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It’s been six months.
Six months since he woke up in that sterile hospital bed to fluorescent lights that hurt his eyes and the crushing realization of just how much he had missed. The first few weeks were the worst—time felt like a cruel thief that had sprinted ahead without him, leaving him stranded in a world that had kept spinning while he lay unconscious.
Every missed conversation, every changed dynamic, every small evolution in the people he cared about felt like a personal theft. He still tastes that bitterness sometimes, when he catches himself struggling to keep up with references he doesn’t understand or inside jokes that formed while he was gone.
But six months also meant something else.
It meant recovery, even if it crawled forward at a frustrating pace punctuated by setbacks that made him want to punch walls he was still too weak to dent. It meant swallowing his pride in physical therapy sessions where simple tasks felt monumental. It meant quiet mornings with his grandmother, whose weathered hands would shake as she served him tea, and who had cried—really cried—when she told him she’d accepted the money from Assemblyman Oh.
Suho had felt a hot tangle of shame and relief bloom in his chest at her confession. Shameful, soft relief that settled like a weight lifted from shoulders he hadn’t realized were hunched. The money meant time—precious, unhurried time to heal, to exist without the constant pressure of survival scratching at the back of his mind.
And in that strange, suspended time, something unexpected happened.
He started spending more time with Sieun. That part wasn’t surprising—Sieun had always been a constant, gravitating toward Suho with the same quiet persistence as moonlight. But through Sieun, he began seeing more of the others: Juntae with his thoughtful observations, Baku with his theatrical complaints, Gotak with his gruff loyalty that he wore like armor.
At first, Suho had maintained a careful distance. He would observe from the sidelines, cataloging their dynamics while the ghost of Beomseok’s betrayal still haunted every interaction. The wounds were too fresh, the memory of trust shattered too vivid. He was reluctant to let anyone else slip past his defenses so soon after they’d been destroyed.
But Sieun had called them friends, with a rare softness in his voice, and eventually Suho had to admit they were alright.
“They’re our friends,” Sieun had corrected once, when Suho referred to them as “your guys” with too much detachment.
Suho hadn’t argued. He was never one to deny Sieun anything, especially not something that seemed to matter to him.
So now he joins them routinely. Mostly for meals where the conversation flows easier than he expected. Sometimes at the basketball court, where he sits on worn bleachers and watches their easy camaraderie with something that might be envy. On good days, when his body cooperates and the ache in his bones dulls to manageable, he even joins in—just for brief moments that make him feel like he’s still part of something living and real.
Tonight finds them crowded around a hot pot table, steam rising between their faces like incense. The autumn air outside carries the sharp bite of approaching winter, the kind of cold that chased them from the billiards hall into this cramped, warm restaurant with its mismatched chairs and the persistent sizzle of broth.
The atmosphere is thick with the smell of cooking meat and the comfortable chaos of friends who’ve grown used to each other’s rhythms. Gotak and Baku are locked in their debate over which cut of meat reigns supreme—an argument that has somehow survived their last three gatherings.
Suho tosses his opinion into the mix purely to watch them sputter.
“You’re both wrong,” he says, reaching across the table with his chopsticks choosing at random just to mess with the guys. “This ones clearly the best. And if I don’t fight for it, you two are going to devour everything before Sieun even gets a bite.”
“Hey!” Gotak protests, pointing his chopsticks accusingly. “We always save some—”
“For Sieun? Not for you?” Baku interrupts around a mouthful of food, grinning with the satisfaction of someone who’s found an opening.
Suho rolls his eyes with practiced exasperation and transfers the piece of meat to Sieun’s plate. Sieun sits beside him, close enough that Suho can feel the warmth radiating from his shoulder, close enough to notice things the others might miss.
And Sieun isn’t eating much. He’s stirring his bowl in slow, absent circles, watching the steam curl upward with that distant expression that makes Suho’s stomach clench with familiar worry. It’s a look he’s learned to recognize—bone-deep exhaustion wearing the mask of contemplation.
He doesn’t say anything. He never does, not unless Sieun opens that door first.
They’ve developed this unspoken understanding over the months, a careful dance of offering and accepting help only when explicitly invited.
The noise at their table escalates as Gotak smacks Baku’s chopsticks away from a particularly choice piece of meat. Baku gasps with theatrical betrayal, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded, while Juntae snorts into his tea in amusement.
Suho’s about to nudge Sieun back into the moment when he catches something else—Juntae’s voice, pitched low and careful, meant for Sieun’s ears alone.
“Still having trouble sleeping?”
Sieun’s response is a slow nod. “Sometimes.”
“The magnesium isn’t helping anymore?”
Sieun leans closer to Juntae, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I sleep okay. It’s the nightmares that are back. Can we talk about this later?”
The words hit Suho like ice water. He keeps his eyes fixed on his bowl, forces his expression to remain neutral, but every nerve in his body suddenly feels electrified. His chopsticks pause halfway to his mouth as he strains to hear more.
“Why don’t you tell Suho?” Juntae asks, gentle but insistent in the way that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s posed this question.
A pause stretches between them, filled with the ambient noise of the restaurant and the weight of unspoken things.
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” Sieun responds, his voice so quiet and raw that
Suho has to resist the urge to turn and look at him directly.
Suho’s fingers tighten around his chopsticks until his knuckles go white. He forces himself to focus on the rest of the table, on Baku’s animated recounting of some school incident and Gotak’s skeptical interjections. But everything else fades to background noise beneath that single murmured confession.
I don’t want to bother him.
The words are lodged in his chest. He doesn’t know what hurts more—that Sieun would consider his struggles a burden, or that they’ve apparently learned nothing from their history of keeping secrets from each other. How many times does the same pattern have to repeat before they understand that hiding only makes everything worse?
He glances sideways. Sieun has returned to eating, mechanically placing pieces of meat in his mouth with more focus than the task requires. There’s a careful normalcy to his movements that speaks of practiced concealment.
Suho looks down at his own bowl, steam blurring his vision, and makes a quiet promise to himself.
