But right now, with Sieun's hand in yours and Suho's laughter in the air and Beomseok's quiet presence at your side, the fear felt smaller and more manageable, like something you could face, eventually, when you were ready.
Right now, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
previous masterlist next
note ∘ ∘ ∘ don't worryyyy hehe reader and sieun are gonna talk about what suho said!!! which means we're getting really really close to their first real kiss 🤭
ohhh and someone is about to find out about reader's tumor too ... who do you guys think it's gonna be??
It wasn't the familiar throb behind your eyes — though that was there too, a dull, persistent ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, a constant companion you'd grown almost accustomed to over the past weeks — but something else, something sharper and more localized. It was a burning, pulling sensation that seemed to radiate from somewhere on your left side, like someone had taken a hot knife and pressed it against your ribs, then left it there, letting the heat seep into your flesh, into your bones, into the very core of your being. Every breath you took sent a fresh wave of agony through your body, each inhale a reminder that you were still alive, still here, still fighting.
You tried to frown, to make sense of the sensation, but even that small movement — the slight furrow of your brow, the barely-there twitch of your facial muscles — sent a fresh wave of pain through your skull, and you quickly abandoned the effort. Your head was pounding, a relentless, throbbing ache that seemed to fill every corner of your mind, pushing out coherent thoughts and replacing them with a foggy, disoriented haze.
God, you thought, the words forming slowly, clumsily, like wading through deep water. My head hurts. It hurts so much.
It was the kind of headache that made you want to curl into a ball and disappear completely, the kind that made you wonder if the tumor had finally decided to make its presence known in the most dramatic way possible. But even as the thought surfaced, you knew it wasn't quite right. This wasn't the tumor; this was something else entirely, something that felt less like the slow, creeping pressure that had become your constant companion and more like the aftermath of a violent collision. Like being hit by a car. Or falling from a great height. Or—
You stopped yourself.
The thought was there, hovering at the edge of your consciousness, but you couldn't quite grasp it. It slipped through your fingers like water, dissolving before you could fully form it.
What happened to me?
The question surfaced, urgent and insistent, but the answer remained frustratingly out of reach. You could feel the fog in your mind, thick and disorienting, making it hard to grasp at coherent thoughts. They slipped through your fingers again, dissolving before you could fully form them. You knew something had happened, you knew you were hurt, but the specifics eluded you, hovering just out of reach like names you couldn't quite remember.
What do I remember?
You tried to focus, tried to push through the fog, but the effort made your head throb even more painfully, and you had to stop, had to just breathe, had to let the pain wash over you and through you and out the other side. Your body felt heavy, leaden, like you were weighted down by something you couldn't see, couldn't name. Your limbs were unresponsive, your muscles weak, and even the simple act of breathing felt like a monumental effort.
I'm so tired, you thought, and the words were a sigh, a surrender. I'm so tired of being tired.
But even through the exhaustion, through the fog and the pain, something was stirring in the back of your mind — it was a memory, fragmented and hazy, trying to push its way to the surface.
The dream, you thought. I remember the dream.
The image surfaced unbidden, sharp and vivid, crashing into your consciousness with the force of a tidal wave. Your mother — young and warm and smiling, the way she used to be, the way you remembered her from before everything fell apart — standing in golden light, her arms open, her eyes full of love; then the shift, the coldness, the hands around your throat, the words that cut deeper than any knife ever could.
You killed him.
Your heart clenched, a sharp, physical ache that had nothing to do with your injuries and everything to do with the guilt that had been festering inside you for as long as you could remember. The dream — the nightmare — had felt so real. The warmth of your mother's embrace, the softness of her voice, the way she'd held you like you were still her precious son, like you were still someone worth loving; and then the cruelty, the way she'd looked at you like you were something to be discarded, something to be destroyed.
You are nothing, Y/N. You've always been nothing.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to banish the image, trying to push the words out of your head. But they lingered, stubborn and persistent, burrowing into the deepest parts of your mind, taking root in the fertile soil of your self-doubt. The guilt was a living thing inside you, a parasite that had been feeding on you for years, growing stronger with every failure, every mistake, every moment you couldn't be enough.
You should have died in that ocean. It would have been easier for everyone.
God, why did she have to be right?
You didn't know how long you lay there, suspended in that strange, liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, the pain in your head and the ache in your heart keeping you anchored to the present even as your mind tried to drift back into the darkness. The dream had felt so real — the warmth, the light, the peace, and then the cold, the darkness, the surrender. It had felt like an ending.
Am I dead?
The thought surfaced unbidden, and you turned it over in your mind, examining it from all angles.
You had been so sure, in that dream, that you were finally gone. That the pain was finally over, that you were finally free. And now you were here, in this place of familiar beeping machines and sterile smells and the constant, nagging ache of your own broken body.
If you were dead, why did you hurt so much?
Slowly, carefully, you opened your eyes.
The light was blinding — harsh and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft gold of your cruel dream. It stabbed at your pupils like needles, and you had to blink several times before the world began to resolve into something coherent: white ceiling, white walls, the distant beep of machines, a steady, rhythmic pulse that seemed to echo in time with your heartbeat, the smell of antiseptic, sharp and clinical, filling your nostrils and settling in the back of your throat.
Hospital, you realized. I'm in a hospital.
The realization settled over you like a heavy blanket, and you felt a flicker of something that might have been relief, might have been disappointment, might have been a strange, uncomfortable mix of both. You weren't dead. You were alive, and you were in a hospital, and—
The smell hit you then, sharp and antiseptic, the unmistakable scent of disinfectant and sterile sheets and the faint, underlying sweetness of illness. It was the smell of sickness, the smell of places where people came to get better or to die, and it made your stomach turn.
God, I hate hospitals, you thought, and the words were a quiet, resigned sigh in your mind. I'm so sick of hospitals.
The sterile scent wafted around you, curling into your nostrils and settling in the back of your throat, making you feel vaguely nauseous. It was the same smell that had greeted you in Dr. Hwang's office, the same smell that had clung to your clothes for days after your diagnosis, the same smell that had become synonymous with fear and uncertainty and the slow, creeping dread of an expiration date that kept getting closer no matter how hard you tried to outrun it.
You had spent so much time in hospitals over the past weeks — doctor's appointments, scans, consultations — that the smell had become almost familiar. It was a constant, unwelcome companion, a reminder of everything you were trying not to think about.
The tumor.
Your hand moved instinctively, your fingers twitching against the thin hospital sheet, reaching up toward your head as if you could somehow check on the tumor, confirm that it was still there, still waiting, still ticking. But the movement pulled at something in your side — a sharp, stabbing pain that made you gasp and freeze immediately.
What the freaking hell?
Your eyes darted down, following the source of the pain, and for the first time, you took in your own body.
Your torso was wrapped in thick white bandages, the kind that covered your entire left side, extending from just below your ribs to your hip. The bandages were clean, pristine, but you could still see the faint shadow of something dark beneath them — bruising, maybe, or blood that had seeped through before it was changed.
You were in a hospital gown, the one that opened in the back, and your left arm was connected to an IV, the thin tube snaking up to a bag of clear liquid that hung from a metal pole beside the bed. A heart monitor beeped steadily, its green line tracing your heartbeat across the screen, and your eyes followed the line for a moment, transfixed by its steady rise and fall.
I'm alive, you thought, and the words felt strange, foreign, like they belonged to someone else. I'm actually alive.
