Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wooyoung was a joyous child. The kind that would chase butterflies in the garden just to make his mother laugh. He was the precious jewel of the Jung family, the promised heir of Jung Corp. His father called him sunshine, his mother claimed he was the reason flowers bloomed early in spring.

But life, cruel as ever, had other plans.

At fourteen, it began — the disease. No one gave it a proper name. Some called it genetic decay, others a cursed affliction. To Wooyoung, it was just pain. His skin ached at the gentlest touch, stress made his nose bleed, and his bright, lively eyes dulled until they looked like hollow glass marbles. He lost weight so fast it frightened people. His hair, once praised for its soft luster, could only be cut when it reached his lower back because the scissors hurt too much against his scalp.

They called him names. Walking zombie. Corpse boy. Fragile heir. The whispers in school corridors stung worse than the illness.

Yet, his parents loved him. Always. His father’s smile never faltered. His mother held him close, even when he flinched. He was still their jewel, their future.

Then, his father died when Wooyoung was eighteen. Lung cancer. The man who promised to protect him until the end was gone. His mother wept quietly at night. And so, the family hired a bodyguard — Choi San.

Five years younger. But he looked older. Stronger. Healthier. Unscarred by pain.

Wooyoung hated him.

He hated the way San’s steady hands guided him out of chairs, the way he stood by during his nosebleeds, or how he carried him to bed when his body failed. He despised how soft his heart felt around the man, how a single act of kindness cracked him like old glass.

And through it all, he never said thank you. Not until he turned twenty-nine.

By then, his mother was gone too. A heart attack.

And Wooyoung was left alone in a world that had done nothing but take.

The day he buried her, something inside him shattered. The boy who once chased butterflies and wept at cruel words no longer existed.

As CEO of Jung Corp, he became cold. Calculative. The smile that once could brighten any room was dead. His wardrobe turned to black, save for the rare occasion he tolerated white. The world called him ruthless. They whispered about the beautiful CEO who ruled with an iron heart, and none of them knew the disease still lingered in his bones.

San stayed. Never asking for more than Wooyoung could give.

And even in the ugliest moments, Wooyoung managed to look beautiful. A ghostly kind of beauty. The kind that hurt to look at because it reminded people of what was lost.

He kept moving. Because even if it was all fucked up, it was all he had left.

Chapter Text

Wooyoung stepped out of the sleek black car, the soft thud of his heels tapping against the pavement. From the other side, San followed, carrying most of his armbag and briefcase.

As they made their way inside the J.W.Y Corp building, the faint stir of conversation stilled, the air thick with restrained glances and lowered heads.

“Good morning, Young Master,” an employee murmured, bowing her head, careful to avoid his gaze.

Wooyoung gave a curt nod, a faint exhale slipping past his lips. Beside him, San responded quietly with a gentle, “Good morning,” though he wasn’t supposed to speak in his place.

They moved toward the elevator just as its doors were about to close. Inside, the employees instinctively shifted aside, creating space for them. No one dared meet his eyes. Out of fear, out of caution — Wooyoung never knew, and never cared enough to ask. It was strange, but he wouldn’t complain.

The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and the weight in the air seemed to lift slightly as they stepped out.

Just as they neared the office, a woman in a striking rogue dress approached them, her bold lipstick thick against the softness of her otherwise subdued makeup. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew exactly the kind of effect she had.

“Well, hello there, Young Master,” she smirked, voice smooth like wine.

Wooyoung met her gaze, sharp and wordless.

“It’s been a while since we last met,” she teased.

“That while was last week, I suppose,” Wooyoung purred, his voice thick and unimpressed.

She let out a breathy laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before her gaze slid to San, who stood perfectly still at Wooyoung’s side.

“I see your guard dog still follows you around, huh?” she remarked, eyes raking over him.

Wooyoung had bodyguards — ten of them, in fact. But San wasn’t just one of them. San was his personal bodyguard.

And unlike the others in stiff black suits, San dressed like he belonged on a runway. Today, it was a fitted black turtleneck that outlined his toned frame, greyish tailored pants, sharp boots, and a pair of clear, rectangular designer glasses that could pay someone’s rent twice over.

He was assigned to Wooyoung by his father before the old man passed. At the time, San was just eighteen. Wooyoung? Twenty-three.

Crazy, right?

“Mind you, he doesn’t like being stared at for too long.”

Wooyoung’s voice cut through the air, snapping his fingers once to pull her attention back.

She giggled — of course she did — the kind of laugh that made his teeth itch. Then, without missing a beat, she turned on her heels.