If Sieun won’t ask for help, then Suho will find another way to give it. He’s learned patience in his recovery, learned to read the spaces between words. If nightmares are stealing Sieun’s rest, then Suho will find a way to stand guard against them—whether Sieun knows it or not.
~
It's always a bit of a hassle getting everyone home—mostly they scatter in the same general direction, a loose constellation of friends navigating the maze of subway lines and bus routes. But Suho always finds himself ensuring Sieun makes it to his front door safe and sound.
For his own peace of mind, really. Though Sieun has insisted, with that particular brand of stubbornness , that it really isn't necessary for Suho to walk him all the way home. Oh well, he can be stubborn too.
They stumble out onto the street in a huddle of movement and muffled conversation, everyone hastily zipping up sweaters against the chill. The fluorescent glow from the convenience store across the street casts everything in harsh angles—Juntae's tired smile,Gotak's hunched shoulders, the way Baku's breath forms small clouds as he chatters excitedly about tomorrow's plans.
Suho reaches into his jacket pocket for the extra pair of gloves he's taken to carrying—soft wool ones he secretly bought after noticing Sieun's hands turn red during their walks. Without ceremony, he tugs at Sieun's sleeve, pulling him closer with gentle insistence.
"Hold still," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the distant traffic. Sieun stands perfectly motionless as Suho works the gloves over his slender fingers, his compliance so automatic it makes something twist painfully in Suho's ribcage. There's something almost fragile about the way Sieun yields to this small act of care—as if he's forgotten how to expect kindness without question.
When Suho finishes, he allows himself one indulgent moment to smooth down the wool at Sieun's wrists, his thumb tracing the delicate bone there. Sieun's pulse flutters beneath the thin skin, rabbit-quick and warm.
"Thanks," Sieun says quietly, the word barely more than breath in the cold air. Before Suho can respond, Baku's arm swings around Sieun's shoulders, pulling him into the orbit of his boundless energy and easy laughter.
Suho watches from a few steps behind, taking note of the subtle changes in Sieun's posture. He's not exactly smiling but there's a looseness to his shoulders that wasn't there an hour ago. The rigid set of his spine has softened just enough to suggest he's not entirely lost in whatever dark corners of his mind he retreats to occasionally.
It's enough. For now, it has to be enough.
But Suho's relief is hardened by the conversation he overheard earlier, Juntae's worried whisper about Sieun "not sleeping again." The words have been circling in his mind like vultures, picking at his composure with persistent talons.
He turns to find Juntae lagging behind the group, still struggling with his jacket zipper in the cold. They fall into step together, their footsteps echoing off the narrow alley walls as the distance between them and the others grows.
"Hey," Suho starts, aiming for casual and probably missing that by a lot. His voice carries that particular quality it gets when he's trying too hard—slightly too measured, slightly too careful. He's grown fond of Juntae over these past months, and has come to appreciate his steady presence in Sieun's life. Of all Sieun's newer friends, Juntae is the least... complicated. The most genuine. Though Suho supposes he's hardly one to judge anyone else's complications. "Can I ask you something?"
Juntae's step falters slightly, and when he looks at Suho, there's a wariness in his expression that speaks to hard-earned wisdom about the weight of certain questions.
"About Sieun?" he asks, because of course he knows. They all orbit around Sieun these days, drawn by gravity they don't fully understand.
Suho nods, keeping his voice low enough that it won't carry to their friends ahead of them. "What did you mean earlier? About Sieun not sleeping."
Juntae exhales as he rubs the back of his neck "You heard that?"
There's resignation in his voice, the sound of someone who's been carrying a secret that feels too heavy. "It's just... he used to get really bad nightmares. After everything that happened. They got better for a while, but I guess they're back."
The words hit Suho like a physical blow, settling somewhere between his lungs and making it hard to breathe. He finds himself studying Sieun's silhouette up ahead—the careful way he holds his shoulders, the measured pace of his steps. How had he missed it? How had he been so focused on his own recovery that he'd failed to notice Sieun was drowning quietly beside him?
"What kind of nightmares?" The question comes out rougher than intended, and Suho clears his throat, stealing glances at Sieun's profile illuminated by passing streetlights.
"He never says," Juntae admits, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "He's texted me once or twice when he couldn't sleep, usually around three or four in the morning. But I think it happens more often than he wants to let on. You know how he is—he'd rather handle everything alone than worry anyone else."
Yes, Suho thinks with a familiar ache, I know exactly how he is.
It warms something in Suho's chest to know that Sieun has people who care about him, who notice when he's struggling. After everything they have been through, seeing him surrounded by genuine friendship feels like a small miracle.
But alongside that warmth comes something uglier—a possessive twist of jealousy that he tries unsuccessfully to bury. He wants to be the most important person in Sieun's life. The first one Sieun turns to when the darkness gets too heavy. The one whose presence can chase away whatever demons visit him in the small hours of the morning.
Selfish, he chides himself, but the want remains, stubborn and undeniable.
"He shouldn't have to deal with this alone," Suho says finally, shaking his head slowly. Then, because his therapist has been drilling into him the importance of vulnerability and honesty: "I'm glad he's had such a good friend in you. Especially when I couldn't be there for him."
The admission tastes bitter, weighted with months of guilt and regret. All those weeks in the hospital, all those days of recovery when Sieun was fighting his own battles while Suho lay unconscious, blissfully unaware of how much damage they'd all sustained.
"Oh, don't—" Juntae starts, flustered by the gratitude. "I don't know how helpful I've been, honestly. I keep trying to convince him to tell you, or the others. I'm sure we could all help somehow."
Suho throws an arm around Juntae's shoulders—a gesture that would have been impossible months ago, when touching anyone felt like sandpaper against his skin. Therapy has been slowly teaching him how to exist in his body again, how to offer and accept comfort without flinching. He's not the same person he was before everything went wrong. But he’s finding out its not all so bad.
"For what it's worth," Juntae continues quietly, "I think he wants to tell you. He just... worries about adding to your recovery stress. He's terrified of being another burden when you're still healing."
The words lodge somewhere in Suho's throat, sharp and immediate. Of course Sieun would think that way—would rather suffer in silence than risk derailing someone else's progress. It's so fundamentally, heartbreakingly him that Suho has to blink back the sudden sting in his eyes.