The fog in your mind was beginning to clear, the fragments of memory slowly piecing themselves together like a puzzle you hadn't realized you'd been trying to solve. The fight. The knife. The pain — oh, the pain — and then the darkness, the warmth, the dream that had felt so real and so cruel.
I was stabbed.
You remembered now, the image surfacing with sickening clarity. The boss's ugly face twisted into a triumphant grin, the knife glinting in the dim light, the sharp, shocking pain as the blade sank into your side. You remembered the blood — so much blood, soaking through your shirt, seeping through your fingers, pooling on the ground beneath you. You remembered Sieun's voice, desperate and terrified, telling you to stay awake. You remembered Suho's hands, shaking and warm, desperately gripping your shoulders like he was trying to hold you together.
And then nothing.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry and scratchy, and tried to process the weight of what the hell had happened. You'd been stabbed, you'd almost died, and you were now in a hospital, again, surrounded by machines and monitors and the constant, beeping reminder of your own mortality.
Somehow, you'd survived.
You didn't know how to feel about that.
You lay there for a long moment, trying to piece together the fragments of your memory, trying to understand how you'd ended up here, in this sterile room, in this hospital bed. The details were still fuzzy around the edges, blurred by pain and exhaustion and the lingering fog of unconsciousness, but you had the sense that a significant amount of time had passed. Hours? Days? You weren't sure.
I need to move.
The thought surfaced suddenly, sharp and urgent, and you tried to shift your position, tried to push yourself up onto your elbows so you could get a better look at your surroundings. But the moment you moved, the moment you put even the smallest amount of pressure on your injured side, a searing bolt of agony shot through your body, and you collapsed back onto the bed with a strangled gasp.
"Fuck," you breathed, the word barely a whisper, your voice hoarse and cracked from disuse.
The pain was excruciating, radiating outward from your left side and spreading through your entire torso, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to think, impossible to do anything other than lie there and wait for it to pass. Your hands fisted in the thin hospital sheet, your knuckles going white, and you squeezed your eyes shut, riding out the wave of agony until it slowly, mercifully, began to recede. It was like the knife was still there, still buried in your side, still twisting with every movement, every breath, every beat of your heart.
It was only when the pain had dulled to a manageable ache that you noticed the weight on your legs.
You'd been so focused on the pain, so consumed by the disorientation of waking up, that you hadn't registered the sensation at first. But now, with your body still and your attention no longer completely consumed by the agony in your side, you became aware of it — a warmth, a pressure, a solid weight resting across your thighs.
What the—
Your eyes darted down, and your heart stopped.
For a moment, just a moment, you couldn't breathe. The world seemed to freeze around you, the beeping of the monitors fading into the background, the sterile smell of the hospital disappearing entirely. All you could see was the figure curled against your legs, the familiar dark hair, the delicate curve of a jaw, the soft rise and fall of a chest.
Sieun.
Sieun was sleeping on you.
Sieun was sleeping with his head resting on your thighs, his arms wrapped around your legs like he was holding onto you, anchoring you to the present, refusing to let go even in sleep. His face was turned slightly toward you, his features relaxed, peaceful, the tension that usually lived in his jaw and around his eyes completely absent. His dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted, and he looked—
God, he looked like an angel.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Your heart, which had been pounding with the effort of waking up and the pain of your injury, suddenly shifted into a different rhythm entirely — faster, lighter, full of something that felt terrifyingly like hope. The weight on your legs was warm, solid, and real. Sieun was really here. Sieun had really stayed. Sieun had really fallen asleep on your legs, his head pillowed on your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Oh my God, you thought, and your mind was a jumble of emotions too big and too fast to process. He's here. He's actually here. He stayed with me. He—
Your eyes traced the lines of Sieun's face, memorizing every single detail — the soft curve of his cheek, the slight furrow of his brow even in sleep, the way his fingers were curled loosely around the fabric of your hospital gown. He looked so exhausted, you realized. There were shadows under Sieun's eyes, dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry. His face was way paler than usual, and there was a tightness around his mouth that even sleep couldn't completely erase. There were faint lines on Sieun's face from where he'd been pressed against the blanket, and his hair was mussed and disheveled.
How long has he been here? you wondered, and the question sent a fresh wave of guilt through you. How long has he been sitting in this uncomfortable chair, waiting for me to wake up, worrying about me?
Sieun stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping his lips, and you froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid that any sound or movement would shatter this fragile, perfect moment. You watched Sieun's brow furrow, his head shifting slightly against your thigh, his fingers twitching against the hospital gown. His lips moved soundlessly, forming words you couldn't hear, and something that might have been a dream or a nightmare flickered across his face.
He's waking up, you realized, and your heart began to race even faster.
For a moment, you didn't know what to do.
You were still groggy, still disoriented, still trying to process the fact that you were alive and in a hospital and that Sieun was here, right here, close enough to touch. Your mind was a jumble of emotions — relief and guilt and love and fear all tangled up together, impossible to separate. You wanted to reach out and touch Sieun's face, to brush the hair from his forehead, to whisper something soft and reassuring. But you were afraid; afraid of waking Sieun too abruptly, afraid of breaking the spell, afraid of what you might see in Sieun's eyes when he fully woke up.
But then Sieun's eyes began to flutter open, and all of your frantic thoughts simply stopped.
Sieun blinked, once, twice, his eyes unfocused, still hazy with sleep. He looked disoriented for a moment, like he wasn't sure where he was or why he was there. His gaze drifted across the hospital room, taking in the monitors, the IV, the sterile white walls, before slowly, slowly, it landed on your face.
And then he saw you.
Sieun's eyes widened, his entire body going rigid for a second, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
His mouth opened, closed, opened again, but no sound came out. He just stared at you, his dark eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your chest ache. There was disbelief there, and shock, and a desperate, trembling hope that made your heart crack open.
"...Y/N?" Sieun's voice was rough, hoarse, barely more than a whisper. It cracked on the second syllable, and there was something in it, something raw and vulnerable and so full of longing that you felt your heart swell until it hurt in response. "Y/N, is that—are you—"
"Hi, Sieun."
Your voice came out quieter than you'd intended, softer, like you were afraid of breaking the spell.
You tried to smile, tried to reassure Sieun that you were okay, that you were alive, that you were here. But the smile that curved your lips was wobbly and uncertain, and your eyes were already beginning to sting with the threat of tears. You felt like you were dreaming, like any moment you might wake up and find that this was just another layer of the nightmare.
The expression on Sieun's face was unlike anything you had ever seen before.
It was like watching a dam break — all that carefully constructed control, all those walls Sieun had spent years building, simply crumbling away. The surprise was there, yes, the shock of seeing you awake after days of waiting. But beneath it was something deeper, something more profound. Worry — the kind of worry that had carved deep grooves into Sieun's brow, that had left dark shadows under his eyes. Relief — so potent, so overwhelming, that you could practically feel it radiating off him in waves. Pain — the pain of watching someone you cherish suffer, of being helpless to stop it, of not knowing if they would wake up.
And above all else, love.
So much love that you could barely breathe under the weight of it.
It was in the way Sieun's eyes softened, the hard edges melting away like ice under a warm Sun. It was in the way his lips parted slightly, the barest trembling at the corners, like he was holding back words he couldn't quite say. It was in the way his whole body seemed to relax, the tension draining out of his shoulders, his spine, his hands that were still fisted in your hospital gown.
