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In the short two months Suho had known Yeon Sieun, he’d learned one thing for certain: Sieun had an aversion to touch. For Suho—someone for whom touch came as naturally as breathing—that detail was oddly disconcerting. It wasn’t that he liked touching random strangers. But with his friends, especially Sieun, a casual shoulder pat, squishing his cheeks, or ruffling his hair—it all came easily to him. And he enjoyed it, not so much the act itself, but the reaction it drew from Sieun, a murderous glare that carried no real bite, a deadpan face that would eventually betray him with the slightest quirk of his lips or the softening of his eyes.
But Sieun never initiated touch. Not with Suho, not with anyone. The first time Suho had seen him lay hands on someone was when he was tearing bullies apart—most memorably, when he slammed a book into Youngbin’s face with such precision that Suho realized even something as harmless as stationery could become lethal in Sieun’s hands.
Which is why the sight before him now felt unreal.
Yeon Sieun—who would rather suffer than willingly reach for someone—was crouched on the ground, arms wrapped tight around Suho’s frail body, fresh out of a coma. His grip trembled, desperate, as if letting go meant losing Suho forever. For once, there was no violence in his touch—only fear, and something achingly human.
Ever since that day—the day, they met after almost two years, the day Sieun held onto him like he’d vanish if he let go—something had changed. Suho noticed it first in the small things.
The steady hand under his elbow when he tried to stand. The way Sieun tugged a blanket over his shoulders before he even asked. Fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead, a touch so careful it almost tickled. Each time, Suho expected the old Sieun—the boy who treated skin-to-skin contact like fire, who’d never reach out unless it was with a fist or a weapon. But now? Sieun didn’t hesitate.
And Suho, for the first time, didn’t either.
For someone who once flinched at the idea of touch, Sieun had changed. In the days following Suho’s return, it was as if the near-loss had rewired something in him.
It was strange, being on the receiving end. All his life, Suho had been the one pulling people close—hands on shoulders, arms slung around necks, an easy ruffle of hair. It had always been his way of saying I’m here, you’re not alone. With Sieun, it had been no different. He liked the way those touches teased out reactions, the glare, the deadpan, the betraying twitch of a smile.
But this—this was different.
Every time Sieun touched him now, warmth lingered long after. A creeping heat would rise to his cheeks, embarrassing and unshakable, as if Sieun’s touch carried something heavier than comfort. The simple brush of fingers at his wrist, the press of a palm steadying his back—it all left Suho’s chest tight in ways he didn’t understand.
Maybe it was because he knew what it cost Sieun to do this. Because every touch wasn’t just care—it was trust.
For someone who once flinched at the idea of touch, Sieun had changed. In the days following Suho’s return, it was as if the near-loss had rewired something in him.
At first, Suho thought it was just practicality. But soon he realized it was more than that. Sieun didn’t let a moment pass without making sure of Suho’s presence—like grounding himself through the proof of warm skin, solid weight, steady breath.
It was strange, almost ironic. The boy who once recoiled from any contact now seemed to need it more than Suho himself.
And Suho couldn’t help but feel a little undone by it.
It started with small things—the kind Suho could excuse as practical. The firm press of Sieun’s hand on his back as he lowered him into the wheelchair, the sure grip under his knees. Necessary. Efficient. Nothing more. At least, that’s what Suho told himself, ignoring the heat that pooled in his chest every time Sieun steadied him like that.
Meals blurred the line further. When Sieun swiped broth from the corner of his lips with his thumb, the touch lingered a heartbeat too long. Suho’s breath caught, the warmth in his cheeks betraying him. He laughed it off, but the moment stayed, replaying later in the silence of night.
Nights were their own kind of torture. Sieun tucked him in with a swiftness that should have felt impersonal, but then—always then—his fingers brushed Suho’s bangs back from his temple. Gentle, fleeting, yet enough to make Suho’s throat tighten. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, while his heart rattled like a fist against glass.