"Thanks for telling me," he manages, voice carefully steady. "I won't mention it to Sieun that we talked about this."
Their conversation is interrupted by Baku's voice carrying back to them, loud and theatrical in the way that makes elderly neighbors peek through their curtains.
"Yah! Some of us don't want to freeze to death waiting for you slowpokes!"
Suho grins despite the weight of everything they've just discussed. "Yeah, yeah! Some of us don't have the same stamina we used to!"
The joke lands exactly wrong. Baku stutters and laughs, but Sieun stops dead in his tracks, turning to level a glare at Suho that could cut glass. Even in the dim streetlight, Suho can see the way his jaw tightens, the familiar storm clouds gathering in his expression.
"That's not funny," Sieun says, and his voice carries that particular edge it gets when he's genuinely upset. He moves to Suho's other side, positioning himself between Suho and Juntae like a protective barrier. "Are you in pain? Don't lie to me."
The concern in his voice—raw and immediate and so achingly familiar—makes Suho's chest constrict. Even exhausted and haunted by nightmares, Sieun's first instinct is still to worry about everyone else's wellbeing before his own.
"Sieun-ah, it was just a joke," Suho says softly, reaching out to touch Sieun's elbow in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture.
Sieun looks between them, his gaze sharp and assessing. When he catches Juntae's eye, Juntae nods enthusiastically and jumps in with, "Come on, let's go. It's getting late, and some of us have curfews."
Sieun complains under his breath about people not taking their health seriously, but he stays close to Suho for the rest of the walk to the train station. Close enough that their shoulders brush with every few steps, close enough that Suho can smell the faint scent of his shampoo and feel the warmth radiating from his small frame.
By the time they part ways, Suho has already begun formulating his plan. If Sieun won't ask for help—if he's determined to shoulder this burden alone rather than risk becoming an inconvenience—then Suho will simply have to help without being asked.
~
The apartment is quiet when Suho finally makes it home, filled with the particular stillness that only comes after midnight. His grandmother's door is closed, and he can hear the soft rhythm of her breathing through the thin walls—a sound that's become unexpectedly comforting during his recovery, proof that he's not alone in trapped in his own body again.
He moves through the familiar routine, glass of water from the kitchen, half of it gone in desperate gulps, then settling onto the couch with his phone already in hand. The blue light illuminates his face as he opens browser after browser, diving into research as best he can.
Natural sleep remedies
Sleep hygiene for PTSD
How to stop nightmares without medication
Creating safe sleep environments
He bookmarks everything that seems remotely promising, creating a digital arsenal of potential solutions. Lavender sleep sprays and weighted blankets, white noise machines and chamomile tea. The importance of routine, of feeling safe and grounded before sleep. Tips for partners and friends of trauma survivors—how to help without overstepping, how to provide comfort without making someone feel broken or pitied.
The irony isn't lost on him that he's researching trauma recovery while sitting in the dark at two in the morning, his own sleep schedule still a casualty of everything they've been through. He thinks about the shadows under Sieun's eyes, the careful way he's been moving through the world lately, like he's afraid of what might be waiting for him in moments of vulnerability.
He opens a new document and begins typing, organizing his findings into something coherent. If Sieun won't talk about what he's experiencing, then Suho will listen in every other way he knows how.
The next few days pass in careful preparation. The weighted blanket arrives first—soft grey cotton that's heavy enough to provide pressure without feeling restrictive. The lavender sleep spray comes next, along with a small essential oil diffuser his grandmother eyed with amused suspicion.
"Planning to become a spa?" she asks, watching him dump all the packages onto the floor of his room.
"Something like that," he admits, because there's no point in hiding his intentions from her. She's always been able to read him too easily, has probably known about his feelings for Sieun since before he fully understood them himself.
Her smile is knowing but gentle. "That boy has been looking tired lately," she observes, and when Suho glances at her sharply, she adds, "I worry about him too, you know. He's too thin, and those dark circles under his eyes... When will you ask him to come over?"
It's Friday afternoon when Suho finally works up the courage to extend the invitation. He's been staring at his phone for the better part of an hour, typing and deleting messages with increasingly desperate creativity.
Want to come over and study? —Too suspicious. Sieun would immediately assume he'd been kidnapped and replaced with someone who voluntarily suggests academic activities.
I'm bored and I miss you, come over—Absolutely true, and embarrassingly honest enough that it wouldn't be entirely out of character. But he's not sure it would be compelling enough to actually get Sieun to his apartment.
He settles for something in between, typing quickly before he can lose his nerve:
Suho: Hey, want to hang out at my place tonight? We can order food and watch a movie.
The response comes faster than expected, almost like Sieun has been waiting by his phone:
Sieun♡: Sure, what time?
Suho: Is 7 good for you?
Sieun♡: I'll be there.
Suho stares at the screen, a mixture of relief and nervous energy flooding his system. He has less than four hours to transform his disaster of a room into something that doesn't look like a hurricane of good intentions and wayward packages.
The cleaning becomes a meditation of sorts—folding clothes and clearing surfaces, making space for comfort and conversation. He arranges the weighted blanket casually at the foot of his bed, sets the diffuser on his nightstand like it's always been there. The lavender spray gets tucked into his desk drawer, within easy reach but not obviously placed.
His grandmother appears in his doorway an hour before Sieun is due to arrive, taking in his frantic tidying with raised eyebrows.
"Sieun is coming over," he explains, slightly breathless from moving furniture around.
Her expression softens into something that looks suspiciously like pride. "I'll make some of that chamomile tea," she says, and the casual way she says it—like it's the most natural thing in the world to prepare remedies for nightmares she's never been told about—makes Suho's throat tight with gratitude.
"Thank you," he manages, and means it for so much more than just the tea.
~
The knock comes at exactly 7 pm, because punctuality is one of both Sieun’s endearing and slightly annoying qualities.
When he opens the door, Sieun is standing there in his oversized black sweater and dark jeans, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. There’s something almost hesitant in his expression—like he’s not entirely sure why he agreed to come but is glad he did anyway.