This was Sieun, you realized, but not the Sieun you'd known. This was Sieun with his armor off, Sieun with his defenses down, Sieun completely, utterly open and vulnerable and so beautiful that your heart ached with the sight of him. This was the Sieun that only you got to see — the boy who hid behind walls so high that no one else could climb them, but who had let you in anyway.
Without thinking, without a single conscious thought, you reached out.
Your hand was heavy, so heavy, the effort of lifting it almost too much. But you pushed through the exhaustion, pushed through the pain, pushed through the fog that was still clouding your mind. Your fingers trembled slightly as they crossed the distance between you, and for a moment, you were afraid you wouldn't make it, that your arm would give out before you could reach your goal.
But then your hand was there, hovering just above Sieun's cheek, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough to see the individual lashes framing his dark eyes, close enough to count the tiny freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.
You hesitated.
What if this isn't what Sieun wants? What if he's just relieved I'm alive, and I'm reading way too much into it? What if Sieun runs away—
But then Sieun's eyes fluttered closed, his head tilting slightly, leaning into your hand like he was seeking the warmth, like he was desperate for the contact, and all of your doubts simply melted away. The gesture was so vulnerable, so completely trusting that you felt something shift inside you, something fundamental and irreversible.
You let your palm rest against Sieun's cheek.
His skin was so soft, so warm, so impossibly real. You could feel the faint stubble on his jaw, the delicate curve of his cheekbone, the flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips. It was such a small thing, such a simple gesture, but it felt monumental, like you were touching something sacred, something you had no right to but couldn't bear to let go of. It was like holding a flame in your palm, warm and bright and so fragile that you were terrified of snuffing it out.
Sieun's breath hitched — it was a really soft, almost imperceptible sound — and you felt your heart clench in response. You could feel Sieun's pulse beneath your fingertips, rapid and uneven, matching the frantic rhythm of your own heart. You were both trembling, you realized. Both of you, caught in this moment, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell had brought you here.
Slowly, so slowly, you began to move your thumb across Sieun's cheek. The motion was gentle, reverent, like you were touching something fragile and precious that might shatter if you weren't careful. You traced the line of Sieun's cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the soft skin just beneath his eye. Your thumb brushed against the corner of Sieun's mouth, and you felt Sieun's lips part slightly, a soft exhale escaping.
And then, so softly that you almost missed it, Sieun pressed his face a little closer into your palm.
The gesture was small, but it said everything. It said I trust you. It said I want this. It said I need you.
Sieun looked like a kitten, you thought, your mind fuzzy with emotion. A cute little kitten who'd just woken up and was seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking the one person who made him feel safe. He looked small, vulnerable, nothing like the controlled, composed boy you'd first met.
Your heart, which had been pounding so hard it felt like it might burst, began to calm. The frantic rhythm smoothed out, settling into something slower, steadier, more peaceful. The ache in your chest — the one that had been there for so long, the one that had nothing to do with your injuries — began to ease, replaced by something warmer, something softer, something that felt almost like hope.
You were alive. You were here. And Sieun was with you, his face pressed into your palm, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and even.
You wanted to stay like this forever.
You wanted to freeze this moment, to hold onto it, to keep it safe in the deepest part of your heart where nothing could touch it. You wanted to memorize every detail — the warmth of Sieun's skin, the softness of his hair, the way his lashes brushed against your fingers when he blinked. You wanted to capture the sound of Sieun's breath, the beat of Sieun's heart, the way Sieun's whole body seemed to naturally lean into your touch.
"I thought I lost you."
Sieun's voice was barely a whisper, so soft that you almost didn't hear it. The boy's eyes were still closed, his face still pressed into your palm, and there was something in his voice — something raw and broken and so full of pain that your heart ached in response.
"I thought—" Sieun stopped, his throat working, and you could feel the tremor that ran through his body. "When you didn't wake up, when the doctors said they didn't know if you would, I thought—"
Sieun's voice cracked, and he couldn't finish the sentence.
Your thumb moved again, tracing the curve of Sieun's cheek, wiping away an uncommon tear that had escaped from beneath his closed lashes. Sieun's eyelashes were wet, you realized, and his cheeks were damp, and the boy was crying — silent, steady tears that spoke of hours and hours of fear and worry and desperate hope.
"Sieun," you said, and your voice was rough, thick with emotion. "Sieun, look at me."
Slowly, Sieun opened his eyes.
His dark eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes wet, his cheeks flushed with tears. He looked wrecked, exhausted, completely and utterly undone. But beneath all of that, beneath the exhaustion and the worry and the pain, there was something else; something so warm and so bright and full of a love so vast it seemed to fill the entire room.
"I'm here," you said, and your voice was steadier now, stronger. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Sieun's breath hitched, and he pressed his face more firmly into your palm, his eyes closing again. A soft sound escaped his lips — between a sob and a sigh — and you felt your heart break and mend at the same time.
"Don't ever do that again," Sieun whispered, and there was a fierce edge to his voice, a desperate, aching plea. "Don't ever scare me like that again."
"I'll try," you said, and you meant it. "I'll try my best."
You stayed like that for a long moment, suspended in the quiet intimacy of the hospital room. The beeping of the monitors faded into the background, the sterile smell of the hospital receded, and all that was left was the warmth of Sieun's cheek against your palm and the steady beat of both of your hearts, synchronized in a rhythm that felt almost like a promise.
Finally, Sieun pulled back, just enough to look at your face. His eyes were still wet, but there was a tentative smile curving his lips — small and fragile, but real.
"You look terrible," Sieun said, and there was a hint of his usual dry humor in his voice, a flicker of the old Sieun beneath the exhaustion.
You laughed, a soft, breathless sound that sent a spike of pain through your side, but you didn't care.
"You should see the other guy."
"Don't joke about that," Sieun said, but there was no heat in his voice. His hand came up to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his cheek. "Don't joke about getting hurt. It's not funny."
"Sorry," you said with a clumsy smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry."
Sieun shook his head, his eyes dropping to where your hands were intertwined against his cheek.
"I'm going to worry about you anyway. That's just—that's what happens when you care about someone."
The words hung in the air between you, fragile and precious, and you felt your heart swell.
"Sieun—"
"I was so scared," Sieun interrupted, the words tumbling out in a rush, like he couldn't hold them in any longer. "When they brought you in, when they took you to surgery, when I had to sit in that waiting room for hours and hours and not know if you were going to—" Sieun stopped, his throat working, and you could see the tears welling up in his eyes again. "I've never been that scared before. Not ever."
Your hand, still pressed against Sieun's cheek, trembled slightly. You wanted to pull Sieun into your arms, to hold him close and never let go. But your body was weak, your injuries too severe, and all you could do was offer what little comfort you could through the touch of your palm.
"I'm sorry," you said, and the words felt so inadequate, so small in the face of everything Sieun had been through. "I'm so sorry, Sieun. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," Sieun said, and his voice was fierce again, sharp with emotion. "Don't you dare apologize for surviving. You're alive. That's all that matters."
Your eyes burned, and you blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. You wanted to say so many things — you wanted to tell Sieun how much he meant to you, how grateful you were, how terrified you'd been in those final moments, not for yourself, but for the thought of leaving Sieun behind. But the words simply wouldn't come, lodged somewhere deep in your throat, too heavy to push out.
So you just nodded, a small, jerky movement, and let your thumb trace another gentle arc across Sieun's cheek.
Sieun's eyes fluttered closed again, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He looked so exhausted, so completely drained, and you felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over you.
