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The gym was too bright.
That was the first thing Siwon noticed—the fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead, glaring against the polished court like they were trying to expose him for every misstep, every hesitation, anything less than perfection.
He bounced lightly on his feet anyway, rolling his shoulders back, his racket loose in his grip. He plastered on a smile as he pushed himself forward, even if the brightness made his eyes ache.
The shuttle lifted with a practiced flick of his wrist. He served to himself—quick and sharp—then lunged forward to return it after it rebounded off the far wall. He chased it again and again, initiating his own rally where the rhythm—familiar, well-practiced, and sure, it had to be—kept him moving, breathing.
Today, it felt like he was trying to breathe underwater.
His lungs burned. His chest was tight. His throat ached.
He felt off.
Wrong—tense, uneven, like something inside him had slipped out of sync.
He ignored it and pushed into another rally. Faster this time. Harder than the last.
His shoes squeaked against the floor as he pivoted, his ankle holding—too stiff, but holding. His knee twinged, a sharp flicker of pain, but not enough to stop him. He could wrap it later.
It had been a couple of weeks since his injury had healed—weeks of careful rehab and forced rest. Now that he was pushing himself again, he could feel the ghost of it every time he went a little too hard. A warning sign that should have scared him enough to slow down—to take it easy for a few minutes before starting again.
He just smashed the shuttle harder than necessary.
It ricocheted off the wall and dropped several feet in front of him.
The rally broke.
Siwon exhaled sharply, then let out a quiet laugh, like something about the whole situation was comedic.
“Sloppy,” he muttered, his voice harsher than it should have been—like his coach had slipped into his head just long enough to remind him how badly he was doing. How much time he had lost being out of commission. How far he had fallen behind. And if Siwon wanted gold—not the silver he had received last time—then he had better pick it up.
Be better.
He bent to pick up the shuttle—but the motion made his head spin. Just for a second. Just enough that he had to brace a hand against his knee, eyes squeezing shut as the ground beneath him seemed to shift left and right and left again. The motion made him woozy.
He stayed there a moment longer than he should have.
Then he straightened, the smile already back in place. Even if he looked paler than usual and sweat clung uncomfortably to his skin, there was no one there to notice.
He was fine.
F-I-N-E.
“Come on,” he murmured. “You’ve had worse.”
Hadn’t he?
The weeks off. The endless cycle of physical therapy—resistance bands biting into his skin, slow, controlled movements under the watchful eye of his physical therapist, who kept telling him, again, slower—don’t rush it… heal properly or come back worse.
And then his coach’s voice, cutting through it all—take too long, don’t come back at all.
So he had tried to do both, because he didn’t want to make either of them angry.
He sat on the treatment tables while ice numbed his ankle. Scrolled through articles about upcoming tournaments, rankings, other competitors—watched his name stall while others climbed. He studied match footage like he had never taken a break, pretending he wasn’t being left behind. He might have grabbed silver at the last tournament, but after weeks off, the idea of getting another medal was constantly under threat… There wasn’t much he could do without risking making the injury worse.
When that stopped helping, he decided to distract himself in other ways. He sought physical pleasure to quiet his head, to make himself feel better—to feel something else.
Every day off the court felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain—like something was being chipped away, piece by piece. Quietly. Permanently.
And the worst part?
He had followed instructions. He had healed. And it still felt like he had lost something he couldn’t get back.
And—
(Woojoon had started to feel like warmth. Like safety. And then that illusion cracked—because Woojoon, just like everyone else, only seemed to see what he wanted to see. Even when Siwon cracked, when pieces of the real him showed through, it went unnoticed… Woojoon never noticed.
So he kept turning to sex, because sex was easy—something he could handle. But anything beyond that felt impossible. Like there was something inherently wrong with him, something he didn’t know how to fix. It was obvious he wasn’t dating material, because if he were, maybe someone would take him seriously—even when he played up his smiles…)
He tossed the shuttle again.
Serve. Return. Step. Pivot. Lunge. Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Then the rhythm broke.
His reaction lagged—just a fraction. Barely noticeable. But he felt it. The split second between seeing and moving, between deciding and acting. He had been too slow, so he pushed himself harder. Faster. With no breaks.
His breathing turned ragged. His chest burned. His throat tightened and ached.