Physiotherapy was worse. The ache in his legs gave Sieun an excuse to kneel at his side, hands working slow and careful over tired muscles. It should have been clinical. It wasn’t. Every press of Sieun’s palms seared, every glide of fingers sent heat curling through him that had nothing to do with healing. Suho clenched his fists, swallowing back sounds that didn’t belong to pain. Suho blamed his post coma body for it.
And then one night, curiosity led him to unlock his phone—the phone he hadn’t touched in two years. He almost begged the nurse to allow him, there's only so much to do with Sieun being at school and when he doesn't have any exercises scheduled. He hadn't expected much. Maybe a few missed calls. But the unread messages were all from one name.
Yeon Sieun.
There were hundreds.
Some short, clipped lines, stiff with guilt, If I hadn’t met you, then …
Some long and frayed with grief, I don’t know how to do this without you. I can’t breathe in that classroom anymore.
Others were almost childlike confessions of fear, What if you don’t wake up? What if it’s my fault you never will?
And buried between them, stark loneliness, It’s too quiet. I hate it. I hate that it’s quiet without you.
Suho read them all, every word sinking into him like weight he couldn’t shrug off. Suddenly, every lingering touch, every careful gesture made sense. It wasn’t just care. It wasn’t just help. It was Sieun grounding himself, reminding himself that Suho was real, that he was here.
And yet, that clarity only deepened Suho’s confusion.
Because if it was only comfort, only reassurance—why did it make his heart race this way? Why did warmth creep into his face, why did his chest feel too tight each time Sieun’s hand found him? Why did something so simple feel like more than friendship?
With each passing day, Suho couldn’t tell anymore if the touches were innocent… or if he just didn’t want them to be.
Sieun was late.
On weekends, when there were no classes, he usually came early. Today, though, the routine broke. He’d texted Suho that morning, saying he had a project to finish and would be there by lunch. That had been an hour ago. It wasn’t much, an hour was nothing. Suho knew that. Sieun had been showing up every single day since the moment he woke up—he deserved a little time for himself.
But knowing it didn’t make the waiting any easier.
Suho nearly dozed off in his chair when he heard footsteps behind him. Familiar ones. He turned, heart skipping, and there was Sieun—sweating, breathless, like he’d run all the way here.
Just like that first day in the same garden.
As soon as their eyes met, Sieun straightened, his face softening. A small smile tugged at his lips—the one he seemed to save only for Suho these days. Suho’s lungs forgot their job for a moment.
He schooled his expression into something neutral. Looked away.
Sieun slowed, frowning.
“Suho-ya…”
“Don’t,” Suho cut him off, raising a hand. “Don’t, just stand there.”
“I’m sorry,” Sieun said quickly, his voice a little rushed. “Baku forgot his part, so we had to redo everything. That’s why I’m late. I didn’t mean—”
Suho gripped the wheelchair’s handles so tightly his knuckles blanched. He couldn’t meet those eyes, bright and earnest, too much for him to take in.
“Yeon Sieun.” His voice was steady, though it scraped his throat.
Sieun froze. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp, locked on Suho with an intensity that made Suho’s chest ache.
Suho lowered his feet to the ground. Slowly—so slowly—he pushed himself upright. His knees trembled, his balance wavered, but he straightened until he was standing on his own.
Sieun’s mouth fell open. He looked stricken, almost lost, like a fish gasping for air.
“W–when did you—how—” His voice cracked.
Suho gave a shaky smile, watery around the edges.
“A few days ago. I’ve been practicing. Wanted to surprise you.” His cheeks burned, though he didn’t know if it was from the effort of standing or from Sieun’s gaze tearing into him.
The sound that escaped Sieun then was barely audible—a broken laugh, or maybe a sob. His lips wobbled as though he was fighting both. Suho’s chest tightened. So much for not making him cry again.
The strength in his legs began to drain, his body warning him he’d already pushed too far. And then Sieun was there—arms wrapping around him before he could falter. Suho sagged into the embrace, Sieun’s head buried in his shoulder, warm tears dampening his gown.
He wanted to say something, anything. But words failed him. So he held on, trusting Sieun more than his own body to keep him upright.