“Well then, have fun,” she chirped, already striding off. “I’ll see you around. I’ve got a flight to Italy to catch.”

And before leaving, she winked.

At San.

Sp ecifically.

Rolling his eyes, Wooyoung pushed open his office door. The familiar scent of lavender greeted him instantly, blending with the gentle sweetness of fresh floysthia flowers arranged neatly on his mahogany desk. The floor-to-ceiling windows gleamed, though barely a trace of dust ever lingered here.

Despite his sharp demeanor, Wooyoung kept certain comforts close. Lavender reminded him of his mother. The floysthia flowers — a quiet habit from a coworker long before his father’s liver cancer changed everything.

San set the bags on the table, then made his way to the couch by the glass wall that divided the room. The office was vast — no one would be surprised to find an entirely separate, soundproofed space behind it, where plush couches circled a polished dinner table.

Before Wooyoung could claim his seat, an employee arrived with coffee and a small tray of pastries.

“Your food, sir,” the man murmured, placing it in front of San. A quick bow. Then he bolted like the air itself had grown too heavy to breathe.

San barely spared him a glance as he watched the door shut. Then, in his usual calm, unhurried voice, he spoke.

“Would you eat before or after the shot?”

He opened the briefcase, the soft click of the latches filling the room. Inside — the usual sterile kit, chilled vial, and the sharp glint of a prepared syringe.

Ah, yes. Beneath Jung Wooyoung’s stature — the Young Master persona, the cold stares, the unyielding authority — was a frail soul carrying a grave illness carved into his bones since he was fourteen.

His parents tried to pretend otherwise, dressing his suffering in silk and money. But Wooyoung had always lived somewhere between half-dead and half-alive. Nosebleeds without warning, sudden fainting spells, appetite that vanished for days, his blood pressure like a damn seesaw. Yet none of those things were what truly made him vulnerable.

No — it was his voice.

Wooyoung was slightly speech impaired. A cruel remnant from a single day that derailed his world.

He could manage one sentence, sometimes two, before his throat locked up, his mind recoiled, and his voice shut itself away for hours. Silence wasn’t a choice. It was survival.

When he was eighteen, a school program — something meant to look good on university applications — turned ugly. A fight broke out. Chaos. Parents were summoned. Police too.

Something happened to Wooyoung that day.

Something was forced into his throat — jabbed or shoved — and it broke him.

To this day, neither his dead parents nor his therapist ever knew what it was. And Wooyoung wasn’t ready to tell a goddamn soul.

So, San waited.

He always did.

He watched for the small, near-imperceptible cue — a single raised finger from Wooyoung. Not assuming, not pressing. Because San knew better than to jump to conclusions like some overzealous idiot from the past.

The finger lifted.

San gave a small nod, assembling the kit back to its place quietly. He placed the food where it belonged, neither of them speaking as the pastries and coffee sat untouched for a while. When Wooyoung was ready, they’d eat. Or not.

And in that vast, lavender-scented room, they settled into a familiar silence that wasn’t empty.

It was safe.

After they finished eating — or rather, San ate while Wooyoung barely touched anything — the familiar hush returned to the room. The pastries sat forgotten, the coffee cooling beside the unopened documents on the desk.

Wooyoung leaned forward against the mahogany, his weight shifting to one side, one hand bracing the edge. His eyes stayed fixed on the skyline outside the window, expression unreadable. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t bravery either. It was something in-between — that quiet, resigned calm that came only when you’ve been through something too many times to flinch anymore.

San moved without needing to ask.

He cleaned the syringe, his hands practiced and sure. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mingling with lavender.

“Cold,” San murmured, a soft courtesy rather than a warning.

Wooyoung didn’t reply. He simply tilted his body enough for San to slide the waistband of his trousers down just a little, revealing the pale skin of his hip. There, already faint bruises bloomed — ghosts of injections past.

San placed a steady hand against his side, thumb brushing in a small, grounding motion. Then, with precise ease, the cold metal sank in.

A small, sharp breath escaped Wooyoung’s lips, but no sound followed. No protest. No complaint. Just that slight tensing of his jaw.

San pressed the plunger down slow, making sure no sting came from rushing it.

This was why it went in at the hip — a compromise from years ago. Less muscle, less movement, fewer pain signals firing through an already shot nervous system.

When it was done, San withdrew the needle, pressing a thumb against the spot to stop any bleed. He disposed of the syringe carefully, wiped his hands, and tugged Wooyoung’s waistband back into place with quiet precision.

Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t have to.

And for a moment, all that existed was the soft hum of the city beyond the glass, and the sharp scent of floysthia flowers in bloom.

After the injection, Wooyoung straightened slowly, his fingers brushing over the desk’s polished surface as if grounding himself. The lingering sting at his hip was already forgotten — a background ache compared to everything else.

San, as always, was a step ahead.

He gathered the documents laid out for the day’s meetings — sleek folders, contracts, and a digital tablet — stacking them neatly beneath one arm. Without a word, he gave Wooyoung a look, a silent exchange only the two of them could understand.

I’ve got it.

And Wooyoung, in turn, gave the smallest of nods.

It had been like this for years now. Most of the boardroom, shareholders, external clients — they assumed Choi San was the man running J.W.Y Corp. The way he carried himself, spoke for the company, made decisions on behalf of the “Young Master.”

He was always there, in every meeting. Flawless in speech. Charismatic when necessary. Ice-cold when it counted.

No one questioned it.

Because Wooyoung rarely attended meetings anymore, and when he did, he barely spoke. His illness and speech impairment weren’t public knowledge — only whispers in backrooms and elevators.

It didn’t help that San’s presence radiated authority in a way that made people straighten their backs and hold their tongues.

As San made his way to the door, he glanced back once.

“Rest a while. I’ll handle them,” his voice was low, soothing, and meant only for Wooyoung.

Another soft nod.

And just like that, San disappeared down the hall, documents in hand, while Wooyoung remained in his lavender-scented sanctuary, left to watch the clouds drift listlessly over the skyline.

It was easier this way.

San’s boots hit the marble floor in steady, measured strides — a sharp, echoing sound in the otherwise muted corridor. The staff that crossed his path either stepped aside or bowed their heads, unwilling to meet his gaze. Not out of respect, but survival instinct.

Because San was beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful: cold, untouchable, and capable of leveling cities when it felt like it.

The boardroom doors opened without him breaking stride. The soft click of the latch giving way was the only announcement needed.

And then — silence.

Conversations died mid-sentence. Laughter shriveled into nervous chuckles. Every high-ranking executive and regional director in the room shot to their feet as if they’d just realized they were standing in the presence of something dangerous.

“Good morning, Mr. Choi,” they echoed in near unison, some a little late, some too eager.

San didn’t smile.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t even blink as he walked to the head of the table, placing the documents down with a quiet finality. His rectangular glasses caught the light, briefly flashing like a blade. The room stayed standing until he gestured with a hand — the smallest flick of his fingers — and only then did everyone sink back into their seats.

“Let’s not waste time,” San’s voice was deep, the kind of voice that made people sit straighter and double-check their figures.

Because for all his elegance and melancholy, San was ruthless when it came to this company — Wooyoung’s company.

And anyone who so much as whispered a word against the Young Master behind closed doors, well… let’s just say the last person who tried was transferred to a subsidiary in rural Mongolia, no return ticket.

He scanned the room, gaze sharp and unblinking. No one could hold his stare for long. A few tried and faltered. The usual brash ones swallowed thickly.

Because while Choi San looked like he belonged in a Calvin Klein ad, beneath the tailored turtleneck and expensive boots was a man who’d buried people with a stare alone.

And today, the first one to fumble their numbers would find out exactly what that felt like.

The meeting had been running smooth. Numbers were reported. Projections made. San’s voice a steady, unflinching presence guiding the conversation like the tide pulling ships.

Until —

A voice, low but careless, slithered through the quiet like a venomous snake.

"How long is that young man going to be in place of that so-called heir of this business?"

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t meant to be heard beyond the person beside him.

But San heard it.

Of course, he did.

Because San always heard everything.

His head didn’t move at first, gaze still locked on the revenue chart displayed on the screen. The room noticed too, the faint ripple of unease shifting through chairs and glances as if some primal instinct warned them a storm was brewing.

Then, without so much as a word, San turned. The slow, deliberate tilt of his head to the side. The way those sharp, obsidian eyes slid toward the offender, catching him like a wolf sighting prey.

The room froze. You could hear a goddamn pin drop.

“Repeat that,” San said — soft, polite even. A velvety threat.

The man paled, his throat bobbing visibly. “I… I meant no offense, Mr. Choi—”

“No, no,” San smiled. But it wasn’t a kind one. It was the kind of smile you see before a sword swings down. “I insist. Repeat it.”

The man beside him quietly inched his chair away.

“I… merely wondered… how long until the rightful heir takes his seat,” he stammered.