“Again,” he said, louder this time.
The word echoed in the empty gym.
He served. He hit. He did it again and again and again.
Because if he stopped—even for a second—he might not start again.
Because if he stopped, he might have to admit that something was wrong.
And if something was wrong—
No.
He snapped the shuttle into motion with a sharp flick. His movements grew frantic, less controlled. His vision blurred at the edges, sweat stinging his eyes, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t slow down.
Every missed shot felt like proof—like confirmation of his imperfections.
You’re falling behind. You’re losing it. Everyone will notice. Everyone will be disappointed.
His teammates’ faces flickered through his mind—not close, not really, but familiar. They joked with him when he succeeded. They relied on him to win, burdening him with expectations until it felt like he might be crushed by them. They liked him because he delivered—because he brought the team medals.
But when he didn’t—
His foot slipped.
Pain shot up his ankle—not sharp like before, but wrong. Unsteady. Enough to break his momentum. Enough to make him falter.
The shuttle dropped.
Time felt like it stopped.
Siwon stood there, racket hanging loosely in his hand, his chest heaving as his muscles trembled with strain.
For a moment, the smile disappeared. His expression went blank—empty in a way that felt more honest than anything else.
“I can’t…” he started.
Then stopped.
His grip tightened on the racket until his knuckles turned white.
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head as if he could force the thought out. “No—don’t start that.”
His voice sounded thin now. Frayed. Wrecked.
He let out a strained laugh, dragging a hand through his damp hair until his mask slipped back into place—something that resembled normal. Normal for him.
He bent to pick up the shuttle again, slower this time, careful not to let his weakness show.
Even though no one was there to see him—
Except—
His chest tightened for a different reason.
Woojoon flickered at the edge of his thoughts.
Uninvited.
(The way he’d looked at him—like there was something more. Like Siwon could be more. And yet… He hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t seen how lonely Siwon actually was. Hadn’t understood—only hurt him more.)
Siwon’s jaw clenched.
“That’s not how this works,” he muttered.
Not for him.
Everything he had—every part of himself—was tied to this court. To this racket. To this exhausting cycle of proving himself over and over just to feel something that resembled love and affection… That resembled worth.
And when that wasn’t enough—he had his body. Something he could give freely, if it meant not feeling so alone.
He swallowed hard.
“Focus,” he snapped.
The word echoed, sharper now.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders, resetting his stance. The smile returned—too bright, too sharp. Completely fake.
It didn’t reach his eyes, but it didn’t need to.
People only saw what they wanted to see.
So even as his hands trembled around the grip, even as his lungs felt too tight—like they were shrinking—even as something deep inside him whispered that he should stop…
He didn’t.
He tossed the shuttle into the air and swung.
He was Seo Siwon.
He couldn’t be anything less than perfect.
The theater was colder than Woojoon expected—just enough to seep into his bones, sharp and distracting. He briefly wondered if Sunbae felt it too, or if he was, as usual, completely unfazed by the cold.
Or maybe it wasn’t the temperature at all. Maybe it was the movie—the dim lighting, the stretched-out silences, the way everything felt just a little too still, too tense.
Woojoon shifted in his seat, folding his arms tighter across his chest as the screen flickered with grainy footage of—of course—an abandoned house. It was always an abandoned house. The kind where you knew something was wrong within the first ten seconds, but the characters kept wandering deeper inside anyway, completely oblivious to the fact that they were walking straight into the worst night of their lives.
He forced himself to look unfazed, even as he questioned why he’d chosen this movie in the first place. He hated horror—always had—but the other day, Siwon had lingered in front of a poster for this exact film, and Woojoon, the idiot that he was, had taken that as reason enough to suggest that they see it together.
Because even after everything, Siwon still had him wrapped around his finger. Only this time, Woojoon had told himself, he was trying to do better—trying to keep his assumptions in check and actually see the other man. Perceive him and get to know the real him.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible. “Why do they have to go in there? That place looks creepy.”
Next to him, Siwon let out a quiet laugh—nothing loud, just a soft, breathy sound that felt effortless, relaxed, like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
Woojoon glanced sideways. Siwon had leaned forward slightly, his elbow braced on the armrest—just an inch from Woojoon’s own—eyes fixed on the screen. There was a quiet spark in his gaze, sharp and attentive, as if he were fully absorbed in it. Woojoon found himself a little surprised by how into it he seemed.