When Sieun finally pulled back, his eyes were red, his face wet—but he was smiling. Radiant, unguarded, happy in a way Suho had never seen before.
“Sieun-ah, why are—”
The rest never made it out. Because Sieun leaned in, closing the space between them, and pressed his mouth to Suho’s.
And Suho… Suho forgot how to breathe all over again.
His mind blanked, his body locked. This wasn’t what he expected—wasn’t anything he had even let himself imagine. But the heat was undeniable, flooding him faster than his thoughts could catch up. Sieun’s lips were trembling against his, wet with the trace of tears, and Suho realized—he wasn’t just being kissed. He was being clung to, like Sieun had reached the edge of a cliff and found nothing to hold on to but him.
Suho’s knees wobbled, not from weakness this time, but from the rush surging through his veins. His pulse thundered, his skin prickling everywhere Sieun touched—his face cupped in trembling hands, his chest pressed tight against Suho’s own unsteady frame.
It should have been too much. Overwhelming. Confusing. But instead, something inside him cracked open, spilling warmth through every nerve. Every lingering touch, every brush of fingers, every message Sieun had poured into silence—it all made sense in this moment.
And Suho—who had spent weeks confused, who had told himself those touches were innocent—felt himself melt into the kiss before he could stop it. His eyes fluttered shut, his breath hitched, and for once he didn’t care about standing, or balance, or strength. He just let himself fall.
Into Sieun.
To the world, Yeon Sieun was still the same. Aloof. Detached. Sharp enough to cut through anyone who came too close.
But with Suho, he was someone else entirely.
It started with touch—something Suho would have never imagined in those first months of knowing him. The boy who once recoiled at the idea of contact now seemed to need it as much as air. A hand on Suho’s back to steady him, fingers curling around his wrist to guide him, an arm slipping under his knees as though carrying him was the most natural thing. And it wasn’t just necessity. It was devotion, threaded into every motion, so constant that Suho sometimes forgot he had once believed Sieun incapable of such things.
Even now, when Suho’s body was still clumsy and fragile from the coma, Sieun never treated him like glass. Protective, yes. Possessive, even. But never suffocating. Never pitying. He fed him when his hands trembled too much, dressed him when his muscles gave out, sat with him through long nights when his legs cramped and his breath caught. And not once did Suho feel like a burden in those hands.
Sometimes, shame whispered anyway. The quiet guilt that maybe Sieun was doing this out of obligation, out of the crushing remorse he had carried for two years. But then Sieun would look at him, eyes unflinching, touch steady, and Suho would feel it—the truth. That it wasn’t guilt. It was love.
Love that burned as intensely as everything Sieun touched in his life. The same relentlessness he poured into studying, the same precision he carried into every fight—now turned wholly toward Suho.
And when Sieun kissed him, Suho could feel all of it at once. The point he wanted to make, the certainty he wanted to carve into Suho’s very bones, You are here. You are mine. You are not a burden.
Those kisses left him incapable of thought, of resistance. Only warmth. Only the kind of devotion that scared him with its intensity, and yet anchored him more than anything else.
It was a quiet evening, his bed was inclined slightly, Sieun leaning over him, their breaths mingling, lips hovering closer than they had ever dared in daylight—and the door opened.
“Suho-ya,” his grandmother’s voice drifted in.
Both froze. Sieun’s body went rigid, snapping upright so fast it nearly jolted the bed. Suho’s heart hammered, his face burning as he adjusted his blanket like that would erase what she’d just seen.
His grandmother paused at the doorway, eyes flicking from one boy to the other. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, only watching. Suho felt dread coil in his stomach. She must have known—she must have known. After all, two years ago, when Suho used to talk endlessly about Sieun, she had worn that same unreadable expression. And now… now it was all too obvious.
Finally, she spoke, her tone light, teasing, with a glint in her eye:
“Boys, be careful. Don’t scare the nurses.”
Relief crashed through him so suddenly Suho almost laughed. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t disapproving. If anything, there was a softness in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long time, one that told him she understood, that she loved him still, maybe even more for it.
