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The kitchen was warm with the promise of dinner, filled with the gentle sounds of domesticity that had become rare in their chaotic lives. Steam rose from a pot of boiling water on the stove, fogging the window that looked out over Seoul's glittering evening skyline. The apartment smelled of garlic and sesame oil, of home.
Bang Chan stood at the counter, a cutting board before him and a pile of potatoes waiting to be peeled. Three weeks of back-to-back schedules, late nights in the studio, early mornings for radio shows. His body moved on autopilot while his mind was somewhere else entirely—in the third verse of a song that wasn't quite right yet, in the choreography they'd be learning tomorrow. Exhaustion had seeped deeply into his bones.
"Hyung, you're going to peel your fingers off if you keep zoning out like that," Lee Know said from across the kitchen, his voice carrying that particular blend of teasing and genuine concern that only Minho could manage.
Chan blinked, realizing he'd been staring at the same potato for who knows how long. "I'm fine," he said automatically. "Just thinking."
"You're always thinking," Minho replied. "That's the problem."
Chan managed a tired smile, setting down the peeler and reaching for the knife instead.
The knife was sharp—Minho kept all their kitchen knives meticulously maintained. Chan picked up a potato, positioned it on the cutting board, and brought the knife down.
Slice. Slice. Slice. The potato fell into neat pieces.
Another potato. Then another. His mind drifted again, back to the studio, to the melody that wasn't quite right—
The knife slipped.
It happened so fast that Chan's brain couldn't process it in real-time. One moment the blade was moving through potato flesh, and the next it was moving through something else entirely. Something that was part of him.
The knife bit deep into the meat of his left palm, just below his thumb, and dragged across in a long, diagonal line before his reflexes finally kicked in and he jerked his hand away.
Chan stopped.
Everything stopped.
He stood there, knife still gripped in his right hand, left hand held out in front of him like it belonged to someone else. For a moment—one surreal, crystalline moment—there was nothing. No pain. No sensation at all. Just the sight of his palm, the skin split open in a clean line that seemed impossibly deep.
And then the blood came.
It welled up from the wound, dark red, almost burgundy in the kitchen's warm lighting. It pooled in the valley of the cut and began to overflow, running down his palm in rivulets, dripping from his fingers onto the counter. The first drops fell onto the cutting board, onto the pale flesh of the potato—stark crimson against cream white.
Chan watched it happen with a strange detachment, as if he were observing a scene in a movie. So much blood. He hadn't known a hand could bleed so much.
The knife slipped from his right hand, clattering against the cutting board.
---
Minho heard the clatter from across the kitchen—metal on wood, sharp and sudden. He glanced over his shoulder, spoon still moving through the pot.
"What happened?"
Chan didn't answer.
Minho stirred the sauce once more, waiting. But the silence stretched. No laugh, no sheepish apology, no sound of movement at all.
"Hyung?"
Still nothing.
Something felt wrong. He turned fully now, looking across the kitchen.
Chan was standing at the counter, his back to Minho, completely motionless. Not the casual stillness of someone pausing mid-task, but the rigid, frozen posture of someone who'd been turned to stone.
"Chan-ah?"
The unease bloomed into something sharper. Minho set the spoon down and crossed the kitchen, his footsteps quick on the tile.
"What's—"
Minho stopped beside him, reaching out to touch Chan's shoulder. Chan flinched slightly but didn't turn, didn't speak. His gaze stayed fixed downward.
Minho followed that stare.
Red. Too much red. On the counter, on the cutting board, on the potato Chan had been cutting. His eyes tracked upward to Chan's hand.
The palm was split open, a deep gash running across the meat of it. Blood welled from the wound in a constant flow, running down Chan's wrist, soaking into his sleeve.
Minho's breath caught. That couldn't be—that was too much—they were just making dinner—
"Oh my god." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Chan-hyung, your hand—"
Minho moved. His hands were already reaching for the dish towel on the rack—the clean one, white with blue stripes—and then he was grabbing Chan's wrist, wrapping the towel around that bleeding palm, pressing down hard.
The pain hit Chan like a shock of electricity.
He gasped, the sound punched out of him. The detachment shattered like glass, and suddenly he was back in his body, feeling everything all at once. The sharp, bright agony of the cut itself, the deep ache radiating up his arm, the burning pressure of Minho's hands against the wound.