“Hey,” Sieun says softly, and just that single word in his quiet voice makes Suho’s chest feel too small for his heart.
“Hey yourself,” Suho replies, stepping aside to let him in. Suddenly nervous — inexplicably so considering he’s had Sieun over tons of times.
Sieun kicks off his shoes with practiced ease, lining them up neatly beside Suho’s. It’s such a small, domestic gesture, but it sends warmth spreading through Suho’s ribcage—the simple familiarity of Sieun in his space, the way he moves through Suho’s home like he belongs there. The nervousness he initially felt melts away.
“Your grandmother’s not going to mind me being here this late?” Sieun asks, unwinding his scarf and shoving it into his school bag.
“Are you kidding? She’s probably already planning to adopt you,” Suho says with a grin. “Besides, she’s heading out to her friend’s place for their weekly card game. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”
Something flickers across Sieun’s expression—too quick to interpret fully, but it looks almost like disbelief. Suho files that observation away for later consideration.
“So,” Suho says, leading them toward the living room, “food first or movie selection? Fair warning my delivery app history is mostly fried chicken and pork dumplings.
“Shocking revelation,” Sieun deadpans, settling onto the couch. “The great Ahn Suho, master of culinary diversity.”
“Hey, I’ll have you know I ordered Thai food last week,” Suho protests, dropping onto the couch beside him—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Sieun’s small frame, but not so close as to seem obvious about it. Everything was going well already, Sieun seemed relaxed already by the way he was easily teasing him.
“Once. You ordered Thai food once in the past month.”
“It counts,” Suho insists, pulling out his phone to scroll through delivery options.
“What are you in the mood for? And don’t say ‘whatever you want’ because we both know that leads to twenty minutes of not getting anything done.”
Sieun’s mouth quirks up at the corner—not quite a smile, but close. “Chicken. The good kind from that place near the school.”
“See? Was that so hard?” Suho starts placing their order, muscle memory guiding him through Sieun’s preferences. Extra pickled radish, no onions, the mild sauce instead of spicy because Sieun’s tolerance for heat is embarrassingly low.
While they wait for the food confirmation, Sieun reaches for the remote with the casual confidence of someone who’s spent enough time here to know where everything is kept. He scrolls through the streaming options with the focused intensity he usually reserves for studying.
“Nothing too heavy,” Suho suggests, watching Sieun’s profile in the glow of the TV screen. “I’m still recovering from that psychological thriller you made me watch last month. I had trust issues with my own shadow for a week.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Sieun says, but there’s fondness in his voice. “What about this one?”
He’s highlighting a romantic comedy from a few years back—something light and predictable, and something that Suho would force Sieun to watch with him. It’s perfect, actually, and the fact that Sieun chose it makes something warm unfurl in Suho’s chest.
“Good choice,” Suho says, settling back against the couch cushions. “I will be providing commentary.”
Sieun rolls his eyes but there’s a small, real smile threatening to come out.
They’re about fifteen minutes into the movie when Suho’s grandmother appears from her room, dressed in her best coat and carrying a small thermos that probably contains enough caffeine to power a small vehicle through her all-night card tournament.
“Sieun-ah,” she says warmly, and Sieun immediately pauses the movie to give her his full attention—a gesture of respect that makes her beam at him like he’s personally responsible for the sunrise.
“Hello, ma’am ,” Sieun says, and the formal address makes her wave her hand dismissively.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me halmeoni? We’re family.” She ruffles his hair with the casual affection she usually reserves for Suho, and Sieun accepts it with the same patient grace he shows all of her demonstrations of care. “I made you boys some tea—it’s in the kitchen, still steeping. Don’t wait up for me; Mrs. Kim thinks she can bluff her way through poker, but I’m going to teach her otherwise.”
“Don’t take all her money,” Suho calls after her as she heads toward the door.
“No, no” she calls back, and then she’s gone, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and the comfortable quiet that settles over the apartment.
“She’s going to bankrupt half the building,” Sieun observes, reaching for the remote again.
“Probably,” Suho agrees somewhat proud.
They fall back into the movie, but Suho finds himself watching Sieun more than the screen. There’s still a smidge of tension in the line of his shoulders, that careful way he holds himself that speaks to hyper vigilance and interrupted sleep. But there’s something softer too—the way he’s curled into the corner of the couch, the gradual loosening of his posture as the familiar environment works its quiet magic.
The food arrives halfway through the second act, and they pause the movie to spread containers across the coffee table with the practiced efficiency of people who’ve done this dance many times before. The conversation flows easily over shared banchan and crispy chicken—school gossip, complaints about their physics teacher’s latest impossible assignment, Gotak’s ongoing campaign to convince everyone to join the school’s newly formed film club.
“He showed me his shot list for their first project,” Sieun says, picking at a piece of pickled radish with his chopsticks. “It’s… ambitious.”
“Delusional?”
“I was trying to be kind.”
Suho laughs, and the sound seems to surprise Sieun—like he’d forgotten that making
Suho laugh was something he was particularly good at. There’s a moment where their eyes meet across the scattered food containers, and something passes
between them that feels charged and fragile and important.
Now, Suho thinks. While he’s relaxed. While his guard is down.
“I’ll get us some of that tea to drink,” he says, standing with calculated casualness. “And maybe grab a blanket. It’s getting cold.”
He disappears into the kitchen first, taking longer than necessary to pour two glasses of water and retrieve the tea his grandmother left steeping.
When he returns to the living room, Sieun has cleaned up most of their dinner mess and is scrolling through his phone with the distracted attention of someone checking messages they don’t really want to read.
“Tea,” Suho announces, setting the cups down on the coffee table. “Grandmother’s special blend.”
Sieun accepts his cup with a small nod of thanks, inhaling the steam gently. “Smells good. What kind?”
“Chamomile, I think. Maybe some lavender?” Suho keeps his voice carefully neutral, like he hasn’t spent the past three days researching the exact proportions that promote relaxation without being obvious about it. “She’s been experimenting with different combinations lately.”
“It’s nice,” Sieun says after taking a sip, and Suho counts that as the first small victory.
“Be right back,” Suho says, heading toward his bedroom. “Just grabbing that blanket.”