When Park Humin, Gotak, and Juntae visited later that week, after endless pestering and lot of promises to keep quiet, Suho had braced himself for noise and laughter, but nothing prepared him for the scene that unfolded.
They had brought snacks, a lot of them. Introductions went smoothly than Suho expected, they took him like Fish to water, and Suho found himself enjoying their company, listening to their bickering and Sieun's dry sarcasms. Not wanting to intrude in their moments, Suho nibbled on some crackers, crumbs clung stubbornly to his lips, making him feel sticky. Before he could reach for the napkin, Sieun—without a word—offered him water, then calmly wiped the crumbs away. And then, without thinking, he licked his thumb clean.
The room went dead silent.
Suho blinked, heat rushing to his face. But his friends? Their jaws practically hit the floor.
Park Humin recovered first, smirking. “Wow. Our ice princess knows how to take care of people?”
Sieun shot him a glare sharp enough to kill, but it only made the grin wider.
Juntae leaned against the wall, chuckling. “This is new. The Sieun we know only fights and studies. But this…”
Gotak clapped his hands once, loud and dramatic. “That’s because he’s his boyfriend. Obviously.”
Suho thought he would choke on the air itself. Sieun’s ears turned the faintest pink, though his face stayed stony, and for once, Suho couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like their world was just the two of them. It felt… accepted.
When the teasing finally died down, the room filled again with the comfortable clutter of snacks and chatter. Park Humin tore into a bag of chips, Gotak stretched out like he owned the place, and Juntae pulled a stack of mangas from his bag, setting them neatly on the table.
“These are for you,” Juntae said. “Thought you might get bored in here.”
Suho blinked, recognizing the covers immediately. They weren’t just any mangas. They were his favorites—the exact volumes he used to reread until the spines cracked. And the crackers on his lap, the ones Humin had tossed him with a grin, were the same brand he always used to buy after school.
The realization hit him like a quiet wave. His eyes slid to Sieun, who was seated beside him, arms crossed as if daring anyone to say something else stupid.
“You…” Suho narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “You told them.”
Sieun turned his head slowly, expression flat, as though he had no idea what Suho was talking about.
“My favorite snacks, my mangas—how else would they know?” Suho pressed, leaning closer. “You talked about me to your friends.”
For a second, there was silence. Then Humin burst out laughing. “Oh, he definitely did. You should’ve heard him—”
Sieun’s glare cut sharp enough to shut him up mid-sentence. But it was too late. Suho had already caught it—the faintest shift in Sieun’s expression. Not embarrassment. Not denial. Just something raw and unguarded, a flicker of honesty that Suho had never seen him show anyone else.
Suho’s throat tightened. Because this… this was proof. Sieun wasn’t ashamed of him. He wasn’t doing any of this out of pity, or guilt, or obligation. He cared enough to remember the smallest details, to share them, to let people see that Suho mattered to him.
It was a quiet kind of devotion, but to Suho, it was overwhelming.
He ducked his head quickly, blinking back the sudden heat behind his eyes, pretending to fiddle with the wrappers in his lap. His chest felt too full, as though his body couldn’t contain the way Sieun made him feel. And when their eyes met again, Sieun didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
Because that look alone was enough to tell Suho everything.
Suho’s gown clung to him with sweat, his knuckles white from how tightly he gripped the parallel bars. Each step felt like fire in his muscles, his breath tearing ragged through his chest.
They had called him a miracle boy—waking up after two years of coma, already ahead of where most patients would be. But no one, no one warned him how excruciating this recovery would feel. No one told him how humiliating it would be, at nineteen, to stumble like a toddler, to sweat and shake just from trying to walk across a room. Things that had once come as easily as breathing now demanded every ounce of strength he had left. And every setback felt like failure.
He was still ruminating when Nurse Kim leaned closer with a curious frown.
“Oh, what is that?” she asked, eyes trained on his neck.
Confused, Suho reached up—then froze. His hand flew to his skin in a poor attempt to cover it. Heat flared across his face as memory crashed over him—Sieun’s warm lips pressed there last night, teeth grazing tender skin, the ghost of touch that still made his pulse stutter.