"Have you been sleeping?" you asked quietly. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
Sieun's eyes opened, and there was a flicker of something almost sheepish in his expression. "I've been... busy."
"Busy," you repeated, your eyebrow arching. "You've been busy sitting in this chair and worrying about me."
"Someone had to make sure you didn't die," Sieun said, and there was a hint of his usual dry humor in his voice. "Suho was here too, but he had to go home. His grandmother was worried. And he needed to shower and change and—"
"How long has it been? How long was I out?"
Sieun's expression flickered, something dark and painful passing over his face.
"Three days," he said quietly. "You were unconscious for three days."
Three days. The words echoed in your mind, heavy and disorienting. You'd been unconscious for three days. Three days of Sieun sitting by your bedside, waiting and worrying and hoping. Three days of Suho not knowing if his best friend was going to wake up. Three days of the doctors and nurses doing everything they could to keep you alive.
"I'm sorry," you said again, and the words felt so inadequate, so small in the face of everything. "I'm sorry I made you wait."
Sieun slowly shook his head, his smaller fingers tightening around your hand.
"You don't have to apologize. Just—just don't do it again. Please."
You smiled, a small, tired thing. "I'll try."
Sieun didn't answer, but something in his expression softened, and he leaned his face back into your palm, his eyes drifting closed again. The gesture was so tender, so vulnerable, that you felt your heart ache.
You stayed like that for another long moment, the silence between you filled with unspoken words and shared understanding. The hospital room felt completely different now — less cold, less sterile. The beeping of the monitors was a gentle rhythm, a reminder that you were still alive, still here, still fighting. Sieun's warmth was a promise, a comfort, a reason to keep going.
You were alive. You were here. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Your eyes drifted to the window, where the late afternoon sun was filtering through the blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the floor. You thought about your mother, about the dream, about the cruel words she'd spoken in the darkness of your own mind. You thought about Suho, about the worry he must have been feeling, about the guilt that had been festering inside you for so long.
You thought about Sieun, about the way he'd stayed by your side even when he didn't have to, even when it was hard, even when he was scared. You thought about the love in Sieun's eyes, the love that you hadn't even realized you'd been craving until you saw it.
Maybe you weren't as alone as you'd always thought.
You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of Sieun's presence wash over you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something that might have been peace.
But even as the thought surfaced, you knew it couldn't last. The world was still out there, pressing in on all sides, waiting to intrude on this fragile, perfect moment. The hospital, the doctors, the questions that would inevitably come. The tumor. The secret you'd been hiding for so long. The weight of everything you'd been carrying would come crashing back down on you eventually.
You didn't want to think about any of it.
You just wanted to stay here, in this small pocket of peace, with Sieun's cheek warm against your palm and the steady beat of his heart echoing in your ears.
"Sieun—"
Your voice came out softer than you'd intended, barely more than a whisper. You weren't sure what you were going to say; maybe something stupid and embarrassing, something that would make you want to crawl under the covers and disappear. Maybe something honest, something that would lay your heart bare and leave you completely vulnerable.
But before you could finish the thought, before you could even figure out what you wanted to say, the door to the hospital room opened.
Your head snapped up, your hand instinctively pulling back from Sieun's cheek. The loss of contact was immediate and sharp, a sudden coldness that made you want to reach out and reclaim the warmth. But you stopped yourself, your hand hovering awkwardly in the air before you let it fall back to the bed. Your heart was pounding again, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with your injuries.
The man who entered the room was not a stranger.
Your heart seized in your chest. Your eyes widened, your breath catching in your throat as you took in the familiar face, the crisp white coat, the calm, professional demeanor that had become so intimately familiar over the past weeks.
Dr. Hwang.
The doctor who had diagnosed you. The doctor who had told you about the tumor. The doctor who had given you a timeline, a countdown, a number of months that had been ticking away in the back of your mind ever since. The man who had changed everything with a single sentence.
What is he doing here?
Your mind raced, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear anything else. This was your doctor, the one who was supposed to be treating your tumor. The one who had been tracking its progress, monitoring its growth, waiting for the day when it would finally become too much to bear. The one who knew exactly how long you had left.
Why is he here? He's not a surgeon. He's not an emergency doctor. He has no reason to be here unless—
Unless he's here because of the tumor.
Your blood ran cold. Your eyes darted around the room, taking in the monitors, the IV, the hospital bed. You thought about the coma, the three days you'd apparently been unconscious, the dream that had felt so real and so terrifying. You thought about your mother's hands around your throat, her cruel words echoing in your mind.
Was it the tumor? Had something happened to it while you were out? Had it grown? Had it spread? Were you running out of time even faster than you thought?
Your chest tightened, your breathing becoming shallow and rapid. You could feel the panic building inside you, a rising tide that threatened to sweep you away. Your hands were trembling, your palms slick with sweat, and you had to grip the thin hospital sheet just to keep them still.
Do Suho and Sieun know?
The thought hit you like a physical blow, and your eyes darted to Sieun, who was still sitting beside the bed, his dark eyes fixed on Dr. Hwang with an expression that was hard to read. There was something in his posture; a wariness, a protectiveness, that made your stomach twist.
Does he know about the tumor? Does Suho know? Have they found out while I was unconscious? Are they mad at me for not telling them?
Your heart was racing, a frantic, panicked rhythm that made it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything other than stare at Dr. Hwang and try to figure out what was happening. You felt like you were drowning, like the walls were closing in, like everything you'd been trying so hard to keep hidden was about to come crashing down around you.
"Y/N," Dr. Hwang said, and his voice was calm, professional, the same voice he'd used when he'd delivered the diagnosis weeks ago. "It's good to see you awake."
You didn't respond. You couldn't; your mouth was dry, your throat tight, your mind a whirlwind of fear and guilt and confusion. Your hands were shaking, your whole body trembling with the effort of keeping yourself together.
Dr. Hwang's gaze shifted to Sieun, and there was something almost apologetic in his expression. He seemed to understand, in that moment, that he was intruding on something private, something precious. But his duty was to his patient, and he couldn't ignore that.
"I need to examine Y/N," Dr. Hwang said, his voice gentle but firm. "Would you mind stepping out for a few minutes?"
Sieun's eyes darted to you, his expression uncertain, his body language clearly showing his reluctance to leave. For a moment, you thought he might refuse, might insist on staying, might demand to know what was going on. You could see the conflict on Sieun's face — the desire to protect you warring with the knowledge that the doctor was just doing his job.
But then Sieun's gaze met yours, and you forced yourself to smile — a small, shaky thing, but a smile nonetheless. You reached out with your right hand, your fingers brushing against Sieun's, and gave a gentle squeeze. The contact was brief, but it said everything.
"It's okay," you said, your voice hoarse but steady. "I'll be fine. Go ahead."
Sieun's jaw tightened, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to read the truth hidden beneath the words. But then he nodded, a small, reluctant movement, and slowly pulled his hand away from yours. The loss of contact was sharp, a sudden coldness that made you want to reach out and pull him back.
"I'll be right outside," Sieun said, and his voice was low, quiet, meant only for you. "If you need me—"
"I know."
Sieun held your gaze for another moment, his dark eyes filled with a thousand unspoken words.
Then he turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps soft on the linoleum floor. The door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone with Dr. Hwang.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, filled with all the things you didn't want to say and all the things you knew you couldn't avoid. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the sweat beading on your forehead, the familiar weight of fear settling over you like a shroud.