Does Sunbae actually like scary movies?
He looked back at the screen just in time to see the camera linger too long on a dark hallway, the sound dropping into an uneasy silence.
A sign that something was going to—a figure flickered in the background.
Woojoon flinched, shoulders jerking as his grip tightened on the popcorn, some of it spilling into his lap and onto the seat.
Siwon noticed, a small giggle slipping out. “Woojoon-ah, are you scared?”
Woojoon straightened immediately, scoffing under his breath. “I-I’m not. I just wasn’t expecting that.”
(Siwon’s laugh sounded a little rough…)
“Mmhm,” Siwon hummed, unconvinced, though there was a hint of amusement in it. Like he was entertained by both the movie and Woojoon—which, to be fair, wasn’t unusual. Still, looking like a baby during a horror film hadn’t exactly been on Woojoon’s list of things he wanted to show Sunbae. Not that he could look much worse… At least, he hoped not.
Another scene built slowly on screen—footsteps echoing, a door creaking open inch by inch. Woojoon leaned forward despite himself, brows furrowing. This was fine. Totally fine. Predictable, even. He was prepared.
Then the door slammed shut with a violent bang.
Woojoon jolted again, knocking his elbow into the armrest and spilling even more popcorn—popcorn Siwon had barely touched, even though he was usually the one who had insisted on getting some. That was strange, but before Woojoon could comment on it, Siwon had chuckled again.
“Woojoon-ah, you’re getting more popcorn on yourself than in your mouth.”
“H-hey, that’s not fair… They’re using cheap jump scares. Not my fault.”
He hoped Siwon couldn’t see the flush creeping up his neck as he silently cursed horror movies for being, well, horrifying—and for making him look lame.
Siwon just laughed harder this time. It was warmer, fuller—and Woojoon found that he didn’t mind it at all.
Unlike that cold, cutting laugh Siwon had given him once—the one that had left him feeling small, embarrassed, and painfully aware of how shallow he and his feelings must have seemed—this felt… Different.
Better.
“If you say so. We can leave if you want.”
Woojoon shot him a look, but there was no real heat behind it.
This was good.
Going to the movies—even if it meant risking his dignity by watching horror films for this man—was going well.
Things were still a little awkward—how could they not be—but at least it felt like Siwon had given him a second chance. They weren’t dating. Not yet. But Siwon knew that Woojoon still wanted him like that, and Woojoon made it clear that this time, Siwon would be the one to decide. If he felt ready—if he felt like Woojoon was ready—he’d be the one to say it.
If that made Woojoon kind of an idiot… So be it.
Woojoon swallowed, eyes flicking back to the screen, though he had kept stealing glances at Siwon.
Siwon didn’t look back this time. His focus had stayed on the film, his expression intent—following the pacing, the tension threading through each scene. And once again, Woojoon was reminded of how quickly he had written him off before. Too simple. Too strange.
But now—seeing him like this, engaged, alive in a quiet way—Woojoon didn’t want to ruin it. He didn’t want to admit that he actually hated horror movies, not just that he was the type to startle easily.
He could handle being scared.
It was just a movie.
There was no pressure here. Right?
Woojoon shifted slightly, careful not to crowd him, even though there was enough space—just enough—to close the gap if he wanted to.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t make his arm move, even if he tried.
The movie dragged them deeper—whispers, shadows, things moving where they shouldn’t. Woojoon’s composure wore down little by little. Anticipating the scares somehow made them worse. Every creak had him tensing, every silence stretched too long.
At one point, a hand shot out from under a bed on screen—Woojoon sucked in a sharp breath and froze.
Beside him, Siwon let out a quiet sigh before leaning in, his breath warm—maybe a little too hot—against Woojoon’s ear.
“Let’s go.”
Woojoon blinked, thrown off—he’d thought Siwon was enjoying the movie. “The movie’s not over.”
“I’m… It’s getting a little boring. Let’s go get some ice cream before they close,” Siwon said, his voice a little rough around the edges as he was already pulling Woojoon to his feet. The sudden movement sent popcorn scattering everywhere.
“But, Sunbae—the popcorn?!”