"I've got you," Minho said, his voice steady even though Chan could feel the tremor in his hands. "I've got you, hyung. Just breathe."
But breathing was hard when pain was whiting out his vision, when each throb brought a fresh wave of agony that made his stomach turn.
"Changbin!" Minho shouted. "Someone get in here now!"
The towel was already turning red, blooming through the white fabric. Chan could see it spreading, soaking through Minho's fingers.
"Oh my god," Chan heard himself say, his voice thin and reedy. "Minho, I—"
"Don't look at it," Minho commanded, shifting his grip to press harder. The pain spiked and Chan made a sound he'd never heard himself make before. "Look at me, Chan. Look at my face, not your hand."
Chan tried. But his eyes kept sliding back down to where Minho's hands were wrapped around his, to the red seeping through the towel, to the drops still falling onto the counter.
"What happened?" Changbin's voice, loud and alarmed, and then he was in the kitchen doorway, his eyes going wide. "Holy shit, is that—"
"Get the first aid kit," Minho snapped. "And someone call a manager. He needs to go to the hospital. Now."
Hospital. Chan shook his head, the movement making him dizzy. "No, I'm fine, it's just—"
"You're not fine," Minho said, and there was something fierce in his voice. "This is bad. This needs stitches."
Chan's stomach rolled. He could feel how deep it went, how long it stretched across his palm. "Minho, I—"
"I know." Minho's voice was gentler now, but his hands never loosened their pressure. "I know, and that's why we're going to the hospital."
The kitchen was filling with people now. Seungmin appeared with the first aid kit, his face pale. Hyunjin was behind him, one hand pressed to his mouth. Han stood still, his almond eyes wide with fear and worry.
"Gauze pads," Minho said seeing the first aid kit clutched in Seungmin’s hands, his voice sharp and focused. "And the bandage roll. Now."
Seungmin fumbled with the kit, hands shaking as he pulled out the supplies. Minho took them without looking away from Chan's face.
Chan forced his eyes to look away from his hand and focus on Minho's face. His dongsaeng's expression was tight with worry, but his eyes were steady. Anchoring.
"That's it," Minho said. "Just keep looking at me."
"It hurts," Chan whispered.
"I know it hurts," Minho said. "I’m sorry, but I have to do this."
In one swift motion, Minho peeled away the blood-soaked towels. The wound was exposed for only a second—long enough for Chan to see how deep it really was, how much blood was still welling up—before Minho pressed the first gauze pad down firmly. Chan's vision whited out for a moment.
"One more," Minho muttered, adding a second gauze pad on top of the first, then a third, building layers. His movements were quick and efficient as he grabbed the bandage roll and began wrapping Chan's hand tightly, securing the gauze pads in place. He wound it around and around, his grip firm and steady.
But even as he tied it off, Chan could see the red beginning to seep through in spots. Dark patches spreading across the white bandage.
Minho's jaw tightened. He turned, yanked open the kitchen drawer—leaving a stark bloody handprint on the handle—and grabbed another towel. This one he wrapped around the entire bandaged hand, covering the evidence of fresh blood, hiding it from view.
"Manager-hyung is on his way," Changbin said. "He'll be here in five minutes. He's calling ahead to the hospital."
Minho nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes switching to Chan’s face.
"Talk to me," Minho suddenly said, noticing Chan had begun to stare into space, stare at nothing. "Tell me about that track you were working on. The third verse."
Chan blinked, trying to focus. "What?"
"The melody," Minho prompted. "What's wrong with it?"
Chan latched onto it like a lifeline. "It doesn't flow into the chorus properly. There's a disconnect."
"What would fix it?"
"Maybe... maybe if I changed the last two bars, brought the key up a half step..."
"Good, that’s good. What else?" Minho asked, and Chan could hear the relief in his voice that he was responding.
"I'm sorry," Chan said suddenly instead of answering. "I wasn't paying attention, I was distracted—"
"Stop," Minho said firmly. "You're exhausted. You've been running on empty for weeks. This was an accident."
The words hit harder than they should have. Chan's eyes burned.
"You're allowed to fall apart a little," Minho said, softer now, noticing Chan’s emotional walls beginning to rise and trying to stop him from closing off from them. "You're hurt."
"I'm the leader, I have to—"
"You have to let us take care of you sometimes," Minho interrupted. "That's what family does."
