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The practice room was a symphony of movement, light, and effort—the air thick with heat, the mirrored walls fogging lightly around the edges from body warmth and sweat. The clock on the far wall ticked steadily, but it had long lost meaning. The members of Stray Kids were already three hours into practice, repeating the same complex choreography for their upcoming comeback. The beat of the track echoed off every wall, shaking the floor under their feet like a second pulse.
Seungmin moved with the others—on beat, sharp, his form precise—but there was a delay inside him that no one else could see. A heaviness in his limbs, like his body was trudging through molasses while his brain kept screaming to pick up the pace. His hoodie clung to him, darkened with sweat, but no matter how many water breaks they took, the heat crawling over his skin never seemed to ease.
He paused briefly at the end of the run-through, bending forward with his hands on his knees. His vision swam slightly, the floor under him pulsing in a way that made his stomach twist. He breathed in, tried to swallow it down, but even his breath felt... thick.
A few feet away, Hyunjin flopped onto the floor dramatically, groaning. “Can we take five? My soul left my body after the fifth run.”
Chan, standing by the speaker, wiped his face with a towel and gave a thumbs up. “Five minutes. Hydrate, breathe, stretch.”
The members dispersed in different directions—some toward their water bottles, others toward the fan in the corner. Seungmin moved slower, blinking at the hazy lights overhead.
A hand suddenly tugged on his sleeve. “Hey.”
Seungmin turned, slower than usual. Changbin stood there, slightly breathless but sharp-eyed. His gaze dropped to Seungmin’s face, then back up with a frown.
“You good? You don’t look so hot.”
Seungmin smirked lazily and leaned against the wall, letting his head rest there for a moment. “Exactly. I am hot.”
Changbin huffed, but the concern didn’t vanish. He stepped a little closer, studying him more carefully now. “Don’t do that. Seriously. You’re sweating more than usual, and you didn’t drink any water during the last break.”
Seungmin rolled his head to the side and squinted at him. “Are you my mom now?”
“No,” Changbin said flatly, then added with a slight grin, “She’d probably be taller than you though.”
That earned a laugh—short, scratchy, but real. Seungmin pushed himself off the wall, standing straight for the first time in minutes. The moment he did, a rush of dizziness swept through him like a wave, causing his knees to buckle slightly. He caught himself with a hand on the wall, brushing it off with a casual flick.
Changbin stepped in, one hand hovering behind Seungmin’s back, just in case. “That’s it. You’re definitely not okay.”
“I’m fine,” Seungmin said, though the words came out hoarser than he expected. “It’s just hot in here. Besides, I’m taller than you. That gives me the right to pretend I’m fine.”
“Pretty sure your height doesn’t matter when you look like you might faint,” Changbin muttered. He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Seungmin’s forehead. “You’re burning up, Min.”
Seungmin gently batted his hand away. “I’m just working hard. That’s what we’re here for, right?”
“Not if it kills you,” Changbin replied bluntly.
The sound of footsteps drew closer—Chan, returning with a bottle of water, tossing it to Seungmin without warning. “Here. Hydrate.”
Seungmin caught it clumsily, nearly dropping it. He cracked the lid and took a sip, avoiding their eyes.
“You’ve been off all day,” Chan added, squatting down to adjust his shoelaces. “You were late this morning too. That’s not like you.”
Seungmin shrugged. “I was tired. Didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Why?” Changbin asked, arms now crossed. “Were you up late again editing vocals?”
“Maybe,” Seungmin muttered. “Also... I think my throat hurt a little.”
Changbin groaned. “You should’ve said something.”
“Didn’t think it was a big deal,” Seungmin said, voice a little quieter now. “Didn’t wanna bother anyone.”
Chan and Changbin exchanged a look—one of those silent conversations the older members have when they’re equally concerned and unsure what to do next.
“I’m just saying,” Seungmin continued before either of them could respond, “if I was sick, which I’m not, I’d still outdance both of you.”
That got a snort from Changbin. “You can barely stand, and you’re still trying to roast me?”
“I have to. You’d be too tall without your ego.”