“Throw it away.” Siwon led him out of the theater quickly, and if his hand felt a little too clammy—if his skin looked a little too pale—Woojoon didn’t notice over his own lingering nerves.
By the time Siwon had ordered two ice creams and handed one over—vanilla, of course—Woojoon could only focus on eating and listening as Siwon casually suggested they watch an action movie next time.
Next time.
The words caught him off guard.
Siwon never suggested things like that—movies, shopping, PC cafés—it was always Woojoon who brought them up first. So hearing it now made something in Woojoon soften, a small smile tugging at his lips as he took a bite—only to immediately groan at the sharp sting of a brain freeze.
Siwon let out a laugh, though this one ended in a small cough. As he raised his arm to cover his mouth, his ice cream dropped onto the street. His cone was now ice-cream-less.
“Oh, no,” he murmured.
Woojoon huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sunbae, don’t worry about it. You can have some of mine.”
“No, it’s fine. I got that for you. You eat it,” Siwon said, quickly scooping up what he could with a few napkins before tossing them into a nearby trash can.
Under the streetlights, Woojoon hesitated.
For a second, he had thought he might be imagining it—but Siwon looked a little paler than usual.
Before he could say anything, Siwon spoke first.
“I want to wash my hands… Take me home?”
Woojoon nodded quietly.
Siwon woke up halfway gone, his thoughts a whirl as he hovered between sleep and wakefulness. His body felt heavy and achy, like one large bruise. His right knee and ankle throbbed uncomfortably, as if that’s where the pain had settled deepest.
The sunlight spilling into his room was too bright—unpleasant, bordering on painful, with pressure building behind his sinuses. The ceiling above him refused to come into focus; it wavered when he blinked, its edges soft and shifting as if he were underwater, even though he knew he was in his own bed.
He swallowed and immediately regretted it. His throat felt raw, like he’d swallowed glass.
“Ah… No.”
The sound of his own voice made him pause. It was rough, wrong—completely unlike himself. He was sure his teammates would have grimaced at it before telling him to get it together. He’d already cost them enough with his right leg injuries.
His temperature swung between hot and cold, the sensations warring beneath his skin. He was shivering despite the fever burning through him—probably over thirty-nine degrees, which he knew was bad, especially since he’d never felt this sick before. Still, his fever-clouded brain insisted he could push through it.
He dragged an arm over his face, absently calculating how long recovery might take.
Three days, if he was lucky. Two, if he actually took care of himself and forced a doctor’s visit.
But he was done with doctors.
So he figured he’d hole himself up in his apartment until the fever broke, until he could breathe again without it feeling like he was inhaling nails.
He pushed himself up, much slower than usual. His muscles resisted, as if they were pushing back instead of obeying. The room tilted the moment he sat upright. He froze, fingers tightening in the sheets until the dizziness eased—just enough for him to think.
“Ugh.” He let out a low groan.
His body felt like it didn’t quite belong to him.
He glanced at his phone on the bedside table, wondering if there were any notifications. There probably were—one from his coach, one from the team’s media manager, maybe even one from Woojoon.
That last thought made him wince. He didn’t want Woojoon seeing him like this anyway.
While an intrusive thought cuts through him like a bullet: Would he even care?
He was used to dealing with injuries and sickness alone. Used to people not caring—or worse, caring only when it was convenient. Used to frustration, to anger, to being left behind when he was no longer useful.
He pushed himself to his feet, a spike of nervous, anxious energy forcing him upright.
Bad decision.
The floor shifted under him. He staggered into the wall, catching himself before he collapsed. He breathed slowly through his nose until the dizziness dulled into something manageable.
Then, carefully, he made his way to his kitchen.
He was suddenly grateful his apartment was small—stripped down to the bare essentials, nothing to trip over, nothing to distract him, nothing to make him think more than he wanted to.
Still, he could feel tears prick at his eyes, because being this sick made him emotional. He forced them back.
He didn’t want to cry. He wouldn’t.
He grabbed a mug, filled it with water, and forced himself to drink, one hand braced against the sink. He drank too fast; some of it slipped past his mouth and trailed down his neck, soaking into his shirt. The cold felt good against his throat, but the water on his skin made him shiver harder.
It was freezing. All he wanted was to crawl back into bed, bury himself under the blankets, and sleep it off.