Dr. Hwang moved to the side of the bed, his hands going to the chart that hung from the foot of the bed. He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the notes, his expression giving absolutely nothing away. The silence stretched between you, filled with the beep of the monitors and the distant hum of the hospital.
"Three days," Dr. Hwang said finally, and his voice was soft. "You were unconscious for three days, Y/N."
You swallowed hard, your throat dry.
"I know. Sieun told me."
Dr. Hwang nodded slowly, setting the chart down on the bed. His eyes met yours, and there was something careful and measured in them that made your stomach twist.
"How are you feeling?" Dr. Hwang asked.
You let out a breath, a shaky exhale that did nothing to calm your nerves.
"Like I got stabbed," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word. "Like someone took a knife and—"
"I know," Dr. Hwang said, and his voice was gentle, reassuring. "I know it hurts. But the surgery went well. We were able to repair the internal damage and stop the bleeding. Your body is healing."
Your eyes darted to the bandages wrapped around your torso, then back to Dr. Hwang's face.
"But the tumor," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. "Is it—did it—"
Dr. Hwang held up a hand, a gesture of reassurance.
"Your tumor is stable," he said, and the words were so unexpected, so completely contrary to everything you'd been fearing, that you didn't know how to process them. "It hasn't grown, nor spread. The coma wasn't caused by the tumor—it was caused by the trauma and the blood loss."
You stared at him, your mind struggling to catch up.
"But then why—"
"The tumor makes you more vulnerable," Dr. Hwang explained, his voice patient, careful. "Your body is already under significant strain, Y/N. The tumor puts pressure on your brain, affects your body's ability to recover from injury, makes you more susceptible to complications. The trauma of the stabbing, combined with the blood loss, was enough to push your body past its breaking point."
He paused, his eyes meeting yours, and there was something in them that looked almost like concern.
"You need to be more careful," Dr. Hwang said, and there was such a gentle firmness in his voice that made your chest ache. "Your body is fragile, Y/N. More fragile than you realize. If something like this happens again, if you suffer another major injury, your body might not be able to recover. The tumor puts you at risk for complications that a healthy person wouldn't face."
Your throat tightened, and you felt something heavy settle in your chest. The fear was still there, the same fear that had been with you since the diagnosis, but it was quieter now, more subdued, overshadowed by the weight of everything Dr. Hwang was saying. You thought about the dream, about your mother's hands around your throat, about the cruel words that had echoed in your mind.
You thought about the guilt, the shame, the endless, crushing weight of your own self-doubt.
"Does that mean it's getting worse?" you asked, and your voice was small, fragile. "The tumor—does this mean it's getting worse?"
Dr. Hwang was quiet for a little moment, his eyes searching your face.
"The tumor itself is stable," he said carefully. "But your body is under more stress than it was before. The trauma of the injury, the blood loss, the time you spent unconscious—all of it has taken a toll. Your body is working hard to heal, and that takes energy away from fighting the tumor."
Your hands fisted in the sheets.
"How long do I have?"
The question hung in the air between you, heavy and unanswerable. You felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to crumble beneath your feet.
"I can't give you a specific timeline," Dr. Hwang said, and his voice was still gentle but firm. "What I can tell you is that you need to take care of yourself. That means avoiding dangerous situations, listening to your body, resting when you need to, not pushing yourself too hard. And it means—" he paused, his gaze steady. "—it means letting the people who care about you know what's going on."
You looked away, your jaw tightening.
You knew what Dr. Hwang was getting at. You knew you should have told your friends about the tumor, should have let them in, should have stopped carrying the weight alone. But the simple thought of it — of seeing the pity in their eyes, the fear, the sadness — was almost too much to bear.
"I know," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you'd intended. "I know I should have told them. I just—I didn't know how. I didn't want them to—"
"To what?"
You hesitated.
Your throat was tight, and the words felt too big, too heavy to push out into the open. You could feel the guilt coiling in your chest, sharp and hot, and you hated yourself for it. You hated yourself for being too scared to tell the truth, for hiding behind lies and excuses and false smiles. You hated yourself for the burden you were placing on your friends, for the worry you were causing, for the secrets you were keeping.
"I didn't want them to worry about me," you said finally, and even as you said it, you knew how stupid it sounded. "I didn't want them to look at me differently, to treat me like I was broken, like I was already—"
You stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
Dr. Hwang didn't push. He just stood there, patient, his eyes kind, waiting for you to find the words. The silence between you was heavy, but not unkind.
"They're going to find out eventually," you continued, and your voice cracked on the last word. "I can't keep it from them forever. I just—I wanted to protect them. I wanted to give them as much normal as I could before—"
Before I die.
You didn't say it. The words were too heavy, too real, too final. But you knew Dr. Hwang heard them anyway.
"Y/N," Dr. Hwang said, and his voice was soft, so different from the clinical tone he'd used when he first delivered the diagnosis. "You don't have to carry this alone. That's what the people who care about you are for. They want to be there for you. They want to help. You just have to let them."
Your eyes burned, and you blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears that were threatening to spill.
"I know," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. "I just—I don't know if I'm ready."
Dr. Hwang nodded slowly, his expression understanding.
"You don't have to be ready right now," he said. "But I want you to think about it, okay? When you're ready, when you feel like you can, I want you to tell them. They deserve to know. And you deserve to have their support."
You nodded, a small, jerky movement, and you couldn't quite bring yourself to meet Dr. Hwang's eyes. The guilt was still there, a familiar weight in your chest, but it was quieter now, less overwhelming.
"Thank you," you said, your voice rough. "For being honest with me."
Dr. Hwang smiled, a small, reassuring thing.
"That's my job," the doctor said. "Now, I need to check your bandages and make sure everything is healing properly. Are you ready?"
You nodded, and Dr. Hwang moved closer, his hands gentle and professional as he began to examine the wound. The pain was still there, a dull, persistent ache, but it was easier to bear now, knowing that the tumor wasn't the cause.
When Dr. Hwang was finished, he stepped back and jotted something down on his chart.
"You're healing well," he said. "The wound is clean, and there's no sign of infection. I'll check in again tomorrow, but for now, you should rest."
You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you.
"Thank you," you said again.
Dr. Hwang paused at the door, his hand on the handle.
"Y/N," he said, his voice soft. "Think about what I said. About telling your friends. They deserve to know the truth."
Your throat tightened, and you nodded, unable to speak.
The door clicked shut behind Dr. Hwang, and you were alone again.
You lay there in the silence, the beeping of the monitors the only sound in the room, and you stared up at the white ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of guilt and fear and sadness. The tears you'd been holding back finally began to fall, silent and hot, tracing paths down your cheeks and disappearing into the thin hospital pillow.
You were alive. You were here. And you were more alone than you'd ever been.
The hospital room had transformed somehow, the sterile white walls seeming a little less oppressive, the beeping of the monitors a little less urgent, the harsh fluorescent light a little softer around the edges. It wasn't that anything had physically changed — the room was still the exact same room, the machines still hummed their mechanical lullabies, the antiseptic smell still lingered in the air — but the atmosphere had shifted entirely, warmed by the presence of the people who had crowded into the small space.
You propped yourself up against the pillows, careful not to jostle your injured side, and watched as Suho paced back and forth at the foot of the bed like a caged animal. Your best friend's eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed, his hands gesturing wildly as he launched into what was clearly the third or fourth retelling of his dramatic arrival.