Chan sighed dramatically. “Okay, okay, enough. We’ll break early tonight if you’re not feeling well, Seungmin. But you have to tell us if it gets worse. Deal?”
Seungmin hesitated, his pride and stubbornness battling with the pulsing pain in his temples. Finally, he gave a slight nod. “Fine. Deal.”
Chan looked satisfied. Changbin, not so much.
“Also,” Changbin added, not dropping it, “I’m driving you home tonight. I don’t want you passing out on the subway or something.”
Seungmin grumbled, “What happened to personal space?”
“This is personal,” Changbin said, his tone unusually soft.
For a moment, Seungmin just looked at him—really looked. Despite the teasing, the arguments, the constant bickering about who was taller or who sang better in this part or that part, Changbin always noticed.
He noticed when Seungmin skipped breakfast.
He noticed when Seungmin’s voice cracked from overuse.
He noticed now, when Seungmin’s skin burned too hot, and his eyes looked too glassy.
Seungmin looked away. “Thanks, hyung.”
Changbin gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah. You’d do the same.”
Fifteen minutes later, they went back to rehearsing—but not at full force. Chan dimmed the lights slightly, trying to make the atmosphere less harsh. Seungmin stayed near the front for blocking purposes but took smaller movements, easing the pressure off his aching body.
Every time he turned, Changbin was in the corner of his vision—watching, waiting, just in case.
And even though Seungmin would never say it aloud, not yet at least, the silent presence gave him just enough strength to finish the day.
The small restaurant sat at the corner of an alleyway, half-hidden by vines and an overgrown awning that flapped gently with the wind. Inside, the warm yellow lights and low chatter provided a haven from the chaos of Seoul’s main streets.
Seungmin slid into the booth across from Chan, slumping slightly against the worn leather cushion. He hadn’t even noticed when they arrived. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and the effort it took just to focus on the menu felt monumental.
“Here,” Chan said, already ordering for both of them. “I got your usual. Didn’t seem like you were in the mood to decide.”
Seungmin blinked slowly and nodded. “Thanks, hyung.”
Chan studied him for a moment, his lips pressed together in a tight line.
The food came quickly—steaming bowls of kimchi jjigae, rice, and side dishes crowding the table. The rich aroma filled the small space between them, and for a moment, it seemed like everything might be okay.
Seungmin picked up his chopsticks with trembling fingers. He tried to hide it by adjusting his grip, but Chan noticed. Of course he did.
“You sure you’re okay?” Chan asked, voice casual but laced with an edge of concern.
“I’m fine,” Seungmin said automatically. He spooned some rice into his mouth, chewing slowly. The flavor barely registered. His tongue felt dull, like everything had been muted.
Chan didn’t push. Not yet. He kept eating, watching Seungmin from beneath his lashes.
A few minutes passed. The clinking of chopsticks and faint radio music filled the silence. Then Seungmin reached up and pressed his fingers to his temple. He winced.
That was all it took.
“Seungmin-ah,” Chan said, putting down his spoon. “Are you getting a headache?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
Seungmin offered a weak smile, his eyes not quite meeting Chan’s. “Just... probably dehydration. Or the lights. You know how bright the practice room is.”
Chan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned down, rummaging through his bag. He pulled out a small bottle of over-the-counter painkillers and placed it on the table, sliding it toward Seungmin.
“Take two. And drink this.” He held out a cold water bottle from the small fridge at the back of the restaurant.
Seungmin hesitated.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Chan added, his tone firm but gentle.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Seungmin let out a soft, frustrated sigh and took the medicine, struggling briefly to twist the cap off the bottle. His fingers fumbled. The plastic slipped against his palm. Chan reached over and opened it for him without saying anything.
“I’m not a kid,” Seungmin muttered under his breath.
“I know,” Chan said softly. “But even adults need help sometimes.”
There was a pause. Then Seungmin looked down, his voice barely audible. “My head’s been hurting since yesterday.”
Chan’s brows pulled together. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“I didn’t think it was that bad. Just figured I needed more sleep.”
“Have you been sleeping?”
Seungmin shrugged. “Kind of. Maybe three hours last night.”