In his room, he retrieves the weighted blanket from where he’d arranged it at the foot of his bed, then makes a show of grabbing one of his pillows. A quick spritz of lavender sleep spray on the pillowcase—not too much, just enough to add a subtle layer of calm to the evening’s carefully orchestrated atmosphere.
When he returns to the living room, Sieun has settled back into his corner of the couch, tea cradled in both hands like he’s trying to absorb its warmth through his palms. Suho spreads the weighted blanket across both of them, making sure Sieun gets the larger portion while trying to look like it’s an accident.
“This is heavy,” Sieun observes, running his fingers along the quilted surface with genuine curiosity.
“Weighted blanket,” Suho explains, settling back down beside him—closer now, close enough that their thighs are almost touching under the shared warmth. “It’s supposed to help with anxiety or something. I got it for when my physical therapy sessions leave me too wound up to sleep.”
It’s not entirely a lie—he has been struggling with sleep since his recovery steps started, But he’s been fine for months now. He hopes the explanation serves its purpose giving him a plausible reason for having the blanket without making it seem like he’d acquired it specifically for Sieun’s benefit.
“Does it work?” Sieun asks, carefully trying to disguise his curiosity. Suho can see right through him, his heart aches.
“Sometimes,” Suho says, offering him the pillow with the same calculated casualness. “The pressure is supposed to trigger some kind of relaxation response. Like a really gentle hug that lasts all night.”
Sieun accepts the pillow, but as he settles it behind his head, his expression shifts slightly. He goes still for a moment, and Suho watches with growing dread as Sieun’s nose twitches almost imperceptibly.
“Suho,” Sieun says slowly, his voice taking on that particular tone that means he’s putting pieces together in his frighteningly perceptive mind. “Why does this pillow smell like that?”
Suho feels himself go cold, his carefully constructed explanation crumbling before he can even attempt it. The lavender scent that had seemed so subtle when he’d sprayed it now feels overwhelming, obvious, like a neon sign flashing at them.
“It’s perfume,” he manages to blurt out, the words coming too fast and too loud in the careful quiet of the apartment.
Sieun looks at him, eyes widening just slightly. “Perfume?”
“Yes,” Suho replies, hoping against hope that Sieun will drop it.
“Oh,” Sieun says, and his face closes off in a way that makes Suho’s stomach clench with dread.
“Oh?” Suho questions, though he’s already afraid of the answer.
“You had a girl over?” Sieun’s voice is carefully neutral, but he clears his throat and looks anywhere but at Suho.
The implications hit Suho like a physical blow, and he can feel heat flooding his face as he realizes what Sieun thinks, what conclusion his brilliant mind has jumped to. The idea of it—of Sieun thinking there’s someone else, someone who gets to share Suho’s space and leave traces of themselves behind—makes something desperate claw at his chest.
“No—no. It’s not like that. I didn’t—Jesus, no.” The words tumble out in a rush, his careful composure completely abandoned.
Sieun blinks at him, startled by the vehemence in his voice, and Suho forces himself to take a breath, to slow down, to think. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to gather the pieces of his scattered thoughts.
“I… it’s not what you think.”
Sieun doesn’t say anything, just watches him with that perplexed expression. He crosses his arms and waits, patient in the way that means he’s not going to let this go.
Suho swears under his breath, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He moves to the couch, settling beside Sieun but not looking at him, because if he looks at Sieun right now— it won't go well for his heart.
Leave it to him to crack at the first sign of something upsetting Sieun.
“I overheard you and Juntae the other night.”
The silence that follows is immediate and complete. Suho can hear his own heartbeat, can hear the distant hum of traffic through the windows, can hear everything except the sound of Sieun breathing beside him.
“I didn’t mean to,” Suho continues quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t trying to listen, it just… happened. And you said you weren’t sleeping. That those magnesium supplements weren’t helping anymore. That you didn’t want to bother me.”
He remembers it with perfect clarity, that he didn’t want to worry Suho had been engraved into his head ever since.
As if Suho isn’t already worried about him every second of every day, as if Suho doesn’t lie awake sometimes thinking about all the ways he’s failed to protect the people he cares about.
Sieun shifts beside him, tension radiating from his frame like heat.
Suho takes a breath, his plans already shot to hell. Might as well explain himself completely and hope for the best. Sieun can be mad at him all he wants—Suho was always going to try to help, regardless of the consequences.
“So I looked things up. About sleep. About nightmares. I read this thing about lavender helping with anxiety and sleep disorders, and I figured… why not try it out?” He finally turns his head to look at the too-silent boy beside him—the one he’s been in love with since he was seventeen and stupid enough to think feelings like this were temporary.
“I just wanted you to be comfortable. Even if it’s just for one night. Even if you don’t actually sleep. I didn’t want you to think you had to shut me out when I can be helpful sometimes.” He’s aiming for casual but probably missing by miles, and he knocks his shoulder against Sieun’s in a gesture that feels both familiar and desperately inadequate.
Sieun doesn’t say anything right away. His expression has gone unreadable again, but his arms slowly uncross, and his fingers tap once against the weighted blanket in a nervous rhythm.
Then he says, softly, “I should go.”
Suho’s stomach drops as if he’s missed a step going downstairs. “Why?”
Sieun looks away, and there’s something fragile in the line of his shoulders. “Because it’s late. And I didn’t think this would turn into some kind of intervention.”
“It’s not,” Suho says quickly, the words coming out sharper than he intended. “It’s not that, okay? You don’t have to talk about anything. We don’t have to do anything.
He hesitates, then says the thing that’s been sitting in his chest like a weight, “Just stay.”
Another beat of silence stretches between them, and Suho can’t help but think he’s fucked this up already, that his good intentions have somehow made everything worse.
“You don’t have to be so stubborn about accepting help,” Suho says, quieter now, his voice carrying all the frustration and affection he’s been holding back. “Just stay. Watch the end of the movie. Stay the night. Whatever you need. I’ll shut up about the sleep stuff.”
Sieun studies him for a long moment, and Suho can practically see the wheels turning in his head, weighing options and calculating risks the way he always does.
