Chapter Text
Mingyu sat on the edge of the bed, freshly dressed in comfortable clothes, hair still damp from his shower. The morning light filtered through the half-drawn hospital curtains.
The familiar beeping of distant monitors and hushed footsteps in the hallway did little to quiet the chaos inside his heart.
Last night still lingered, raw, electric, too fragile to speak about.
He could still feel the warmth of Wonwoo’s arms on the rooftop, the desperation in his voice as he whispered Mingyu’s name like it was a prayer. For the first time since waking up in this hospital, Mingyu had felt it: love. The kind that held weight. The kind that had always lived in Wonwoo’s eyes.
The door creaked open. Minghao and Seungcheol stepped in, warm and smiling, but Mingyu’s eyes darted past them...searching. Hoping.
Then Wonwoo walked in, a thin folder of documents in his hand, his white coat a little more wrinkled than usual, dark circles beneath his eyes betraying the sleeplessness he never talked about.
“Hey,” Wonwoo greeted the others with a nod, voice polite but distant. He handed Seungcheol the folder. “These are his discharge papers. Meds schedule’s in there too. He’s not completely healed yet. Be careful.”
There was a strange stillness in the air, like the kind that settled before a summer storm.
Seungcheol gave a tight nod and glanced at Minghao. “We’ll… wait outside.”
The door clicked shut behind them.
Wonwoo finally turned to Mingyu.
He walked over slowly, eyes softening as he reached out, brushing his fingers gently through Mingyu’s hair, a habit from another time, a time Mingyu still believed was now.
“I’m serious,” Wonwoo said quietly. “Take your meds on time. Don’t skip meals. You’re not fully healed yet.”
Mingyu gazed up at him, his heart in his throat. “You’re really not coming with me?”
Wonwoo smiled barely. “I have a 24-hour shift today, Mingyu-ah. I really can’t.”
“Oh.” Mingyu’s voice was soft. Understanding. Too understanding. “Okay.”
He didn’t ask for anything more. But in his eyes, there was a hope, quiet and trembling.
Wonwoo saw it. Knew what Mingyu was waiting for.
But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t risk pressing his lips to a forehead he’d kissed a hundred times before. Because if he did, it would mean stepping into something he wasn’t sure he could survive again.
Before either of them could say more, a knock came at the door.
“Time to go,” Seungcheol called gently.
Wonwoo turned, but Mingyu stood and wrapped his arms around him before he could take another step. Tight. Familiar. Like home.
Wonwoo froze.
Seungcheol averted his eyes, shifting awkwardly by the door.
“Don’t overwork,” Mingyu murmured into Wonwoo’s shoulder. “Come to me tomorrow, okay? I’ll be waiting.”
Wonwoo’s throat clenched. The words were too easy. Too real. Like nothing had ever fallen apart between them. Like his heart hadn’t been shattered and pieced together with trembling hands.
He didn’t trust himself to speak.
So he just rubbed Mingyu’s back, slow and steady. A hum escaped his lips—barely audible, but it was all he could give.
Mingyu pulled back with a small smile. And even though Wonwoo didn’t kiss him, didn’t say “I will,” he still looked at him like he was his everything.
Wonwoo stood in that room long after the door closed behind them.
He looked down at the space where Mingyu had stood. His fingers still tingled from brushing through his hair. His chest ached with the words he couldn’t say.
---
Wonwoo was alone in his chamber, sitting stiffly in the chair by his desk, eyes fixed on the patient chart in front of him but not reading a single word. His white coat hung over the back of his seat, untouched, as if he couldn't bear the weight of it right now.
A soft knock tapped at the door before it creaked open.
“Lunch?” Jeonghan’s familiar voice floated in, his head poking through the gap. His coat was draped neatly around his shoulders in that effortlessly elegant way of his, like he belonged in a magazine rather than the neurology wing.
Wonwoo blinked and looked up. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
They walked in silence down the white corridors, sterile, clean, and yet stifling. The cafeteria was half-full, the midday lull having just begun. They settled into a corner table near the window, trays of warm food between them. Wonwoo stirred the rice on his plate with his chopsticks but made no move to eat.
Jeonghan watched him quietly for a moment. Then, gently, “Mingyu?”
“He was discharged today,” Wonwoo replied, voice flat but not cold. Just tired. A kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure.
Jeonghan nodded slowly. “I figured.”