“Seungmin—”
“I just couldn’t fall asleep,” he admitted. “My body felt hot. My throat was scratchy. I kept thinking it would go away.”
Chan sat back, processing that. The worry in his chest deepened.
“How long have you been feeling like this?”
Seungmin took a slow sip of water, then rested the bottle against his forehead. “A few days, maybe. It got worse yesterday. I thought... I thought I could push through.”
Chan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t raise his voice. “You can’t do that. You know that, right?”
“I didn’t want to slow anyone down.”
“You collapsing in the middle of choreography would slow us down more than you resting for a day,” Chan said, sharper than he intended. He saw Seungmin flinch slightly and sighed. “Sorry. I’m not mad. I just—when you’re hurting and hiding it, I worry.”
Seungmin looked up, and for the first time that day, his eyes weren’t laced with humor or sarcasm. Just exhaustion.
“I didn’t want to disappoint you, hyung.”
That hit Chan square in the heart.
“You could never disappoint me,” he said. “Ever. You’re one of the most dedicated people I know. But being strong doesn’t mean pretending everything’s okay. It means knowing when to rest, too.”
Seungmin didn’t reply right away. He just stared down at the food in front of him. The soup had gone lukewarm. The rice was untouched.
Chan leaned forward again, reaching across the table. He placed a hand over Seungmin’s. “You’re allowed to rest, Min. You’ve earned that much a hundred times over.”
There was a pause. Then:
“Will you be mad if I don’t finish this?”
Chan smiled softly. “No. But you’re taking the rest of the night off. And I’m making sure someone stays with you tonight.”
“I don’t need a babysitter—”
“Not a babysitter,” Chan said, then grinned. “More like... a bodyguard. Just in case you try to sneak off and rehearse at 3AM.”
Seungmin let out a tired laugh, his eyes crinkling faintly. “Felix is probably the only one who could keep up with me at that hour.”
“Then Felix it is.”
They sat there for a while longer—Chan finishing his food, Seungmin sipping water in small gulps. The headache throbbed behind his eyes, but it felt slightly more manageable now that the medicine had kicked in.
“You want to get going?” Chan finally asked.
Seungmin nodded. “Yeah. I think I need to lie down.”
Chan stood and grabbed both their coats. “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Chan said. “But I’m going to.”
Seungmin didn’t argue this time. As they stepped out into the cool night air, he leaned slightly into Chan’s side—just enough for support, but not enough to admit how much he needed it.
Chan said nothing about it. He simply adjusted his stride and walked a little slower.
Under the dim glow of the streetlights, the two figures moved quietly, side by side.
And for the first time in days, Seungmin allowed himself to let go—if only just a little.
Felix’s sneakers squeaked slightly as he stepped into the dorm, his duffel bag slung lazily over one shoulder, strands of blonde hair sticking to his forehead from dance practice. The air in the apartment was unusually quiet—no music, no laughter, not even the sound of a game controller being mashed in the living room. He blinked, pausing just inside the doorway.
“I’m hoooome!” he called, his voice stretching in a singsong tone.
Silence.
Felix frowned. That was weird. Normally, Seungmin would shout something sarcastic from wherever he was—usually the couch or the kitchen—something like “You don’t have to announce it like a musical” or “We know, the apartment dropped in temperature the moment you walked in.”
But tonight… nothing.
He set his bag down gently by the wall, removing his shoes with practiced ease. A prickling sensation crept up his spine—a quiet kind of dread that didn’t feel like paranoia. Just instinct.
“Seungmin?” he called again, more cautious now.
A low, muffled groan answered him from the direction of the living room.
Felix’s heart skipped. “Minnie?”
He rushed forward and froze when he turned the corner.
There, curled tightly under the beige blanket on the couch, was Seungmin. His body was still, save for the occasional twitch of discomfort. His skin was flushed—a deep, angry red that stained his cheeks and forehead. His hair clung to his skin, damp with sweat. Even from a few feet away, Felix could see his chest rising and falling too fast. Too shallow.
“Seungmin?” Felix said, much softer now. His voice barely made it above a whisper. He dropped to his knees next to the couch, gently touching Seungmin’s shoulder. The younger boy flinched at the contact, eyes fluttering open but barely focusing.