"I literally ran here," Suho said, his voice climbing an octave with every word. "I was at work, right? Doing my shift, being a model employee, stacking shelves, organizing the drinks, the whole thing. And then Beomseok texted me saying Sieun said you were awake, and I just—" He mimed dropping something, his hands flying apart. "I just left. I didn't even clock out. I just grabbed my bag and ran. I didn't even tell my manager. I just—gone. Poof. Like a ghost."
"You're going to get fired," you said, but your voice was warm, amused, the first real smile you'd managed since waking up tugging at the corners of your mouth. "You can't just abandon your shift like that."
Suho waved a dismissive hand, the gesture so grand it almost knocked over a cup of water on the bedside table.
"Worth it. My manager can deal. He's always telling me I need to be more 'committed to the job' or whatever, but you know what? I am committed. I'm committed to my friends. That's way more important than stocking chips." Suho paused, his expression softening. "I had to see you, man. I had to make sure you were actually alive and not just some really elaborate hallucination my brain cooked up because I haven't slept in three days."
"You haven't slept in three days?" Your eyebrows shot up. "Suho, that's—"
"Dramatic license," Suho interrupted, waving his hand once again. "Okay, maybe a little bit of actual sleep deprivation. But that's not the point. The point is that you—" He jabbed a finger in your direction, his voice fierce. "—you absolute idiot, scared the living hell out of me. Do you have any idea how worried I was? How worried we all were?"
Your smile faltered, guilt creeping back in.
You opened your mouth to apologize, to say something that would make it better, but Suho was already moving, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. Before you could react, Suho had launched himself onto the bed, his arms wrapping around you in a hug that was way too tight and way too warm and absolutely perfect.
"Ow—Suho, my side—" You winced, but you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you, breathless and surprised.
The pressure on your bandages was uncomfortable, but the warmth of Suho's embrace was worth it.
"Shut up," Suho said, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I don't care about your side. You're alive. You're awake. I'm hugging you, and you're going to let me. This is non-negotiable."
Your arms came up slowly, carefully, your fingers curling into the fabric of Suho's jacket. You could feel your best friend's heart pounding, the rapid, frantic rhythm of someone who had been holding themselves together for too long and was finally, finally letting go.
Suho's shoulders were trembling slightly, barely perceptible, and you realized that Suho was holding back tears.
"I'm okay," you said softly, the words meant for Suho alone. "I'm okay. I promise. I'm not going anywhere."
"You better be," Suho muttered, pulling back just enough to look you in the face. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression fierce that was masking something softer underneath. "Because if you ever do something like that again, I'll kill you. And I mean it. I'll find a way to bring you back from the dead just so I can kill you myself."
You laughed one more time, the sound surprising even you with its lightness.
"That's very aggressive for someone who just said he was happy I'm alive."
"I'm multidimensional," Suho said, sitting back on the edge of the bed. He crossed his arms, but there was no heat in the gesture. "I can be happy you're alive and also furious with you for scaring me. It's called range. I have a lot of range."
Behind him, Beomseok stepped forward, his glasses slightly askew, his expression a mixture of relief and awkwardness. The glasses boy hovered at the edge of the bed, his hands clasped in front of him, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to get closer. His fingers were twisting together nervously, a habit you had noticed before.
"I'm really glad you're okay," Beomseok said, his voice soft but genuine. "We were all really worried about you. I was so scared when I heard what happened. I couldn't even focus on my classes. I just kept thinking about you and hoping you would wake up."
Your chest tightened, the familiar guilt coiling in your stomach. You'd done this to them. You'd made them worry, made them wait, made them sit in a hospital room for three days while you slept and they could do nothing but watch.
The weight of it pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating.
"Thanks, Beomseok," you said, and you meant it. "I'm sorry I made you all worry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," Beomseok said quickly, shaking his head. His glasses slipped further down his nose, and he pushed them back up with a nervous gesture. "It wasn't your fault. It was that—" He paused, his jaw tightening, a rare flash of anger crossing his usually gentle features. "It was that man. He hurt you. You didn't do anything wrong."
You blinked, surprised by the fierceness in Beomseok's voice. The quiet boy with the glasses and the nervous energy had a spine after all. There was steel beneath the softness, a protective instinct that you hadn't expected.
"Yeah," Suho agreed, his voice hardening. "That bastard is lucky the cops got to him before I did, because if I'd had one more minute alone with him—" He didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear.
"Suho," you said, a warning note in your voice.
You didn't want your best friend getting into trouble over this. You'd already been through enough.
"I'm just saying." Suho held up his hands, but there was a glint in his eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely joking. "He hurt my best friend. He stabbed you. He's lucky I have self-control. And that's only because Beomseok held me back when I tried to go after him."
Beomseok's cheeks flushed. "You were going to do something reckless. Someone had to stop you."
"I was going to do something necessary," Suho corrected.
You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. Your friends were ridiculous. Your friends were wonderful. You were so, so lucky to have them.
Beomseok, who had found a chair and settled into it, leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. His expression had shifted from relief to something more serious, more businesslike.
"Speaking of the police, they've been trying to talk to you," Beomseok said, adjusting his glasses. "They came by the hospital a couple of times, but you were still unconscious. They need a statement about what happened—what that man did to you, what you saw, everything. But they said you can wait until you feel better. There's no rush."
You nodded slowly, processing the information. The gang. The boss. The knife. It all felt distant now, like something that had happened to someone else, in another life. The memory was hazy, fragmented, like a dream you couldn't quite grasp.
"Later," you agreed. "I'll talk to them later. When I'm feeling up to it."
The conversation drifted after that, settling into something lighter, more comfortable.
Suho launched into a dramatic retelling of his shift at his work, complete with exaggerated impressions of difficult customers and a detailed account of the time a middle-aged woman had tried to return a half-eaten sandwich.
"And she was so serious about it," Suho said, his voice climbing with indignation. "She looked me dead in the eye and said, 'This sandwich is defective. It doesn't taste right'. And I looked at it—there was a bite taken out of it—and I said, 'Ma'am, it looks like you ate half of it'. And she said, 'Exactly. That's the defective part'."
Beomseok laughed, a soft, surprised sound.
"What did you do?"
"I told her I couldn't return it, obviously. She got really upset and said she was going to call corporate. I said, 'Go ahead. I'll wait'. She didn't call corporate. She just stormed out in a huff and left the sandwich on the counter." Suho shook his head. "People are wild, man. Absolutely wild."
You listened, your smile growing wider, the tension in your shoulders slowly easing.
This was what you'd missed. This easy camaraderie, this comfortable silence punctuated by laughter and teasing and the simple pleasure of being with people who cared about you. It was like a balm on your frayed nerves, soothing the rawness that had been there since you woke up.
At some point, Suho and Beomseok had gotten into a heated debate about a racing game you'd never played, their voices rising and falling as they argued about the best strategy for a particular level. Suho was gesturing emphatically, his hands moving so fast they were almost a blur. Beomseok was calmly countering each point with quiet logic, his voice steady and measured.
You watched them for a moment, your heart full, and then your gaze drifted to Sieun.
Sieun was still sitting beside the bed, his chair pulled as close as possible, his hand still wrapped around yours. The two of you had been holding hands since Suho and Beomseok had arrived — or maybe since before then, you couldn't quite remember — and neither of you had made any move to let go. The contact was warm, grounding, a constant reminder that Sieun was there.
Your fingers tightened around Sieun's, a small, unconscious gesture, and Sieun's eyes met yours.