But he kept drinking. He had to. Even if he couldn’t eat—couldn’t even think about food—he knew he needed water. It gave him just enough strength to carry the mug back to his bed and set it down within reach. His hands still shook, water still splashed over the sides of the cup, but at least it would be there for later.
He collapsed back onto the bed with an agonized groan, his body flaring with pain. Every inch of him ached, one solid mass of soreness, while the stretch from his knee to his ankle felt tight and wrong. Because of course it did.
“Just a couple of days,” he murmured hoarsely. “I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
Then time blurred.
Sleep came in fragments—never deep enough to hold him, never long enough to leave him rested. When he woke, the room felt unfamiliar, distant. It made him feel cold. Alone. It made his thoughts drift toward places he didn’t want them to go.
At one point, he woke with tears already on his face, aching for something more than what was there. His heart ached for something he didn’t want to name, in fear that it would make things hurt more.
Eventually, he reached for his phone. Messages waited for him—his coach, his teammates, the media manager. People who only seemed to care when he was playing badminton for them.
When he was winning for them.
His worth tied to his accomplishments instead of anything inherent, as if he only existed properly when he was useful.
He ignored them.
Instead, he opened his chat with Woojoon and typed something out. When he was done, he just stared at the message, thumb hovering over send. He wondered if it would be enough to make Woojoon come. But the thought of sending it—of being ignored or, worse, acknowledged with no intention to visit, like everyone else—felt worse than a punch to the gut.
So he deleted the message—every word of it—before sliding the phone under his pillow.
Just a few more days, and he should be back to the happy-go-lucky Siwon everyone knew, able to pretend that this had never happened.
Woojoon checked his phone again, even though he already knew he wouldn’t see anything new. His messages sat there unanswered, the timestamps stretching farther apart, turning a small chunk of time into something much harder to ignore. He let the screen dim in his hand; the phone locked as it went black, only for him to unlock it again—almost as if the outcome would change if he caught it at just the right moment. Except there was nothing.
No stickers. No memes. No random thoughts about what Siwon saw or did that day—things Woojoon had found more and more charming the longer he had gotten to know his Sunbae. So to see nothing but his own sent messages for days had started to worry him.
Like what if this was Siwon ghosting him again? What if Siwon had decided he wasn’t worth it—again? The other man had done it before, even if it had taken Woojoon a few days—and a sickness of his own—to realize he had treated their relationship as something shallow because of his misconceptions.
But Woojoon had thought they were getting along again—well enough to exchange daily texts, go on movie “dates,” and… Hook up again.
Woojoon regretted the last one a bit. They had both gotten absolutely sloshed and woken up naked in Siwon’s bed. Unlike the other times, when Siwon had seemed refreshed, happy, even eager to go again, this time he had only given Woojoon a strange look—something unreadable—before pushing him out. The only thing that had held Woojoon together was Siwon texting him later as if nothing had happened.
Woojoon quietly fell back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. After a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to figure out what could have caused this—only for the memory of their time together a few days ago to resurface.
The two of them outside the ice cream stand, the still winter air cool enough to make the dessert feel like too much. Woojoon getting a brain freeze after one lick, while Siwon had been unable to touch his before he accidentally dropped it onto the ground, his attention drifting somewhere else.
Woojoon had noticed Siwon was a little off—of course he had—but he had brushed it aside because Siwon never seemed to get sick. At least, Woojoon couldn’t remember it. He came to school when needed, and if he missed anything, it was always because of tournaments, never illness.
But that night, Siwon’s complexion had looked different—a little too pale under the streetlights. There had been a heaviness in the way he stood, as if holding himself upright took more effort than usual. Even his small movements—leaning down to clean up the mess, shifting his weight while crouching, walking to the trash can—had seemed slower, less certain.
And his eyes… Not exactly clouded, but hazy, like he was pushing through something quietly.
But Woojoon had shrugged it off because he hadn’t wanted to ruin the night. Almost as if saying something would have made Siwon leave him there. So instead, he had offered his ice cream, only for Siwon to tell him that it was already his because he had bought it for him.
He opened his eyes again, his jaw tightening at how stupid he had been. If Siwon had been acting like nothing was wrong despite clearly not feeling well, then he probably wouldn’t say anything now either. The idea of Siwon dealing with an illness alone in that small apartment made Woojoon uneasy. Because unlike Woojoon, who could call family for help if he needed it, Siwon didn’t seem to have that.