“Felix…” he murmured, his voice dry and brittle, like crumpled paper.
“Mate, what’s going on?” Felix asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. “You look awful.”
Seungmin tried to say something, but his lips only moved faintly. Whatever sound he intended didn’t make it out. Felix gently peeled the blanket back from his shoulder and winced. Seungmin’s whole body felt like a radiator—too hot to be natural, almost painful to touch.
“Shit,” Felix breathed. He stood up in one motion and darted to the hallway closet, yanking open the first-aid drawer with trembling hands. His fingers fumbled through the supplies until he found the digital thermometer. He sprinted back to the living room and knelt again beside Seungmin.
“Open your mouth for me, yeah? Just for a sec.” His tone was soothing now, almost like a lullaby. “You’ll be alright. Just need to check something.”
Seungmin complied with a faint sound of protest, and Felix slid the thermometer under his tongue, brushing the hair away from his forehead as they waited. Each second stretched. Felix watched the numbers climb slowly on the small screen.
37.8°C... 38.6°C... 39.1°C...
It beeped at 39.4°C.
Felix stared at it. No wonder he’s out of it.
“Jesus,” he whispered, his accent slipping thickly into the vowels. “You’re really sick…”
He stood again, grabbing the water bottle from the table and twisting the cap off. Then he disappeared into the kitchen, moving quickly but quietly. He retrieved a damp cloth, a small bowl, and a bottle of fever reducer from the cabinet they all knew too well. It was the “idol survival kit,” as Chan called it—a basket of emergency meds, ice packs, cough syrup, and vitamins.
Felix returned to the couch, placing the bowl beside Seungmin and dipping the cloth in. He wrung it out and pressed it gently to Seungmin’s forehead. The younger boy winced at the touch but didn’t pull away.
“Sorry, mate,” Felix whispered, brushing his thumb across Seungmin’s temple. “Gotta cool you down. You’re cooking like a steak over here.”
A weak smile tugged at Seungmin’s lips, though he still didn’t have the strength to laugh. Felix tried to find some relief in that—Seungmin was still there, still listening. Still himself, even if barely.
“Have you been like this all day?” he asked gently.
Seungmin blinked slowly. “Maybe… started after practice. Worse now.”
Felix’s heart ached. He danced like this? No wonder his body crashed the moment he got home.
“You should’ve told someone,” he said, though his voice lacked any real reprimand. He dipped the cloth again and repeated the cooling process, trying to keep his hands steady. “We would’ve gotten you home sooner.”
Seungmin shifted slightly, his voice the barest whisper. “Didn’t… wanna be a problem.”
Felix nearly laughed—but it came out more like a bitter exhale. “You’re never a problem, Seungmin. That’s not how it works. Not with us.”
He helped Seungmin sit up slightly, tucking pillows behind him and coaxing him to sip water in slow, careful sips. It was a fight—Seungmin’s energy was drained, and he could barely swallow—but Felix was patient.
“Good job,” Felix murmured. “That’s it. Just a bit more.”
He managed to get the medicine into Seungmin next, one careful tablet at a time. Then he tucked the blanket around him again, careful not to trap the heat.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Felix said softly, sitting on the floor beside the couch. “I’m here. You rest now, alright? I’ll stay right here.”
There was no response. Seungmin had drifted off again, his lips parted slightly, breath still shallow but less strained than before.
Felix stayed still, listening to the faint rhythm of the boy’s breathing. His legs were starting to fall asleep, but he didn’t move. His heart was too full—of worry, of frustration, of quiet protectiveness.
You idiot, he thought with a bittersweet smile. Why do you always keep things to yourself?
He reached for his phone and typed quickly in the group chat:
[Felix 🐥]: Seungmin’s really sick. High fever. I’m taking care of him but someone might need to call the manager.
[Bang Chan 🐺]: Got it. On my way.
[Changbin 🐷]: WHAT?? What happened?! I’m coming over.
[Felix 🐥]: He’s okay. Just… not okay. You’ll see.
Felix looked back at Seungmin and gave a quiet sigh. “Hang in there, mate. We’ve got you.”