Family. Chan looked around the kitchen—at Changbin hovering close by, at Seungmin moving his fingers anxiously around the edges of the first aid kit, at Hyunjin with tears in his eyes, at Han wringing his hands in anxiety, at Felix with an arm around Jeongin in the doorway, both with matching expressions of worry.
His family.
The sound of the front door opening made everyone's heads turn. Their manager burst into the kitchen, his face pale as he took in the scene—Chan swaying on his feet, Minho's blood-stained hands wrapped around the towel, the red splattered across the counter.
"Car's running," he said, already moving toward them. "Let's go. Now."
"We're coming too—" Hyunjin started forward, but the manager held up a hand.
"No. Minho and Changbin only." His voice was firm but not unkind. "We can't all fit in the car, and the hospital won't let everyone back anyway. You need to stay here. Get things ready for when they come back."
"But hyung—" Felix's voice cracked.
"I know," the manager said, softer now. "But this is how you help right now. Okay?"
Hyunjin swallowed hard, nodding even as tears spilled down his cheeks. Seungmin's hand found his shoulder, squeezing.
"Changbin," the manager said. "Help me get him to the car."
Changbin moved immediately to Chan's other side, supporting him as Minho kept pressure on the wound. Chan's legs were unsteady, his face gray with pain and shock.
"We'll call as soon as we know anything," Minho said over his shoulder, his eyes finding each of the remaining members. "Take care of each other."
And then they were moving, guiding Chan toward the door. The remaining members crowded into the hallway, watching as their leader was helped down the stairs, Minho's voice a steady murmur of reassurance that faded with distance.
The front door closed.
The apartment fell silent.
Hyunjin stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the closed door. Beside him, Han was trembling, Felix had his face buried in Jeongin's shoulder, and Seungmin looked lost, the first aid kit still clutched in his hands.
The kitchen behind them was a disaster. Blood on the counter, on the cutting board, drops on the floor. The pot on the stove had boiled over, water hissing against the burner. The half-cut potatoes sat abandoned, one of them stained red.
Hyunjin took a shaky breath. Then another.
Someone had to move first. He was the eldest here now, he needed to pull himself together and act like it.
"Okay." His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Okay. We need to—" He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, his hand shaking.
"Hyung." Jeongin's voice was small. "Is he going to be okay?"
"Yes," Hyunjin said, forcing certainty into his tone even as his stomach churned. "Minho-hyung has it under control. The manager will get them there fast. Chan-hyung will be fine." He had to believe that. They all did.
Felix lifted his head from Jeongin's shoulder, his face blotchy and wet. "What do we do?"
What would Chan do? What would Minho do?
Hyunjin straightened his shoulders. "We take care of things here. So when they come back, everything's ready." He moved toward the kitchen, the others following hesitantly. "First—the stove. Someone turn it off before we have another emergency."
Seungmin moved immediately, twisting the knobs with shaking hands. The hissing stopped. The sudden quiet made the blood on the counter seem louder somehow, more present.
"The food," Hyunjin continued, his voice steadier now that he had a plan. "We need to finish dinner. Chan-hyung will be hungry when he gets back, and—" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "And we need to clean up."
No one moved. They were all staring at the blood.
There was so much of it. Splattered across the cutting board, pooled on the counter, drops leading toward where Chan had been standing. A smear on the cabinet handle where Minho had grabbed the towels. The potato, half-cut, sitting in a spreading red stain.
Han made a choked sound. "I can't—" He backed up a step, his face going pale. "I can't look at it."
"It's okay," Felix said quietly, but his voice was shaking too. "It's okay, Hannie."
"No, it's not." Han's breathing was coming faster. "That's Chan-hyung's blood. That's—he was just standing there, and now—"
"Han." Hyunjin caught his arm gently. "Go sit in the living room. You don't have to—"
"I should help," Han protested, but he was trembling all over now.
"You are helping," Hyunjin said firmly. "By not passing out on us. Go. Sit down. We've got this."
Han hesitated, then nodded jerkily and fled to the living room. They could hear him sink onto the couch, his breathing harsh and uneven.
Hyunjin glanced at Felix, who was staring after Han with concern written all over his face. Hyunjin caught his eye and nodded toward the living room, motioning for Felix to go. Felix didn't hesitate—he followed Han immediately, settling onto the couch beside him and wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. Han leaned into it, his shoulders shaking, his breathing still uneven.
Hyunjin turned back to the kitchen. Seungmin and Jeongin were still staring at the blood.