With his mind made up, Woojoon pushed himself out of bed and grabbed a jacket.
He was going, and there was no point waiting for a reply that clearly wasn’t coming.
Slipping his phone into his pocket, he quietly left his apartment, pulling the door shut behind him.
The air outside was cool and sharp against his skin, but it helped clear his head. As he thought back to Siwon’s bare studio apartment and how it seemed like no one else knew about it, Woojoon slowly realized he might be the only one who could show up like this for him.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and picked up his pace, the rhythm of his steps filling the quiet night as unease settled deeper in his chest.
Siwon, standing there with his ice cream-less cone, barely holding himself together.
Siwon, not answering his phone even when Woojoon texted him multiple times a day.
Woojoon exhaled through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. Waiting was definitely not an option this time.
Siwon had long since stopped expecting anyone to show up for him—stopped believing that there would be someone there when he felt like this. It had been years since anyone had taken care of him through something as simple as a cold or the flu. The expectation was that he would handle his sickness alone, just as he always had.
Ice chips and water were all he could manage. The cold shower he’d taken the day before had only made things worse—he’d been too exhausted to dry himself off, let alone blow-dry his hair. And the blanket he had was too thin to keep the chill away. Still, he didn’t complain. He endured it the only way he knew how—sleeping when he could, attempting to eat and failing, and drinking just enough water to stay somewhat hydrated.
Even when he had finally gotten around to telling his coach that he was sick and couldn’t go to practice, Siwon had felt his eyes sting when the older man replied: Fine, but double the practice when you get back.
No how are you doing? No hope you feel better. No take care of yourself.
Just double the practice—because practice, games, and winning were the only things his coach had cared about. It was something Siwon had gotten used to long ago, but it still hurt to see that lack of care. On nights like this, he couldn’t help but feel like he was never enough. He could win gold at the Olympics, and his coach would already be preparing him for the next one—as if nothing he did would ever be enough.
Pressing his palms into his eyes, Siwon focused on his breathing, riding out the ache in his chest until it finally began to ease. Just as his emotions settled, the sound of his apartment door opening caught him off guard. He wasn’t prepared to see Woojoon step inside, two bags in hand—one unmistakably from a pharmacy.
Confusion flickered across his face, but not wanting to worry him, Siwon forced a small smile. His voice came out ragged. “Woojoon-ah… Why are you here?”
The harshness of it made Woojoon pause, quietly taking him in before answering, “I wanted to see you, Sunbae.”
A flush spread across Siwon’s cheeks—the faint pink standing out against the pallor of his skin. “Why? How did you know to come here?” His head tilted in confusion.
Woojoon, who had quickly slipped off his shoes, moved toward the counter between the small refrigerator and the sink, his shoulders tensing. “You… You seemed sick the other day… I-I’m sorry I didn’t say anything then.”
The wall Siwon had built, brick by brick, began to crack at those words.
And when Woojoon started pulling things out—cold medicine, fever reducers, throat lozenges, and a container of what looked like dakjuk—Siwon didn’t know what to do. He pushed himself upright to get a better look, only to immediately regret it when the room had tilted and his vision blurred. His stomach twisted, caught somewhere between disbelief and unease.
For years, sickness had been something he endured alone. Quietly. Efficiently. A glass of water here and there. A meal, if he remembered. Pills taken with shaking hands—or no pills at all. And sleep that never really helped. No one had ever shown up. No one had ever cared.
And yet… Woojoon—the one who had hurt him weeks ago—was here. In his kitchen, with medicine and food.
He couldn’t do this.
A short breath left him, almost a laugh, the sound breaking halfway through. He wiped at his face and forced another smile, though it looked more like a wince.
“You didn’t need to come,” Siwon said. “I was going to be fine in a few days.”
Despite being younger, Woojoon turned to him with a look that made those words feel almost childish.
Siwon exhaled, exhaustion settling deeper than the fever. “Never mind.”
Woojoon quickly brought over the bowl along with a couple of pills. “Here, Sunbae. These should help with the fever. Just eat a few bites, take these, and I’ll put the rest of the dakjuk in the refrigerator for later.”