“You’re going to bed. No arguments,” Felix said firmly, shifting his grip on Seungmin’s arm as they made their slow, uneven way down the hallway.
“I can walk,” Seungmin mumbled. “Barely,” he added truthfully.
“Then I’m barely helping you,” Felix replied, tightening his hold to make sure the younger boy didn’t collapse. “You look like a microwaved dumpling, and not the good kind.”
“Stop making food jokes…” Seungmin groaned, swaying slightly. “I feel like I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” Felix said as gently as he could while still sounding annoyed. “You’re just sick. And stubborn. That combination’s worse than raw kimchi on an empty stomach.”
Seungmin let out a half-groan, half-laugh as Felix guided him into his bedroom. It was dark, the only light coming from a tiny LED strip under the shelf and the faint glow of the city through the curtains. The air was cool, but not cold—comfortably quiet, like a cocoon away from the world.
Felix helped Seungmin sit on the edge of the bed, crouching to remove his socks. “Lift your arms.”
“Why are you undressing me? I’m not that out of it,” Seungmin grumbled, though he complied.
Felix helped him out of his sweat-drenched hoodie, revealing a clingy, wrinkled T-shirt underneath. “Relax, Min. I’m not trying to seduce you—I’m trying to keep you from sweating yourself into another fever dream.”
“I don’t dream when I’m sick,” Seungmin muttered as Felix pulled the blanket over him, gently smoothing it out around his shoulders. “I hallucinate.”
“Well, if you see anything weird, just remember that I’m the good-looking one. Don’t trust anyone else,” Felix teased, fluffing the pillow behind Seungmin’s head.
Seungmin gave a tired chuckle, eyes fluttering shut briefly.
“I’m going to get you some more medicine,” Felix said, brushing Seungmin’s hair off his forehead. “Don’t move.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Felix returned with a glass of water and the fever reducer, which Seungmin swallowed with a wince, as if even water stung his throat now. He leaned back with a sigh, clearly drained from the small effort.
Felix stood there for a second, watching him settle. Then, suddenly determined, he turned toward the door. “Alright. I’m making soup.”
Seungmin cracked one eye open. “What type?”
“A mix of whatever i can find.”
“Is it edible?”
“You’ll find out.”
Felix disappeared into the kitchen.
The dorm kitchen wasn’t anything special—just stainless steel counters and a fridge covered in magnets and takeout coupons. But tonight, under Felix’s careful hands, it became something warm. He rolled up his sleeves, tied his hair back with a random elastic from the drawer, and set to work.
He pulled ingredients from the fridge one by one: garlic, spring onion, tofu, a few leftover vegetables, and the chicken broth Chan had bought last week. He glanced toward the hallway between each step, as if checking to make sure Seungmin hadn’t gotten up.
As the soup simmered, the room filled with a gentle, savory scent—rich, healing, homey. Felix stirred slowly, watching the bubbles rise.
It was weird, he thought, how fast someone could go from totally fine to terrifyingly not. Just yesterday, Seungmin had been teasing Chan about being old, laughing during lunch, humming into his chopsticks like they were a mic.
And now he looked like he was holding on by threads.
Felix hated it.
He wasn’t great with words—he knew that. Chan was the dad, Changbin the passionate one. But Felix? He did things. Quiet, steady things. Like making soup. Like staying up until morning to sit beside a fevered member. Like being there, even when it wasn’t asked.
He turned off the stove and poured the steaming soup into a small bowl. He added a little extra garlic—Seungmin always liked it that way, even if he pretended to complain.
Felix returned to Seungmin’s room with careful steps, balancing the tray with both hands. The soft clink of the spoon against ceramic was the only sound.
“Still alive?” he asked quietly as he stepped inside.
Seungmin’s eyes blinked open. “Barely. You gone long enough to build a soup empire?”
“Empire’s ready to launch,” Felix said, setting the tray on the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed and dipped the spoon into the broth, blowing gently before holding it up. “Open.”
Seungmin wrinkled his nose. “Why does this feel like I’m five?”
“Because you’re acting like it,” Felix deadpanned. “Now open.”
With a dramatic sigh, Seungmin parted his lips, and Felix carefully fed him the spoonful.