"I'll do it," Jeongin said suddenly. His voice was quiet but steady. "I'll clean it up."
"Innie, you don't have to—" Seungmin started.
"Someone has to." Jeongin moved toward the sink, pulling out the cleaning supplies from underneath. "And I can do it. I want to do it." He looked at Hyunjin, his jaw set. "Tell me what to use."
Hyunjin felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly. "Bleach solution. Gloves. And—" He grabbed a trash bag. "We'll need to throw away anything that can't be cleaned."
They worked in silence at first. Jeongin sprayed down the counter with shaking hands while Seungmin held the trash bag open. The cutting board went in first—there was no saving it. The potato. Then came the blood-soaked towels that Minho had wrapped around Chan's hand—they were the most saturated, dripping red as Seungmin carefully placed them in the bag, trying not to let the blood drip onto the floor.
Hyunjin picked up the knife from where it had fallen, his hands trembling. He stared at it for a moment—at the blood coating the blade, dark and accusatory. Then he moved to the sink, turning on the water.
"Hyung?" Seungmin said, watching him.
"We're not throwing it away," Hyunjin said quietly, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "It's just a knife."
He held the blade under the running water, watching the blood swirl down the drain. He scrubbed it clean with a dish brush and soap, then sprayed it with the bleach solution and scrubbed again. He washed and rinsed one last time before drying it on a clean towel.
Finished, Hyunjin moved to put the knife away in its proper place in the knife block, sliding it home with a soft click. It was restored. It was safe. It was ready to be used again—just not today.
The blood on the counter was the hardest part. Jeongin wiped it once, twice, the paper towels coming away red. He had to stop, his breath hitching.
"I've got it," Seungmin said quietly, taking the spray bottle. "Take a break."
"I can do it—"
"I know you can." Seungmin's voice was gentle. "But you don't have to do it alone."
They traded off, one wiping while the other held the bag, then switching when it got too hard to keep going. Hyunjin moved to the cabinet handle, where Minho's bloody handprint was still visible—fingers and palm pressed into the wood in dark red. He scrubbed at it frantically, his knuckles white with effort, trying to erase this evidence of panic, of blood, of the moment Minho had yanked open the drawer in desperation. The handprint resisted at first, stubborn, before finally fading under the spray and his determined scrubbing. Seungmin got down on his hands and knees to wipe up the drops on the floor, each one a small red accusation.
This was where Chan had stood. This was where he'd been hurt. This was where everything had gone wrong.
Hyunjin's vision blurred. He blinked hard, scrubbing at the cabinet handle until the last trace of the handprint disappeared.
"Hyung." Seungmin's hand on his shoulder. "It's clean. It's all clean now."
Hyunjin sat back, looking around. The kitchen looked normal again. White counters, clean floor, no evidence of what had happened except for the bulging trash bag and their own shaken faces.
"Okay," he said, his voice rough. "Okay. Good. Now—" He looked at the abandoned vegetables, the pot of water, the recipe Chan had been following. "Now we finish dinner."
"Do you know how to make it?" Jeongin asked.
"No," Hyunjin admitted. "But Chan-hyung left the recipe out. We can figure it out."
From the living room, Felix appeared in the doorway, Han beside him. Han's color was better now, his breathing steadier, though his eyes were still red. Felix's arm was still around his shoulders.
"I can help," Han offered quietly, his voice still a little shaky but determined.
"Of course you can," Felix said, guiding him toward the counter. He reached into the knife block and pulled out a different blade—not the one that Chan had used, but a smaller paring knife. "You can prep everything for me."
Han nodded, moving to the sink. He began washing the vegetables with careful, methodical movements—carrots, potatoes, onions—rinsing each one thoroughly and setting them on a clean towel. His hands steadied as he worked, the repetitive motion grounding him. Felix stood beside him, and Han handed over each vegetable as it was ready.
"Spices," Seungmin read from the recipe. "We need garlic, thyme, and—"
Han was already moving, pulling open the spice cabinet and arranging the jars on the counter in order, reading each label carefully. He found the garlic and set it aside, his focus narrowing to the small, manageable tasks.
They fell into a rhythm. Han washed and prepped, Felix chopped with steady, careful movements. Seungmin read the recipe aloud, checking and double-checking each step. Jeongin stirred the pot, watching the heat carefully. Hyunjin moved between them all, helping where needed, keeping them on track.