“So you sprayed this pillow with perfume to help me sleep?” Sieun asks finally.
“It’s essential oils or something,” Suho says, feeling sheepish under the weight of Sieun’s attention. “Listen, I did it with good intentions.”
Sieun just hums, a sound that could mean anything, and brings the pillow closer to his face to inhale the scent again. There’s something almost vulnerable in the gesture, like he’s allowing himself to consider the possibility of comfort.
“All right,” he says eventually. “I’ll stay.”
It seems like they won’t say more about it for the moment, but it’s enough for Suho. More than enough. He smiles softly, simply saying, “Okay,” and reaches out to pull the weighted blanket a little higher over Sieun’s lap before settling back down on the couch.
The movie continues, but Suho finds himself watching Sieun more than the screen. The way his shoulders gradually relax, the way his breathing evens out, the way his head starts to tip slightly toward Suho’s shoulder as exhaustion finally begins to win over whatever’s been keeping him awake.
By the time the credits roll, Sieun’s eyes are drifting closed, and Suho doesn’t move. He just sits there, one arm resting along the back of the couch behind Sieun’s shoulders, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, and thinks finally.
The room feels warm and quiet, filled with the faint scent of lavender and the presence of someone Suho would do anything to protect. His plan seems to be working despite his complete inability to keep his mouth shut about it, and for the first time in weeks, Suho feels like he might have done something right.
He’s reaching for his phone, thinking about capturing this moment—Sieun peaceful and soft on his couch —when Sieun shifts, rubbing his eyes like he’s just remembered where he is.
“So… if I’m staying,” he mumbles, voice low and rough, “should I—uh. Where should I…?”
“Oh. Right.” Suho snaps out of his daze and shoots up off the couch, nearly tripping over the edge of the coffee table in his haste. “Hold on. I’ve got stuff. I mean, I got some things. For sleeping.”
Sieun raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, just watches as Suho disappears into his bedroom, clearly flustered and trying not to show it.
He reemerges a moment later with a small pile in his arms, an extra toothbrush still in its package, a soft cotton t-shirt, some sweatpants, thick socks, another lavender-sprayed pillow, and most damningly a sleep mask and a pair of soft earplugs still in their unopened packaging.
The evidence of his preparation is overwhelming, and he looks at the items in his hands, then up at Sieun’s increasingly amazed expression.
“I might’ve… over prepared,” he admits.
Sieun blinks at the collection of sleep aids, then back at Suho. “You bought all this?”
“It’s not that much,” Suho insists, though even he can hear how unconvincing he sounds.
Sieun nods slowly, clearly not believing him but gracious enough not to call him out on it. He just takes the toothbrush and the clothes, his fingers brushing against Suho’s in the exchange.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, and there’s something soft in his voice that makes Suho’s chest feel tight.
As Sieun heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed, Suho takes a deep breath and busies himself with cleaning up the remains of their evening—empty glasses, the scattered pillows, anything to keep his hands occupied.
When Sieun emerges from the bathroom changed into Suho’s clothes, Suho feels his brain short circuiting. The t-shirt is just a bit too big, hanging loose on Sieun’s smaller frame, and the sweatpants are rolled up at the ankles. He looks younger somehow, softer, his hair slightly mussed from changing, and the way he tugs one sleeve down nervously only makes the ache in Suho’s chest worse.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but fuck—he’s cute.
“So—” Sieun starts, but Suho immediately interrupts, needing to get the awkward conversation out of the way before he loses his nerve.
“You take the bed,” Suho says firmly. “Seriously. It’s fine. I’ll take the couch—”
Sieun shakes his head before he can finish. “No way. It’s your bed.”
“You’re the guest.”
“You’re still recovering.”
They stare at each other in a standoff that feels familiar, and Suho knows from experience that he’ll never win a stubborn contest against Sieun. So he’ll just have to compromise.
Suho lifts his hands in mock surrender.
“Fine,” he says, trying to keep his voice casual. “We’ll just share.”
Sieun blinks, his eyes going slightly wide. “What?”
“The bed’s big enough,” Suho continues, as if suggesting they sleep in the same bed is a perfectly reasonable solution and not something that’s going to make it impossible for him to sleep.
He's feeling conflicted now because part of him—a part he’s been trying to ignore for a while—desperately wants to touch, wants to know what it would feel like to fall asleep with Sieun curled against his side.
Sieun stares at him, and Suho hopes he doesn’t notice the flush creeping up his neck, the way his hands are trembling slightly with nervous energy.
“You sure?” Sieun asks.
“I don’t bite,” Suho adds, attempting humor to cut through the tension. “Unless you steal the blanket.”
Sieun rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he gives in.
They’re both awkward as they make their way to Suho’s bedroom, moving around each other with careful precision, shoulders brushing despite their best efforts to maintain space. The room feels smaller with both of them in it.
Suho pulls back the covers and tosses one of the lavender-scented pillows to Sieun.
He slips into bed first, turning to face the wall to give Sieun privacy and space, hyperaware of every sound—the rustle of sheets, the slight dip of the mattress, the quiet intake of breath that means Sieun is settling in beside him.
After a long moment, he feels the mattress shift as Sieun lies down carefully, like he’s still not quite convinced he’s allowed to be there. The space between them feels charged, full of unspoken things and careful boundaries.
Neither of them says anything for several minutes. The silence stretches, comfortable but weighted, and Suho finds himself listening to the quiet rhythm of Sieun’s breathing, cataloguing the small sounds that mean he’s here, he’s safe, he’s close enough to touch if Suho were brave enough to reach out.
He should sleep. His body is tired, and tomorrow will bring its own challenges. But his mind won’t quiet, too aware of the boy lying beside him, too caught up in the significance of this moment to just let it pass.
His fingers twitch where they rest on the edge of the blanket, and he hesitates, weighing the risk of pushing too hard against the possibility that silence might be worse than words.
Then quietly he whispers into the dark, “Why have you been having trouble sleeping?”
There’s a pause that stretches long enough for Suho to wonder if he’s made a mistake, if he should have left this unspoken for a while longer.
But then Sieun exhales, long and slow, and says, his voice low and raw in the darkness, “It’s like… I’ve been in this daze since you woke up.”