There was a pause.
Then: “That’s... actually good.”
Felix grinned. “Duh. I put love in it.”
“Could’ve used less salt and fewer dad jokes,” Seungmin mumbled, but opened his mouth again for another spoonful.
“You’re spoiling me,” he murmured after a few more bites.
Felix tilted his head. “You’d do the same for me.”
There was a moment of soft silence, only the clink of the spoon between them.
“I would,” Seungmin said finally. His voice cracked a little. “Probably make worse soup, but yeah.”
Felix laughed. “You’d try. That’s what matters.”
“You’re warm,” Seungmin said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not just your hands. Like... everything.”
Felix paused. He didn’t say anything at first. Then he reached out, pressing the back of his fingers gently to Seungmin’s cheek again, checking the fever. Still warm—but not burning anymore.
“You’re less warm now. Physically, I mean. Emotionally, you’re still ice cold.”
Seungmin let out a tired laugh, barely a breath. “Shut up.”
Felix chuckled and put the bowl down. “No more teasing. You need sleep.”
Seungmin turned slightly onto his side, letting the blanket swallow him up again. He looked younger like this—more fragile than Felix was used to seeing. The sharp wit, the unbothered attitude, the teasing smile—all gone. Just Seungmin, quiet and vulnerable.
“Felix?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Felix reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anytime, Min. Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”
He meant it.
And Seungmin believed him.
The dorm had gone quiet as the city settled into night. Outside, the wind pressed gently against the windows, and the muffled hum of cars passing by gave the illusion of life moving slowly—something rare and precious in their world.
The neon glow from a distant street sign pulsed faintly on the wall, casting shifting shapes that danced across the floor, as if even the city itself dared not disturb the hush that had settled over the small room.
Felix sat by Seungmin’s bed, back pressed into the side of the mattress, legs curled beneath him, scrolling his phone to pass the time. The blue light flickered across his face, making the shadows around his eyes look deeper than they really were. But no matter what he tried to read or watch, his attention kept drifting from the screen to the boy resting in bed.
Every few minutes, Felix would glance up to check on him, eyes trained for even the smallest change.
Seungmin’s breathing was still shallow but less ragged than earlier. The fever had broken a little after the second dose of medicine, but his cheeks were still flushed an unhealthy red, his lips slightly cracked, and a fine line of sweat shimmered just above his brow. It was the smallest sign of relief, and yet to Felix it felt like the world loosening its grip on his chest.
He reached for the cloth, still damp and cool against his fingertips, and gently dabbed it against Seungmin’s forehead. The boy didn’t stir, lashes lying dark and unmoving against pale skin.
“You’re a stubborn little thing,” Felix whispered, voice barely audible, as if even sound might weigh too heavily on the fragile calm. “Carrying the whole world on your back and still acting like you’re fine.”
A humorless chuckle caught in his throat, but it died as quickly as it came. He sighed, setting the cloth back into the bowl, and carefully tucked the blanket closer around Seungmin’s shoulders, smoothing it over the edge of the bed. He wished there was more he could do—something that wasn’t just waiting and watching.
Minutes passed—long and slow, measured by the ticking of the small clock on the wall and the quiet rise and fall of Seungmin’s chest.
Then Seungmin stirred.
Felix’s breath caught. He straightened, leaning closer without meaning to.
Dark brown eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first, glassy with fever, until they settled on the shape beside him. “You’re still here?”
Felix nodded, his relief softening the tired lines of his face. He reached out and brushed a few damp strands of hair from Seungmin’s forehead. “Didn’t plan on leaving.”
Seungmin’s brow furrowed faintly, voice scratchy from sleep and sickness. “Don’t you need sleep?”
“Not until you’re better,” Felix replied quietly, the words feeling heavier than they sounded. “You scared me, you know.”
“I’m okay now,” Seungmin rasped. “Sort of.”
“That’s not the same as actually okay.” Felix poured a little water into a cup and helped him sip, careful not to let him drink too fast. “You don’t get to downplay it anymore.”
Seungmin lowered his gaze, too tired to argue but still stubborn enough to look guilty.