It wasn't perfect. The vegetables weren't cut as evenly as Chan would have done. The seasoning was probably off, not like Minho would make it. But they were doing it together, and that mattered.
"He's going to be okay," Felix said suddenly, his voice thick. "Right?"
"Yes, he’s going to be okay," Hyunjin confirmed. "And when he gets back, he's going to have a hot meal waiting."
Outside, the night deepened. Inside, they worked on, keeping the warmth alive, keeping the promise alive: We're here. We're waiting. Come back to us.
---
The towel around his hand was now soaked through with blood, the bandages beneath already saturated despite Minho's efforts. His hands were stained red as he maintained steady pressure, his jaw set with concentration.
"Almost there," the manager said from the driver's seat, his eyes fixed on the road. "Just a few more minutes."
In the front passenger seat, Changbin turned slightly, looking back at Chan in the rear seat. "You're doing good, hyung," he said quietly, his voice steady and sure. "Just breathe. We're almost at the hospital."
Chan leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. He felt wrung out, exhausted in a way that went beyond physical tiredness. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the persistent, inescapable pain.
"Stay awake," Minho said gently, his voice calm despite the tension in his shoulders. "I know you're tired, but stay awake for me, okay?"
"'M awake," Chan mumbled, forcing his eyes open. The streetlights outside were blurring past, streaks of gold and white in the darkness. How had it gotten dark? It had been evening when they started cooking, the sky still holding the last light of day. Now it was full night, and Chan had lost time somewhere in the shock and pain.
Changbin reached back between the seats, his hand finding Chan's knee. "We're almost there," he repeated, his presence solid and grounding.
The hospital was bright and sterile and overwhelming. Chan was ushered into an examination room, Minho still at his side, still holding his hand. Changbin followed them in, positioning himself against the wall near the door—close enough to be present, far enough to give the medical staff space to work. He held Chan's jacket, folded it carefully over his arm, a small anchor of normalcy in the chaos.
A nurse carefully unwrapped the blood-soaked towel, revealing the tight bandages beneath, saturated with blood in several spots. Chan made himself look away as she examined the wound.
"You're going to need stitches," she said, confirming what they already knew. "Quite a few, actually. It's a deep laceration, but clean. You're lucky—no tendon damage that I can see, no nerve damage. You'll have full function once it heals."
Lucky. Chan almost laughed. He didn't feel lucky.
The doctor came in, kind-faced and efficient, and explained the procedure. Local anesthetic. Stitches. Bandaging. Antibiotics to prevent infection. Follow-up care. The words washed over Chan in a wave, and he just nodded, too tired to process it all.
"You'll need to stay still," the doctor said gently. "This is going to take a while."
Minho squeezed his shoulder. "I'll be right here," he said. "The whole time."
The injection of local anesthetic was its own special kind of pain, sharp and burning, but then blessed numbness began to spread through his palm. Chan watched the ceiling tiles as the doctor worked, counting them, trying not to think about the tugging sensation as the needle went through his skin again and again, pulling the edges of the wound together.
Changbin stepped closer, moving to stand behind Minho. When Chan's free hand clenched involuntarily, Changbin reached out and gently steadied his arm, keeping it still for the doctor. Small gestures. Quiet support. But they mattered.
Minho kept up a steady stream of quiet conversation, talking about nothing and everything—about the dinner he'd been making, about Jisung's terrible jokes earlier that day, about the new choreography they were learning. Anchoring Chan to the present, to the world beyond the examination room and the injury and the fear.
By the time it was over, Chan felt like he'd run a marathon. His hand was wrapped in clean white bandages, the wound hidden beneath layers of gauze and medical tape. The doctor gave him a prescription for pain medication and a list of care instructions, warned him about signs of infection to watch for, told him to come back in a week to have the stitches checked.
"And get some rest," the doctor added, looking at Chan with knowing eyes. "Real rest. Your body needs time to heal, and it can't do that if you're running yourself into the ground."
The nurse stepped forward to check the bandage, and Minho moved back to give them space. That's when he saw it—his hands, palms up, stained dark red. Some of the blood had dried into the creases of his skin, brown and flaking. Some was still wet, smeared across his fingers from where he'd held Chan's injured hand, from the towels he'd pressed against the wound, from the frantic moments in the kitchen when all that mattered was stopping the bleeding.
His stomach turned.
"I— I’ll be right back," Minho said abruptly, his voice tight. He didn't wait for a response before turning and walking quickly out of the examination room.