The warmth in that beautiful gaze made your breath catch. It was so open, so unguarded, so completely different from the careful, controlled expression Sieun usually wore. He was looking at you like you were the only person in the room, like the noise and the laughter and the chaos around you didn't exist.
Like nothing else mattered.
You smiled, and Sieun's lips curved in response, a small, soft thing that made your heart flutter. It was such a simple expression, but it held so much — relief, love, a quiet, steady devotion that made your chest ache.
"I'm really glad you're here," you said, your voice low enough that only Sieun could hear. The words felt inadequate, too small for the enormity of what you were feeling, but they were all you had right now.
Sieun's hand tightened around yours.
"Where else would I be?"
The simple words, spoken so matter-of-factly, hit you like a really violent wave. You felt your throat tighten, your eyes prickle with warmth, and you had to look away for a moment, blinking rapidly. The emotion was just too much, too big, threatening to spill over.
"You don't have to stay," you said, and even you weren't sure why you were saying it.
Maybe it was the cavernous guilt again, the persistent voice that whispered you didn't deserve this, didn't deserve Sieun's time or attention or care. Maybe it was the profound fear that this was all too good to be true, that it would vanish the moment you got too comfortable.
"I know you probably have things to do. Classes, studying, all that stuff. You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Sieun's voice was soft but firm, cutting through your rambling like a knife through fog. He squeezed your hand again, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of it, a gentle, soothing rhythm.
"I want to be here," Sieun continued, his dark eyes steady on yours. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be. Not studying, not anywhere. I want to be right here, with you."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the familiar warmth that always seemed to appear whenever Sieun said something unexpectedly tender. It was like Sieun had a direct line to your heart, knew exactly which words would make it race.
"Okay," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."
You fell into silence, but it wasn't the heavy, uncomfortable kind. It was the kind that felt like a blanket, warm and soft and safe, wrapping around you and blocking out the rest of the world. Suho and Beomseok were still arguing in the background, their voices a distant hum, but you barely heard them. All you could focus on was Sieun's hand in yours, the gentle pressure of his fingers, the way his thumb kept moving in those small, soothing circles.
Your gaze drifted to Sieun's face, taking in the details you hadn't had a chance to really look at before.
The shadows under his eyes were still there, dark and pronounced, evidence of the sleepless nights he'd spent at your bedside. His skin was paler than usual, his features drawn with fatigue. His hair was mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it. There was a faint crease on his cheek from where he'd been leaning against your legs.
But there was a softness there too, a gentleness that made your chest ache.
The tension that usually lived in Sieun's jaw was gone, replaced by something relaxed, something peaceful. He looked younger like this, way more vulnerable.
"Have you been sleeping?" you asked, your voice quiet.
You already knew the answer, but you still wanted to hear Sieun say it. Sieun blinked a few times, clearly caught off guard by the question.
"I—"
"Don't lie to me," you said, and there was no accusation in your voice, just concern. "You look exhausted. You look like you haven't slept in days."
Sieun opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed.
"Not much," he admitted. "I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I just kept thinking about—" Sieun stopped, his jaw tightening. The words seemed to stick in his throat, too painful to push out. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine."
"You're not fine," you said, and you reached up with your free hand, your fingers brushing against Sieun's cheek.
The touch was light, barely there, but Sieun leaned into it anyway, his eyes fluttering half-closed.
"You need to take care of yourself, Sieun. You can't just—"
"I'll sleep when you're better," Sieun said, and there was a stubborn set to his jaw that you recognized. It was the same stubbornness that had kept him going through the fight, the same stubbornness that had made him stay by your side for three days. "Right now, I need to be here."
Your heart ached.
You wanted to argue, you wanted to insist that Sieun go home and rest, but you knew it would be useless.
Sieun was just as stubborn as you were, maybe even more so. It was one of the things you loved so much about him — that quiet, unyielding determination.
So instead, you let your hand slide from Sieun's cheek to his hair, your fingers threading through the soft strands. The movement was gentle, soothing, and you watched as Sieun's eyes closed fully, his head tilting slightly into the touch. Sieun really looked like he was melting, all the tension draining out of his body at once.
"You're like a kitten," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They were soft, almost teasing, full of affection.
Sieun's eyes opened, a question in them. "What?"
"A kitten," you repeated, and you couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. "You're like a cute little kitten. All grumpy and aloof on the outside, but really you just want to be petted. You pretend you don't need anyone, but you lean into every touch."
Sieun's ears turned pink, the color spreading to his cheeks.
"I don't—that's not—"
"You literally just leaned into my hand," you pointed out, your smile widening. "Like a kitten seeking attention. You practically purred."
"I didn't—" Sieun started, but the pink in his cheeks was deepening, spreading down his neck. He looked flustered, adorably so, and you felt your heart swell. "That's not—you're making that up."
"I'm not making anything up," you said, your voice warm with affection. "You're so cute when you're flustered. It's one of my favorite things."
Sieun opened his mouth to respond — probably to argue, probably to deny everything — but whatever he was about to say was cut off by Suho's voice, loud and teasing, cutting through your private bubble like a knife;
"Okay, okay, I see what's happening here." Suho had abandoned his phone, his attention now fully on you and Sieun. His eyes were gleaming with mischief, a grin spreading across his face. "You two are having a moment. A whole moment. Right in front of me and Beomseok."
Your face flushed, your hand dropping from Sieun's hair.
"We're not—"
"Don't even try to deny it," Suho said, leaning forward with obvious delight. "I saw you. Both of you. The hand-holding, the gazing into each other's eyes, the petting—" He made an exaggerated gesture, his hands mimicking the movement of stroking hair. "It's like I'm watching a romance drama in real time. I should be getting paid for this."
"Suho," you said, a warning in your voice, but you couldn't quite keep the smile off your face. "Shut the fuck up."
"Never." Suho leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "You know what this means, right? You owe me. I've been saying you two were going to get together for weeks. Weeks. You owe me for all the times you said I was crazy."
"Nobody said you were crazy," you said, but your protest was weak. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, the embarrassment mixing with something warm and happy.
"I'm not crazy," Suho said, and there was a triumphant note in his voice that made you want to throw a pillow at him. "I'm a visionary. I see things before they happen. I'm like a prophet, but cooler."
"Not about this," Beomseok added, and he was smiling, a small, shy thing that made his whole face light up. He looked almost proud of himself for joining in the teasing.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the warmth that spread through your chest.
Suho's teasing was familiar, comfortable, the kind of easy banter that had been a constant in your life for years. Even in the hospital, even with everything that had happened, it felt good. It felt like normal. It felt like home.
"Fine," you said, and you squeezed Sieun's hand, a small, secret gesture that made Sieun's ears turn pink again. "Maybe I owe you. Maybe you were right."
Suho's grin widened.
"I knew it. I knew it. I am the best friend in the entire world. I should get an award for this. A plaque. A statue. Something."
"How are you getting an award?" Beomseok asked, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "You didn't do anything. You just happened to be there."
"I created the circumstances," Suho said, waving a dismissive hand. "I set the stage. I brought them together. Without me, they never would have—"
"Okay, that's enough," you interrupted, though you were laughing. "I'm not letting you take credit for everything just because you happened to be in the same room when we met. That's not how it works."
"Fine, fine," Suho said, but his eyes were dancing with amusement. "But you're never going to live this down. I'm going to bring this up at your wedding. I'm going to be the best man, and I'm going to give a speech about how I knew before you did, and everyone's going to cry because it's so beautiful. It'll be legendary."