Siwon reached out slowly, taking both, though neither looked particularly appetizing. He needed a moment to process everything, because this was… Unreal.
Woojoon was here, taking care of him—and despite the confusion, a small warmth had begun to bloom in his chest. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
“You know,” Woojoon said quietly, “it sucks to be alone when you’re sick.”
Siwon’s heart stilled at that.
For so long, he had been the only one to witness this version of himself—the sick version, the exhausted version, the one no one ever took care of because there had never been anyone to ask.
“That’s true,” Siwon murmured.
He swallowed the pills with a sip of water from the glass beside his bed, then forced himself to take a bite of the dakjuk. One bite became two, then three—and before either of them realized, he’d eaten nearly half the container.
Not long after, a heavier wave of exhaustion pulled at him, making him feel sleepy once again.
He wondered if Woojoon would leave now, would have him continue to deal with his illness alone since he had gotten some food and medicine in him.
Instead, Woojoon took the bowl and mug, moving quickly to the kitchen to wrap up the remaining food and place it in the fridge before refilling the mug with water. Siwon watched him quietly, and as he did, the confusion and unease slowly gave way to something steadier—something that almost felt like… He didn’t have the word, but it was something a little more positive.
“You’re going to stay?” Siwon asked, his voice softer now.
Woojoon returned with water. “I’d like to. At least for a little while.”
Unable to deal with it, Siwon pulled the covers over himself and laid back in bed, his lip trembling.
Really? You’re actually going to stay? With me?
It took him a moment to find his voice.
“Okay.”
When Woojoon realized Siwon drifted to sleep, he stayed still for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall beneath the blanket. Then, quietly, he lowered himself to the floor beside the bed, settling on his side so he could see him—just the faint outline of his face, half-hidden, softer like this than he had ever allowed himself to be when he was awake.
That quiet “Okay” lingered in his ears.
It hadn’t sounded like Siwon at all. It was small, unsteady—like it had taken more out of him than it should have.
Woojoon exhaled slowly, his gaze softening.
That was when he had noticed it—the way Siwon had curled in slightly, the tension in his shoulders, the slight shivering, even in sleep. The blanket didn’t look like it was enough.
He hesitated, then pushed himself up and slipped off his jacket. For a brief second, he had just stood there, unsure—before carefully draping it over Siwon, layering it over the thin blanket. He adjusted it gently, pulling it higher so that it covered his shoulders properly, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric.
Siwon didn’t wake.
But his breathing shifted—just slightly, like his body had registered the warmth.
Woojoon stilled at that, something quiet settling in his chest before he had pulled his hand back.
He sat down again beside the bed.
And then he finally noticed it.
The apartment.
It wasn’t minimal—not intentionally. It was… Empty.
No photos. No clutter. No small, pointless things people collected without thinking. No proof that someone actually lived there beyond necessity.
Woojoon’s gaze moved slowly across the room, then back to Siwon.
Loneliness didn’t just follow him—it settled into the walls, into the corners, into the quiet spaces between objects. It completely filled the space around him.
Siwon had given him the door code. Told him to come over whenever he had wanted.
At the time, Woojoon had brushed it off—had thought it to be weird and unsafe… Had treated it as if Siwon was being careless and that he should be more careful about those things. While the code was just a code, it hadn’t meant anything special beyond the possibility of Siwon wanting him to come over to hook up.
But now… Now it felt painfully obvious.
It had meant a lot more than what Woojoon had thought the gesture to be… What he had originally given it.
Siwon had been asking, in the only way that he knew how, for someone to come over and make his space feel less suffocatingly lonely… And Woojoon hadn’t seen it.
A quiet groan slipped out of him as he rolled onto his back, then onto his side again, hands dragging through his hair, gripping at it like he could physically shake the realization loose.
“Idiot…” he muttered. “Stupid idiot.”
He’d been so sure of himself. So convinced that he had understood Siwon—he was simple, careless, shallow, and horny as hell… He’d repeated it enough times that it had become a truth in his head. A shortcut. An excuse to not look any deeper. The mantra colored so many of his interactions with Siwon that Woojoon couldn’t help but want to kick himself.
He’d been wrong.
Siwon wasn’t simple. He just made it easy for people to think he was.