The hospital bathroom was sterile and cold, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Minho went straight to the sink and turned the water on as hot as he could stand. He pumped soap into his palm once, twice, three times, and began scrubbing.
The water ran pink, then red, then pink again. He scrubbed harder, working the soap between his fingers, under his nails, across his palms. The blood came off in streaks and swirls, disappearing down the drain. But when he looked down, he could still see it. Dark lines in the creases. Stains that wouldn't come out.
He pumped more soap. Scrubbed again.
The door opened behind him. Minho didn't look up.
"Hyung."
Changbin's voice was quiet. He moved to stand beside Minho at the sink, watching him scrub his hands raw under the scalding water.
"It's gone," Changbin said gently.
"No, it isn’t." Minho's voice was flat, controlled. He kept scrubbing.
Changbin reached over and turned off the water. Then his hands closed over Minho's, stilling them. "It's gone," he repeated, firmer this time.
Minho's jaw clenched. He stared down at their hands—Changbin's warm and dry, his own rubbed red and dripping. "There was so much blood," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word despite his best efforts to keep it steady.
"I know."
"I didn't—" Minho stopped. Swallowed hard. "I didn't know if I was doing enough. If I was helping or just—"
"You saved him from losing too much blood," Changbin said firmly. He grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and began drying Minho's hands with careful, deliberate movements. "You kept him calm. You got him here. You did everything right."
Minho's shoulders sagged slightly. He let Changbin dry his hands, let himself be cared for in this small, quiet way. "He scared me," he admitted, barely above a whisper.
"He scared all of us." Changbin finished drying Minho's hands and tossed the paper towels in the trash. Then he turned to face him fully, his expression open and understanding. "But he's okay. The doctor said he'll be fine."
Minho nodded. He took a slow breath, then another, feeling the tightness in his chest begin to ease. "Yeah. He will be."
Changbin squeezed his shoulder. "Ready to go back?"
Minho looked down at his hands one more time—clean now, the skin pink from scrubbing but free of blood. He flexed his fingers, then nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."
They walked back to the examination room together, and when they opened the door, Chan was sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking exhausted but whole. His eyes found Minho's immediately and he could see some of the stress leave Chan’s face as the corners of his mouth curved up. At that soft smile, something in Minho's chest finally settled.
---
The ride back to the dorm was quiet. Chan sat with his bandaged hand cradled in his lap, Minho pressed against his side in the back seat. Changbin sat in front with the manager, but he kept turning slightly, checking on Chan, making sure he was okay. The pain medication was starting to kick in, dulling the sharp edges of the hurt into something more manageable, but the exhaustion remained.
When they pulled up to the dorm, Changbin opened the car door, but it was Minho who moved first, sliding out and then turning back to help Chan carefully. His hands were steady on Chan's arm, guiding him out of the back seat with the kind of attention that came from watching for every wince, every hesitation.
"Easy," Minho murmured, his voice low and grounding. "Take your time."
Chan leaned into him without thinking, letting Minho take some of his weight as they moved toward the entrance. Minho's arm was solid around his back, his other hand hovering near Chan's bandaged one, ready to catch it if he stumbled. Changbin walked alongside them, a quiet presence, but it was Minho who was holding Chan up, Minho who was watching his face for signs of pain, Minho who adjusted their pace when Chan's steps faltered.
The door swung open before they even reached it.
Hyunjin stood in the doorway, and behind him—Felix, Seungmin, Han, and Jeongin, all crowded together, all watching with eyes that had been worried sick. When they saw Chan, saw him moving under his own power, saw Minho supporting him with Changbin nearby, something seemed to release in all of them at once.
"Hyung," Hyunjin breathed, stepping forward. "You're okay. You're—"
"I'm okay," Chan said, and his voice was rough but steady.
Minho guided him gently past the threshold, his grip never loosening, his attention never wavering. "Let's get you inside," he said quietly, and there was something in his tone that made everyone move, made space, made room for Chan to come home.
The smell hit Chan first—warm and savory, the rich aroma of home-cooked food that made his exhausted mind struggle to catch up. Chan blinked, confused, as Minho guided him further into the apartment. The kitchen was spotless. Gleaming, even. No trace of what had happened there hours ago, no lingering evidence of blood or panic. Just clean counters and the gentle warmth of the oven.