A pause. Then, from the hallway, a soft knock.
Before either of them could answer, the door creaked open, hesitating halfway.
“Hey,” Changbin’s voice called gently, as if afraid to break the quiet. “Can I come in?”
Felix’s lips curved into a small smile he couldn’t quite stop. “Yeah. He’s awake.”
Changbin stepped inside, closing the door behind him with care. He wore a black hoodie zipped up to his chin, and his hair stuck up in uneven angles like he’d run a hand through it too many times. In one hand, he carried a crumpled paper bag filled to the brim—banana milk, cold barley tea, soft crackers, and the yogurt drink Seungmin always pretended not to like but somehow finished first.
“Hey,” he repeated, this time softer, directed at Seungmin.
The sick boy managed a tired, crooked smile. “Did you run here?”
Changbin let out a breath, shoulders sinking. “Don’t joke. I nearly did.”
He walked closer, movements careful, and sat on the edge of the bed, just enough to see Seungmin’s face clearly. His gaze moved over the fever-reddened cheeks, the sweat-darkened hair, the exhaustion that weighed down every blink.
“You scared me,” Changbin said, and though his voice was quiet, there was a rawness that made it feel louder than anything else.
Seungmin looked away, his thumb fidgeting against the blanket. “Sorry, hyung.”
“You should’ve said something,” Changbin pressed, the words gentler than the worry behind them.
“I didn’t want to worry anyone…”
“You always worry me,” Changbin cut in, voice dropping softer still. “You just don’t notice because you’re too busy trying to be strong for everyone else.”
Silence settled, thick enough to feel.
Felix stood up slowly. “I’ll give you two a minute,” he murmured, his hand brushing Seungmin’s arm in quiet reassurance. “I’ll be just outside.”
He slipped out of the room, glancing back once before closing the door behind him, leaving them alone in the hush.
Changbin shifted, his hand coming to rest lightly on Seungmin’s blanket-covered wrist. His thumb traced a slow, absent-minded circle there, as if reminding both of them that Seungmin was really still here.
“I get why you didn’t say anything,” Changbin began after a moment. “You don’t like feeling like a burden. None of us do.”
Seungmin’s gaze lifted, shadowed with something like guilt. “But…?”
“But that doesn’t make it okay.”
Another pause. Changbin leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing Seungmin’s. Not quite holding—but not letting go, either.
“I care about you,” Changbin said, voice steady despite the tremor at the edges. “You know that, right?”
Seungmin swallowed. His voice was hoarse and soft as worn fabric. “I know.”
“And when someone you care about is hurting, you’d do anything to help. That’s not burden. That’s love.”
The words hung in the air, sinking into the quiet.
Seungmin didn’t smile this time, nor did he joke. He simply nodded, slow and tired, eyes closing for a heartbeat before opening again.
“I hate seeing you like this,” Changbin continued, his voice breaking just a little around the edges. “You always seem so unshakable. I forget you can break too.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Seungmin murmured. “I really thought I’d be okay.”
Changbin gave a tight, rueful smile. “Next time, let me decide that. Okay?”
Seungmin hesitated, then squeezed Changbin’s hand, voice too soft to sound like teasing but carrying a trace of it anyway. “Okay, shortcake.”
Changbin huffed out a laugh that cracked under the weight of relief. “Seriously? Even when you’re sick?”
“It’s the only energy I have left,” Seungmin whispered, eyes fluttering shut again, lashes brushing fever-warmed cheeks.
They stayed like that, the city’s sounds fading into the background—Changbin perched at the edge of the bed, hand resting in Seungmin’s, the paper bag forgotten on the floor.
"I love you, Min" Changbin placed his hand
Twenty minutes later, Felix peeked in, careful not to step too loudly. What he saw made something in his chest unclench: Changbin asleep, chin tucked forward, still holding Seungmin’s hand. And Seungmin, finally asleep too, color fading back to something closer to normal, breaths slow and deep.
Felix didn’t wake them.
He just smiled—a quiet, grateful thing—and closed the door softly behind him.
Some kinds of healing didn’t come from medicine. Just presence. Just love. Just staying.
And in the hush of the night, that was enough.