There was another pause, this one longer. Jeonghan waited, letting the silence wrap around them like a shawl rather than a wall. He always knew how to leave space for the truth to breathe.
Then, softly, “Wonwoo-ah…”
Wonwoo didn’t look up.
“I know how hard all of this is for you,” Jeonghan said. “I’ve been watching you keep it all together. Pretending everything is fine. And I just… I wish I could do something for you.”
Wonwoo swallowed, his throat dry. “You are.”
“Am I?” Jeonghan offered a sad smile. “Because I see you holding your breath around him. I see how you flinch every time he says something like nothing ever happened. It’s like he’s still in love with you. And you… you never stopped.”
Wonwoo’s grip on his chopsticks tightened. His voice, when it came, was low. “I thought I was getting better.”
“I know,” Jeonghan said gently.
“I thought I had moved on.” Wonwoo let out a bitter breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “It took me months to stop waiting for his texts. Even longer to delete the photos. I… I really tried. And now, suddenly, he’s here again. In front of me. Looking at me like I’m still his.”
Jeonghan reached across the table, placing a comforting hand over Wonwoo’s clenched fist.
“He doesn’t know,” Jeonghan said quietly. “And maybe that makes it easier for him. But not for you. You’re the one who remembers everything. And you’re the one pretending.”
Wonwoo’s eyes burned, but no tears came. He was too practiced at this—holding it in, swallowing it down, learning how to live with the ache.
“I keep asking myself,” he whispered, “how do I protect him… without losing myself all over again?”
Jeonghan didn’t have an answer. But his hand stayed, steady and warm. And maybe for now, that was enough.
---
The apartment smelled the same.
Mingyu paused in the doorway, letting the quiet air wrap around him. There was the faint scent of citrus from the diffuser in the living room, the same deep blue curtains he remembered, the sofa a little more worn than he recalled. His shoes slipped off automatically, muscle memory guiding him before thought could catch up.
Seungcheol and Minghao helped carry in the bags and medications. Their voices echoed distantly, reminders about food, rest, calling if anything felt off.
Mingyu nodded through it all, smiled, said thank you. But he wasn’t really listening.
Because Wonwoo wasn’t there.
He waited, anyway.
He showered. Changed into his favorite gray hoodie, the one he always wore when they ordered late-night takeout and watched movies on the floor. The one Wonwoo used to tug the strings of when he wanted attention but wouldn’t ask for it.
He kept glancing at the clock.
Dinner came and went. Seungcheol had left kimchi stew in the fridge. Minghao had made sure the meds were labeled clearly. But the food didn’t taste like anything. It wasn’t even about being sick, it was something else. Something hollow.
Mingyu sat on the couch afterward, knees pulled to his chest, the TV playing on mute. The apartment was too quiet, even with the light hum of the city outside the window.
He stared at his phone.
No texts. No missed calls.
Just a vague memory of warm hands in his hair and a voice saying, “You’re not healed yet. Take care of yourself.”
He replayed it over and over. The way Wonwoo’s fingers brushed through his hair. The look in his eyes. The way he didn’t kiss him goodbye.
Was it because he was at work? Because someone might’ve seen? Or...
Mingyu wrapped his arms tighter around his knees. The ache in his ribs had dulled to a soft throb, but something deeper inside him still hurt.
He didn’t understand why Wonwoo felt distant. Not cold, never cold. Just guarded. Careful. Like he was afraid to get too close.
But why?
They’d been together for years. Hadn’t they?
Mingyu frowned, rubbing his palm over his chest as if that could ease the tension building there. His memories, everything before the accident felt vivid, sharp. He could remember the way Wonwoo laughed when he was tipsy, the way he muttered “idiot” when Mingyu forgot the laundry again, the exact pattern of freckles across his shoulders.
They were real.
They are real.
So why did it feel like something was missing?
He reached for his phone again. Hovered over Wonwoo’s name. Then, hesitating, he opened the photo album instead. It surprised him how there were no recent pictures of them. The last one he could find was over two year old. A selfie taken at some café, both of them mid-laugh.
He frowned.
“Wonwoo-hyung…” he whispered to no one.
His chest tightened.
“…what happened to us?”
But no one answered.
He stayed like that, curled up on the couch, the TV screen casting soft light across the room, his heart whispering questions he wasn’t ready to ask.