You buried your face in your free hand, your cheeks burning.
"I hate you."
"You love me," Suho said cheerfully.
"Unfortunately."
The laughter that followed was bright and warm, filling the hospital room and chasing away the shadows. Even Sieun was smiling, a small, private thing that made your heart stutter. It was the kind of smile that made everything else fade away, that made the hospital room feel less like a place of sickness and more like a place of healing.
The conversation drifted after that, flowing and ebbing like a tide. Suho launched into another story, this one about a customer at his part-time job who had tried to pay for a pack of gum with a winning lottery ticket. He acted out the whole scene, his voice shifting into a high-pitched impression of the customer, his hands gesturing wildly.
"She kept saying, 'But I won! I won the lottery! Why can't I use this to pay for my gum?' And I had to explain to her that a lottery ticket isn't legal tender. She didn't believe me. She said, 'The government says it's money'. And I said, 'The government says a lot of things'."
Beomseok laughed, his quiet chuckle filling the room.
"What happened?"
"I told her to go to a bank and cash it in, and then she could come back and buy all the gum she wanted. She didn't do that. She just left the gum on the counter and walked out." Suho shook his head, a grin on his face.
You listened, chiming in occasionally, your hand still intertwined with Sieun's. You felt lighter than you had in days, the weight on your chest easing with every laugh, every shared moment.
At some point, Suho and Beomseok had pulled out their phones again, their heads bent together as they strategized their way through a particularly difficult level. Their voices were a low murmur in the background, the occasional exclamation of frustration or triumph punctuating the quiet.
Your attention shifted back to Sieun.
Sieun was already watching you, his dark eyes soft and thoughtful. There was something in his expression, something that made your heart skip a beat. It was the kind of look that held a thousand unspoken words, a quiet intensity that made you feel seen.
"What?" you asked, your voice quiet, the word meant only for Sieun.
Sieun shook his head, a small movement.
"Nothing. I was just—" Sieun paused, his gaze dropping to your joined hands. "I was just thinking about how close I came to losing you. How I almost never got to have this moment with you."
Your throat tightened again. You squeezed Sieun's hand, a silent reassurance.
"But I'm here," you said even more softly. "I'm okay. You didn't lose me."
"You almost weren't," Sieun said, his voice strained. "If the ambulance had been even a few minutes later—if the doctors hadn't been able to stop the bleeding—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I keep thinking about it. What if I'd been too slow? What if I hadn't been there? What if—"
"Sieun." Your voice was gentle, but firm. You reached up, your hand finding Sieun's cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin. "I'm here. I'm okay. You don't have to think about what could have happened. Just think about what did happen. I'm alive. I'm awake. I'm right here with you."
Sieun leaned into the touch, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them, there was something raw in his gaze, something vulnerable that made your chest ache.
"I was so scared," Sieun said, and the words came out in a whisper, like a confession. "I've never been that scared before. When I saw you fall—when I saw all that blood—I thought—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I thought I was going to lose you just like that. And I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to—"
Your hand moved from Sieun's cheek to the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his hair. You pulled him closer, gently, until your foreheads were almost touching.
You were so close you could feel Sieun's breath on your lips, could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I made you worry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't," Sieun said, his voice rough. "Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault. It was never your fault."
Your eyes burned, the tears threatening again, but you blinked them back. You couldn't cry. Not now. Not when Sieun was looking at you like that, like you were something precious, something worth holding onto.
"Okay," you managed, your voice barely audible. "Okay."
You stayed like that for a long moment, your foreheads touching, your breath mingling. You could feel Sieun's pulse, rapid and steady, the warmth of his skin, the softness of his hair beneath your fingers. It was intimate, more intimate than anything you'd done before, yet it felt natural, like this was exactly where you were supposed to be.
"Hey," Suho's voice cut through the quiet, and you pulled back rapidly, your cheeks flushing. "We're still here, you know. We can see you."
"Then look away," you said, but your voice was warm, not annoyed. You couldn't bring yourself to be annoyed, not when your heart was so full.
"I'm trying," Suho said, his tone mock-offended. "But you guys are so cute it's literally blinding me. I can't look anywhere else. It's a problem."
"Maybe you should get your eyes checked," you said, a smile tugging at your lips.
"Yeah, maybe I should," Suho agreed. "Maybe the problem is my vision is so good I can't escape the cuteness. I'm a victim here. A victim of your adorable romance."
Beomseok laughed, a soft, surprised sound that made everyone turn to look at him. He flushed, his glasses slipping down his nose, but he was smiling.
"Sorry," he said, clearly embarrassed. "It's just—you guys are funny. I like hanging out with you."
Your heart swelled. You looked around at the three of them — Suho, your best friend since childhood, loud and dramatic and fiercely loyal; Beomseok, quiet and earnest, always trying to help, always there; Sieun, with his dark eyes and his soft smile, his hand still warm in yours.
You were lucky. So impossibly lucky.
Even with everything — the tumor, the fear, the secrets you were still keeping — you were lucky.
"Thanks," you said, and your voice was a little thick. "For being here. For staying. For—" You paused, searching for the right words. "For everything. I don't think I say it enough, but you guys mean the world to me."
Suho's expression softened, the teasing fading away.
"You don't have to thank us, man. That's what friends are for. We're not going anywhere. Ever."
"Ever," Beomseok added, his voice earnest.
Your eyes felt wet again, but you blinked back the tears.
You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so full, so warm, so completely and utterly at peace. It was a fragile peace, you knew, built on the shaky ground of your secrets and your fears, but for now, it was enough.
You were still scared.
The tumor was still there, still ticking, still waiting. You still had secrets you were too afraid to share, guilt weighing on your chest like a stone. You still didn't know how to tell your friends the truth, didn't know if you'd ever find the courage.
But right now, with Sieun's hand in yours and Suho's laughter in the air and Beomseok's quiet presence at your side, the fear felt smaller and more manageable, like something you could face, eventually, when you were ready.
Right now, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
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note ∘ ∘ ∘ don't worryyyy hehe reader and sieun are gonna talk about what suho said!!! which means we're getting really really close to their first real kiss 🤭
ohhh and someone is about to find out about reader's tumor too ... who do you guys think it's gonna be??
There goes tumblr eating asks again. SO, I loved that scene when Jiyong pressed his fingers to Sieun’s lips and then kissed them. That was SO good, where did he even learn that?? I was drawing that, but Sieun’s lips turned out so pretty that I didn’t want to cover them😅 so he got a solo page. Hope you like it!
OMFGGG????:!.!!:!: BROOO THAT’S SO FREAKING GOOD OH MY GOD I’M BEING SO SERIOUS WHEN I SAY I DON’T EVEN HAVE THE WORDS … I LOVE IT SO SO MUCH 🥹🥹🥹 SIEUN MY SWEET LITTLE BABY HE’S SO CUTE I CAN’T 💔💔💔
hi i jus wanted to say heaven can wait is one of my favorite fanfics in the WORLD, the writing is so good and i genuinely think about it all the time. ur writing is so peakkk !!
would you guys be interested in a book with a male reader x male OCs (they're a k-pop group!!) inspired by the manhwa / light novel DEBUT OR DIE but with a lot more romance? the MC would get reincarnated into the group, have a system, and all that fun stuff!!
actually ... i already have SOOO many ideas for this book lol my brain literally hasn't been thinking about anything else TT
2087
titsay
gracieabrams
germansingergirl