Chapter Text
The first thing Superstar Haechan hears is the snap of a camera shutter.
Then the lights go white.
Too white.
His knees buckle—not from pain, not exactly, but from the weight of performance finally collapsing in on itself. The weight of pretending. Of always being the loudest person in the room so no one notices the cracks.
Someone shouts his name.
Too many hands grab at him.
The mic rolls out of his fingers and hits the stage with a hollow thud.
He doesn’t remember falling.
He only remembers the smell—stage sweat, perfume, and the faint, powdery scent of iris from the collar of his own shirt. Familiar. Too much.
Then the world fades to black.
⸻
When he wakes up, it’s not to applause or flashing lights.
It’s to silence. A medical monitor beeping. A dim room. A pulse in his head like a slow drumbeat.
There’s a nurse sitting quietly in the corner, typing something on a tablet. She glances over when she sees his eyes open.
“You fainted,” she says gently. “You’re dehydrated. Exhausted.”
Haechan blinks. “Did I finish the encore?”
The nurse stares for a moment, then smiles like someone trying not to laugh. “You fell mid-song.”
“Dramatic,” he mutters.
“Very.”
⸻
The door opens twenty minutes later. He expects his manager, maybe his label’s damage control team.
Instead, his assistant walks in with a folder and a quiet expression. “There’s a recommendation from the hospital,” she says. “They want a private surgical consult to monitor your health during your filming schedule. Someone who can keep things quiet.”
Haechan scoffs. “I don’t need a babysitter. I need two days and an IV drip.”
“They already reached out to someone.”
“I’ll veto it.”
“You can try.”
She hands him the folder. Haechan flips it open lazily.
The name stops him cold.
Dr. Mark Lee, MD.
Private general surgeon. Former Seoul Med.
Currently stationed in Jeju.
The air in the room shifts.
He shuts the folder.
Looks away.
“Get someone else,” he says quietly.
“There is no one else,” she replies. “He’s the only one you trust who won’t leak a damn thing. You know that.”
⸻
The next evening, he hears the knock before the door even finishes opening.
Mark steps into the villa like it’s a stranger’s house.
Black shirt. Quiet face. The same tired kindness in his eyes. Haechan doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just watches.
Mark’s scent hits first—warm, rich, and grounding. Myrrh and tonka. Still so him.
Still too much.
“You look the same,” Haechan says finally.
“You don’t.”
“Thanks.”
Mark doesn’t smile.
He opens the file, flips through test results. “You passed out from exhaustion. Your cortisol is through the roof. You haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
“Tell me something my fans don’t know.”
Mark glances up. “They don’t know you used to sleep talk. Or that you bit your lip when you lied.”
Haechan stares.
Silence stretches.
“Are you going to stay in Seoul?” he asks.
“I’m here for as long as I’m needed,” Mark says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
⸻
That night, Haechan lays awake in the private wing of his villa. The room where Mark is staying was on the other end. The villa is silent. The kind of silence that remembers who used to fill it.
He closes his eyes and breathes deep.
His scent—musk, rose, iris—lingers faintly in the air.
He wonders if Mark noticed.
He wonders if Mark cares.
⸻
Because Haechan knows one thing for certain:
There is nothing more dangerous than the person you once loved still knowing how you smell in the dark.