The realization sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and unshakable. It made something twist within him—something sharper than guilt, heavier than embarassment. It felt a little bit like responsibility. Like he needed to do better. Not just say it or think it, but to show Siwon that he and his feelings for him were serious.
Coming here—staying with him—this was defintely something. But it wasn’t enough, it was just the start.
Woojoon exhaled slowly, the tension in his body finally starting to loosen as exhaustion crept in, slow and steady. The quiet of the room settled around him, no longer as suffocating—grounded now by the soft, even rhythm of Siwon’s breathing.
He yawned, the sound small, almost swallowed by the silence.
Without really thinking, he shifted closer, resting his head against the side of the mattress, his arms tucked beneath it for support. Close enough to feel the faint warmth from the bed. Close enough to hear Siwon softly breathe, occasionally whistle.
Cute, he thought, even if he knew that was due to Siwon being sick.
Woojoon closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Before he knew it, Woojoon had fallen asleep on the floor beside the bed—close enough that if Siwon reached out, he would have been right there.
Siwon wouldn’t be alone.
Not anymore.
Siwon woke slowly, like he was breaking though a heavy fog.
For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was. Sleep still clung to him, heavy behind his eyes—but it wasn’t the same fevered exhaustion from before. His body ached faintly, but it no longer felt shattered. No longer hollowed out.
He blinked.
His bedroom came into focus in pieces: the muted light filtering through the curtains, the familiar walls, the blanket—no, jacket—pulled up over him. The faint scent of medicine still lingered in the air.
And then—Woojoon.
Siwon stilled.
Woojoon was right there, slumped against the side of the bed, fast asleep on the floor. His arms were folded on the mattress, his head resting on them, like he had meant to stay for just a moment and never made it any further.
Siwon stared.
For a long moment, he didn’t move at all.
His first instinct was to not make this a big deal—to tell himself that this was nothing. That it was someone just checking in, even though no one had checked on him before… Had cared to do such a thing.
But the glass of water on the floor wasn’t where he had left it. The medicine beside it wasn’t his but the stuff that Woojoon had brought over. While the jacket that was placed on top of his blanket was obviously Woojoon’s, almost as if Woojoon did that because he had thought that he would be cold…
And Woojoon—Woojoon had stayed. He stayed with him.
Siwon shifted slightly, bracing for the familiar weight in his head. It didn’t come.
There was only a dull soreness in his throat, the faint remnants of something that had already passed. The fever was gone. His body felt… Steady.
He swallowed, almost cautiously.
Better.
He actually felt better.
Siwon pushed himself up slowly, careful not to make too much noise. The blanket slipped from his shoulders as he sat up, his gaze drifting back to Woojoon. For a moment, he had expected him to stir, to wake up and turn this into something easier to define.
But Woojoon didn’t move.
He just slept, breathing slow and even, still leaning against the bed like staying close had mattered more than being comfortable.
Siwon hesitated.
Then, carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, making sure not to brush against the other man. He stood there for a second, looking down—taking in the awkward angle, the way Woojoon had chosen the floor without hesitation. Something in his chest tightened, quiet and unfamiliar.
Siwon turned away first.
He moved through small, normal motions—pouring himself a bit of water, eating the rest of the dakjuk, grounding himself in a more familiar routine. But even that had felt different now. Off-balance in a way that he couldn’t quite name.
When he turned back, Woojoon was still there. Still asleep. Still close.
Siwon lingered at the edge of the bed.
He looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, he picked up the jacket to wrap it around Woojoon’s shoulders, only to give the sleeping man a small, honest smile when Woojoon grabbed the jacket and cuddled into it. Once he realized Woojoon wasn’t going to wake, he quietly moved back to his bed and lay down on the mattress so that his body curled itself around the other man. Just close enough that when Woojoon woke up, he’d see that Siwon was there… That Siwon was willing to get closer and to trust him again.
Before falling back to sleep, he grabbed one of Woojoon’s hands to keep it within his grip.
Hours later, Woojoon woke to find Siwon still asleep a couple of inches away, his right hand wrapped around Woojoon’s.
Woojoon gently drew their hands closer to his face and pressed a soft kiss to Siwon’s knuckles.
His face turned tomato red as soon as he realized what he had just done.
Ahh, I really, really like you, Sunbae.