On the table, dishes were laid out with care. Rice, still steaming. The soup Minho had started, finished and fragrant. Side dishes arranged neatly. Everything prepared, everything waiting.
"You finished," Chan said softly, and his voice cracked slightly.
"Of course we did," Seungmin said, moving to pull out a chair. "You think we were going to let you come home to an empty kitchen?"
Minho was the one who eased Chan into the seat, his hands careful on his shoulders, making sure his injured hand was positioned comfortably on the table. He crouched down slightly, checking Chan's face. "How's the pain? Do you need more medication yet?"
"I'm okay," Chan said, but Minho's eyes narrowed slightly, reading him the way he always could.
"Tell me if that changes." Minho straightened, but he didn't move away. Instead, he took the seat directly beside Chan, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
Felix brought water without being asked, setting it within easy reach of Chan's good hand. Hyunjin hovered nearby, and Jeongin watched with worried eyes, but it was Minho who began serving Chan's plate—spooning rice, ladling soup, his movements efficient and practiced.
Chan looked at the meal—at the evidence of their love, their care, their refusal to let him carry this alone—and felt his eyes burn with unshed tears.
"How many stitches?" Han asked, his voice small.
"Fifteen," Chan said, and watched them all wince in sympathy.
"Does it still hurt?" Felix asked, his eyes wide and worried.
"Not so much anymore," Chan said, which was mostly true. The medication was helping, and the sharp, immediate pain had faded into a dull, distant ache. "I'll be okay."
Minho picked up Chan's spoon, placed it carefully in his good hand, then reached for one of the side dishes. "This one needs to be cut smaller," he said quietly, almost to himself, and began cutting the pieces of japchae into more manageable bites. He moved a bowl of soup closer, made sure the rice was within easy reach, adjusted the angle of Chan's water glass. It was the same focused attention he'd shown at the hospital, the same careful watchfulness, and Chan felt something warm settle in his chest.
"Minho—," Chan started, but Minho shook his head.
"Eat." But his voice was soft, and when he glanced up, his eyes were gentle.
"You scared us," Seungmin said quietly, and there was a tremor in his voice that made Chan's chest tight.
"I scared myself," Chan admitted. "I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing," Changbin said, but his voice was gentle. "Just... let us take care of you for once, okay? Let us help."
Chan looked around at them—his members, his brothers, his family—and felt something in him finally, truly relax. He'd spent so long trying to be strong for them, trying to carry everything himself, that he'd forgotten it was okay to lean on them sometimes. That they wanted to carry him too.
Minho's hand came to rest briefly on Chan's shoulder, a quiet reassurance. Small gestures, but each one deliberate, each one saying: I'm here. I've got you.
They ate dinner together, crowded around the table, and for once Chan let himself just be present. Not thinking about schedules or songs or responsibilities. Just here, now, with the people he loved most in the world.
His hand throbbed beneath the bandages, a constant reminder of how quickly things could change, how fragile the everyday really was. But it was also a reminder that he wasn't alone. That when he fell, there were hands to catch him. That when he bled, there were people who would stop the bleeding.
Later, when he was settled on the couch with his hand elevated on a pillow, Minho brought him tea and sat beside him.
"You need to slow down," Minho said quietly. "This was a warning, hyung. Your body is telling you that you can't keep going like this."
Chan wanted to argue, wanted to say that he was fine, that he could handle it. But the words wouldn't come. Because Minho was right. He'd been running on empty for so long that he'd forgotten what it felt like to be full.
"I don't know how to slow down, to not be ‘on’ all the time," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Then we'll teach you," Minho said. "We'll help you. But you have to let us."
Chan looked down at his bandaged hand, at the stark white gauze that covered the evidence of his mistake, his exhaustion, his humanity. It would heal. The doctor had said so. In a few weeks, there would just be a scar, a thin line across his palm to remind him of the night the knife slipped.
But maybe that was okay. Maybe scars were just proof that you'd survived something. That you'd been hurt and healed and kept going.
"Okay," Chan said again, and this time he meant it. "I'll try."
Minho smiled, soft and relieved, and squeezed his shoulder. "That's all we ask."
Outside, Seoul glittered in the darkness, the city that never slept. But inside the dorm, in the warm glow of the living room lights, surrounded by the people who loved him, Chan finally let himself rest.
His hand throbbed. His body was heavy with exhaustion. But he was home, and he was safe, and he was not alone.
And for now, that was enough.
The End