Suho’s breath catches, his heart stumbling over the unexpected honesty.
“I keep thinking it’s temporary,” Sieun continues, and there’s something broken in his voice that makes Suho want to reach out, to touch, to comfort. “That the second I get used to it, it’ll all be ripped away again. Like the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke, giving me something good just so it could take it back.”
There’s no bitterness in his tone, just exhaustion like he’s tired of being afraid, tired of bracing for pain.
Suho shifts closer without thinking, their knees brushing under the blankets, and the contact sends electricity through his entire nervous system.
“Fuck the universe,” he says quietly, the words coming out more fierce than he intended.
Sieun huffs a breath—might be a laugh, might be a sigh, might be relief.
“I mean it,” Suho says, firmer now, his voice carrying all the conviction he can muster. “I don’t care what the universe does or doesn’t do. I’ll always be here. I’ll always be on your side.”
He wants to say more—wants to say you’re the most important person in my world, wants to say I would burn everything down before I let anything hurt you again. But those words feel too big, too dangerous, too likely to change everything between them.
So instead, he settles for the truth he can give: “As long as I’m breathing, I’m not going anywhere.”
The silence that follows feels different—heavier but softer, like something fundamental has shifted between them.
Sieun doesn’t respond right away, but when he moves, it’s to reach for Suho—slowly, tentatively, like he’s testing the space between them. Suho meets him halfway without hesitation, their hands finding each other under the blanket, fingers curling together with a surprisingly easy intimacy.
Then Sieun moves closer, and Suho can feel the warmth of his breath against his shoulder, and can smell the faint scent of his shampoo mixed with the lavender.
“Okay,” Sieun murmurs, the word barely audible but carrying the weight of surrender.
Just that. Small and simple and trusting. But it means everything.
They shift until they’re curled into each other—Suho’s arm around Sieun’s waist, Sieun’s hand fisted loosely in Suho’s shirt, their breathing synchronizing as the weight of vulnerability settles between them like a shared secret.
The tension drains out of Suho’s chest slowly, replaced by something warm and protective and achingly tender. The world outside can wait—the future, the fear, all the things they haven’t said yet. All of it can wait.
Right now, at this moment, they’re here together. Sieun is safe and warm and close enough that Suho can feel his heartbeat.
He listens as Sieun’s breathing deepens, feels the moment when sleep finally claims him, and thinks that maybe just maybe love is this simple. Maybe it’s scented pillows and weighted blankets and the willingness to lose sleep so someone else can find it.
Maybe it’s holding someone through their nightmares and hoping that’s enough to keep the darkness at bay.
And for tonight, in the quiet sanctuary of his bedroom with Sieun breathing steadily against his chest, it feels like more than enough.
It feels like everything.
~
Suho wakes to golden morning light filtering through his curtains and the unfamiliar weight of another person pressed against his side. For a moment, he’s disoriented—then the memories of last night flood back, and his heart does that stuttering thing it always does when Sieun is involved.
Sieun is still asleep, curled into Suho’s chest with one arm thrown across his waist and his face tucked against Suho’s shoulder. His hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up at odd angles, and there’s a peaceful expression on his face that Suho has never seen before—no tension, no careful control, just soft contentment.
Suho doesn’t dare move, afraid that any shift might wake him and break whatever spell has allowed them to end up like this. Instead, he lies perfectly still and catalogues every detail the weight of Sieun’s arm across his ribs, the way their legs are tangled together under the blankets, the steady rhythm of breath against his collarbone.
This is what happiness feels like, he thinks. This quiet morning moment with sunlight painting everything gold and Sieun warm and safe in his arms.
Eventually, Sieun stirs, his breathing changing as consciousness slowly returns. Suho feels the exact moment he wakes up—the way his body goes slightly rigid as he realizes where he is, how they’re positioned, the intimacy of their entangled limbs.
But Sieun doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he lies still for a long moment, and Suho wonders what he’s thinking, whether he’s as reluctant to break this spell as Suho is.
Finally, Sieun lifts his head, blinking sleep from his eyes as he takes in their position. There’s a flush creeping up his neck, but his voice is warm when he speaks.
“Hi,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to wake up wrapped around each other.
“Hi yourself,” Suho replies, his voice rough with sleep and emotion. “How did you sleep?”
Sieun is quiet for a moment, considering the question with the same thoughtfulness he applies to everything. “Really well, actually,” he admits, “I don’t think I woke up once.”
The joy that floods through Suho’s chest is so intense it’s almost painful.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Sieun’s voice is barely above a whisper, like he’s sharing a secret. “I haven’t slept that well in… a while.”
They’re still tangled together, neither of them making any move to separate, and Suho can feel his heart hammering against his ribs. Sieun’s hand is still fisted in his shirt, like even in sleep he’d been afraid of letting go.
“I’m glad,” Suho says, and the words come out more breathless than he intended. “That was the whole point.”
Sieun looks at him then, really looks at him, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression that makes Suho’s chest tight. “You really went to all that trouble just for me?”
“It wasn’t trouble,” Suho says immediately. “It was never trouble. Not when it’s you.”
The words hang between them and Suho wonders once again if he’s said too much.
But Sieun doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts slightly, and somehow they end up even closer, foreheads almost touching, sharing the same breath.
“Suho,” Sieun starts, but then stops, like he’s not sure what he wants to say.
“It’s okay,” Suho whispers. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
But even as he says it, part of him desperately wants to talk about it, wants to put words to the feeling that’s been growing in his chest for years now, probably even while he was in that coma.
They stay like that for several more minutes, wrapped up in each other and the golden morning light, until Sieun finally shifts with obvious reluctance.
“I should…” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.
“Right,” Suho says, though he makes no move to untangle their limbs. “Of course.”
Sieun detaches himself slowly. He pads to the bathroom on bare feet, wearing Suho’s oversized clothes, and Suho watches him go with a slight reluctance.
Once he’s alone, Suho reaches for his phone on the nightstand, squinting at the bright screen. There’s a text from his grandmother sent late last night: Staying at Aunties tonight. Don’t wait up.