Nurse Kim laughed, shaking her head. “I thought Sieun would be a responsible kid. Turns out he’s just a hormonal teenager.”
Suho ducked his head, cheeks burning, wishing the ground would open and swallow him whole.
Later, when he managed ten steps between the bars, the therapist clapped him on the back, calling it a milestone. Suho wanted to feel proud, but shame lingered at the edges—because ten steps felt so small when he used to run.
After the session, Nurse Kim found him again. “You know,” she said softly, “you’re really lucky to have someone like Sieun beside you.”
Suho gave her a small smile. Because it was true.
“You know what nurses in this wing call him?”
He tilted his head, half-expecting something like Mr. Ice or Mr. Untouchable.
“The boy who waited.”
The words knocked the air from him. He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He knew. His Sieun, who had waited two years without knowing if he would ever wake up, sending him messages that went unanswered, fighting battles on his behalf, burning his future just to make things right.
Suho swallowed hard, emotions swelling until they threatened to spill over. He couldn’t trust his voice, so he just smiled, watery but grateful.
“I hope you two have a great future when you get out of here,” Nurse Kim added. “You deserve that.”
He nodded. Because he hoped so too.
---
Suho woke from a post-physio nap to the feeling of calloused fingers kneading his tired limbs. Sieun sat at the edge of the bed, earphones in, probably listening to a lecture, completely unaware Suho was awake.
Suho let himself stare. The sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes even when they weren’t fixed on him, the shoulders that once carried so much weight, now a little lighter. Those hands—hands that could break someone if they wanted—massaging each toe with such precision, such care, as though Suho were something fragile and precious.
Contradictions. That was Yeon Sieun. To the world- cold, untouchable. To him - unbearably devoted, tender in ways Suho hadn’t thought possible.
And as Suho watched, emotions swelled until his chest ached. Because the truth was, he didn’t know what his future looked like. He didn’t know if he’d ever walk without stumbling, if he’d ever stop needing help for things as simple as buttoning a shirt. He didn’t know if he would ever reclaim the boy he was two years ago.
But he was sure of one thing. Whatever that uncertain life became, Sieun would be there. Steady. Unyielding. Waiting. And that was enough to make the uncertainty bearable. That was enough to make it feel like hope.
Maybe Sieun felt the weight of his stare, because he looked up, raising a brow as his hands moved to Suho’s ankles.
Suho quickly shook his head, pretending it was nothing. But then Nurse Kim’s words echoed back at him, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Have you ever read Harry Potter?”
Sieun frowned. “Who?”
Suho face-palmed internally. Forget it.
Sieun didn’t press, simply returned to his quiet task. But that only made Suho’s eyes warm more, blurring his vision until he had to turn his head away. Futile, of course. Sieun noticed everything.
Fingers brushed his chin, gently turning his face back. “Suho-ya, what happened? Are you hurt?”
Of course he’d worry about that. Always.
Suho pushed himself upright, and Sieun moved to sit beside him, eyes searching his face intently.
“Thank you,” Suho said, his voice cracking.
“For what?” Sieun asked, thumb brushing his cheek. That was when Suho realized he was crying.
“For everything.” For being my friend. For waiting for me. For taking care of me. For loving me. He didn’t say it all aloud. He didn’t need to. The way Sieun’s eyes softened, glistened, told him he’d heard it anyway.
Sieun nodded once. “Thank you,” he murmured, pulling him into an embrace. “For waking up. For being my friend. For not leaving me alone. And for loving me.”
Suho rested his hand against Sieun’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. When they finally pulled back, he smiled—a small, wobbly thing, but real. And Sieun returned it, and Suho thought maybe he must have saved a country in a past life to deserve a smile like that.
“Speaking of past lives,” Suho teased, “I'm really sure we must’ve been husband and wife in our past life.”
Sieun regarded him quietly for a moment before answering. “I don’t know about past life. But I’ll make sure to make it true in this lifetime.”
Suho’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open. Before he could gather a response, Sieun’s lips stole his words—and his breath.
There wasn’t much talking after that.