Relief floods through him. He loves his grandmother, but he’s grateful for the privacy this morning, for the chance to figure out what last night means without having to navigate questions.
He lies back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling and trying to process the tangle of emotions in his chest. Part of him wants to read more into the way Sieun had curled into him, the way he’d admitted to sleeping well, the soft vulnerability in his voice. But another part, probably his brain, warns him not to read too much into it.
It’s enough, he tells himself. It’s enough that you’re in his life. If he doesn’t feel the same way, if he needs time, if this is all he can give—it’s enough.
But even as he thinks it, he knows it’s not entirely true. The taste of possibility is too sweet, the memory of Sieun warm and pliant in his arms too vivid to ignore.
He forces himself out of bed and into the kitchen, needing something to do with his hands, some way to channel the restless energy coursing through him. Cooking them breakfast will have to do.
He starts simple—eggs, rice, the kind of comfortable breakfast food that feels appropriate for a morning like this. He’s just cracking eggs into a bowl when he hears Sieun emerge from the bathroom, the soft pad of footsteps on hardwood.
“Can I help?” Sieun asks, appearing in the kitchen doorway. His hair is slightly damp, like he’d splashed water on his face, and he’s rolled up the sleeves of Suho’s t-shirt.
“You don’t have to,” Suho says, but he’s already moving to make room at the counter. “But if you want to…”
They fall into an easy rhythm—Suho handling the eggs while Sieun takes care of the rice, moving around each other in the small kitchen with surprising grace. It feels domestic in a way that makes Suho smile, like they’ve done this hundreds of times before, like this is what mornings could be like if he were brave enough to reach for what he wants.
Sieun is quiet as he works, but it’s a comfortable quiet, and Suho finds himself stealing glances at him—the way he concentrates on even simple tasks, the careful precision of his movements, the soft morning light catching in his hair.
“This is nice,” Sieun says suddenly, voice soft.
“Yeah?” Suho tries to keep his tone casual, but his heart is doing something complicated in his chest.
“Yeah. Peaceful.” Once again they seem to have come to the same conclusions.
Suho is adding final touches to the eggs, adjusting the heat and seasoning, when he feels arms slip around his waist from behind. He freezes, spatula halfway to the pan, as Sieun presses close against his back.
“Thank you,” Sieun murmurs, his voice muffled against Suho’s shoulder blade. “For last night. For letting me stay. For…” He trails off, but his arms tighten slightly around Suho’s waist. “Just thank you.”
Suho’s hands are shaking as he turns off the burner and sets the spatula aside.
Slowly, carefully, he turns in Sieun’s arms until they’re face to face, until Sieun’s hands are resting against his chest and his own are hovering uncertainly at Sieun’s waist.
“Sieun,” he starts, then stops, looking down at the boy in his arms—this brilliant, stubborn, beautiful person who somehow ended up here, in his kitchen, looking at him like he’s something precious.
“I’m sorry,” Suho whispers, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
Sieun’s brow furrows in confusion. “For what?”
Suho takes a breath, steeling himself for whatever comes next. “For liking you.”
The words hang between them, naked and vulnerable, and Suho can feel his heart hammering against his ribs as he waits for Sieun’s response. He’s prepared for rejection, for awkwardness, for the possibility that he’s just ruined the best friendship he’s ever had.
What he’s not prepared for is the way Sieun’s expression softens, the way his eyes go wide and bright.
“You’re apologizing for that?” Sieun asks, and there’s something almost incredulous in his voice.
“I know it complicates things,” Suho says quickly. “I know it’s not what you signed up for when we became close again, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to—”
“Suho,” Sieun interrupts, his hands fisting in the front of Suho’s shirt. “Stop.”
Suho falls silent, looking down at him with nervous anticipation.
“You’re not the only one,” Sieun says quietly. “Who likes someone they probably shouldn’t.”
The air rushes out of Suho’s lungs all at once. “What?”
“I— I think I’ve had feelings for you from the start.” Sieun admits, the words coming out in a rush like he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve if he doesn’t say them quickly. “Maybe since the first day we met and all the other days in between you were very persistent.”
Suho stares at him, sure he must be dreaming, sure his sleep-addled brain has conjured this conversation out of wishful thinking.
“You…” he starts, then stops, too overwhelmed to form coherent sentences.
“I thought you were going to die,” Sieun continues, his voice breaking slightly. “And all I could think was the guilt that I’d never told you, that I’d wasted all this time being scared when I could have just… God, Suho, I’ve wanted this for so long.”
Suho doesn’t remember making the decision to kiss him. One moment they’re staring at each other across the space between heartbeats, and the next his hands are cupping Sieun’s face and their lips are pressed together in a kiss that tastes like possibility.
It’s soft and tentative at first, like they’re both afraid this might be a dream that could shatter with too much pressure. But then Sieun melts against him, hands tentatively entangling in his hair, and the kiss deepens into something desperate and grateful and years in the making.
When they finally break apart, both breathing hard, Suho rests his forehead against Sieun’s feeling almost giddy.
“So,” he says, voice shaky with emotion. “What now?”
Sieun smiles and simply says “Now we eat breakfast before it gets cold.”
It’s Suho's turn to scoff “ Smart ass.”
They settle at the table, plates steaming between them, but Suho finds he can’t quite bring himself to let go of Sieun’s hand. Their fingers are intertwined on the tabletop, and every time Sieun tries to pull away to eat, Suho tightens his grip.
“You’re going to have to let me use my chopsticks eventually,” Sieun points out, but there’s fondness in his voice.
“No,” Suho says seriously. “I’m never letting go of you again.”
Sieun tries to look exasperated, but the effect is ruined by the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be clingy, aren’t you?”
“Probably,” Suho admits without shame. “You’re going to have to get used to it.”
Sieun sighs, but it’s the kind of sigh that sounds suspiciously like contentment. “I guess I will.”
And sitting there in the golden morning light, with Sieun’s hand warm in his and the taste of their first kiss still lingering on his lips, Suho thinks that maybe the universe isn’t so cruel after all. Maybe sometimes it gives you exactly what you need.
Maybe sometimes it gives you everything.