San’s fingers tapped the table once. A single, sharp tap.

“I see,” San mused, his tone light, even conversational. “So you question the competence of my employer. In front of me.”

“No— that’s not what I—”

“I’d like you to gather your things by end of today,” San continued smoothly, not raising his voice. “HR will have your transfer paperwork to our mining site in Jeju by noon. You’ll be reporting to Mr. Kang. He’s strict about punctuality. And pitiful little remarks.”

A beat of silence. Then San’s eyes moved to the rest of the room. “Anyone else curious about my employer’s rightful place?”

Not a soul dared blink.

“Good,” San smiled again. “Then let’s continue.”

And just like that — the storm passed. But the room knew b

etter.

It was never really over. Not with San.

~♣~

"Care to explain why someone was fired this morning" Yeosang folded his arms, his soft red hair bundled into a neat bun as he glanced through the sheets of paperwork

"The usual" San murmured, sipping his bottle of fruit punch. Yeosang turned to him, slightly baffled but not surprised.

Yeosang let out a quiet, tired sigh — the kind that said I expected this but I still gotta ask.

He placed the paperwork down, adjusting his glasses as he leaned a hip against the edge of the polished counter in San’s private lounge area attached to the office wing.

“The usual, huh?” Yeosang repeated, raising a brow. “San, you can’t just exile people to Jeju’s mining site every time someone breathes the wrong way about Wooyoung.”

San didn’t even look up. “It wasn’t a breath. It was a sentence.”

“A whispered sentence.”

San’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk. “Still made it to my ears.”

Yeosang studied him for a long second, then muttered, “God, you’re such a bloodhound.”

“Isn’t that why he keeps me around?”

Yeosang snorted at that, shaking his head. “No, you’re around because if you weren’t, he’d forget to eat, get lost on his way home, and probably wind up dead in a ditch after picking a fight with a mirror.”

At that, San finally looked up, the faintest gleam of humor in his eyes. “Harsh.”

“Honest,” Yeosang shot back, though his tone had softened. He crossed his arms again, the concern slipping through. “Is he okay today?”

San’s expression sobered. He set down the bottle, leaning forward on his elbows. “He’s managing. Took the shot fine. Ate half a croissant. No spells yet.”

Yeosang nodded, glancing towards the soundproof glass wall separating Wooyoung’s office. “I worry about him, you know. He makes it hard, shutting us out like this.”

“I know,” San murmured, staring down at his hands for a moment. “But it’s not for us to pry. He lets us in when he wants to.”

Yeosang sighed again, pushing off the counter. “Still. Next time, maybe send them to Busan or something. Jeju’s already filled with your casualties.”

San gave a soft laugh. “Noted.”

And just like that, Yeosang moved toward the door, pausing briefly. “Tell him I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

“I will.”

When the door clicked shut, San sat back, gaze trailing over to the glass wall again. On the other side, Wooyoung sat at his desk, head resting against the crook of his arm, the soft haze of late afternoon light painting him in a kind of fragile, porcelain glow.

And San knew — whether anyone else saw it or not — this was exactly why no one got to speak Wooyoung’s name in vain.

Not while he was here.

Not ever.

San didn’t move at first. He just kept watching him — the faint, almost imperceptible droop of Wooyoung’s eyelids, the way his lashes brushed against his cheek every time he blinked slower than the last. The kind of exhaustion that wasn’t just about the body but something that clawed at the bones.

Then Wooyoung’s eyes flicked up and met his.

And for a brief moment, the air between them felt heavier. Not tense, not hostile. Just… full. The world outside the office could’ve been burning, and neither of them would’ve noticed.

Wooyoung didn’t speak — he couldn’t, not until those three hours were up — but his gaze softened in a way it rarely did for anyone but San. It wasn’t much, just a subtle easing of his brow, a faint press of his lips that looked less like indifference and more like quiet trust.

San tilted his head, offering him a small, silent smile from across the glass.

You can sleep. I’m here.

He didn’t need to say it out loud. Wooyoung understood.

The older man let out a barely-there breath, his shoulders slackening as he finally closed his eyes, leaning back into the chair. Not fully asleep, not yet, but resting enough to let the world dull around the edges.

San stayed where he was, one leg crossed over the other, a hand resting loosely on the arm of his chair. Watching. Guarding. Not because he had to — but because he wanted to.

Because Wooyoung was the kind of person people worshipped or feared.

And San was the only one who could look at him like this.

Like he wasn’t a CEO, a ghost of a legacy, or a name people whispered behind closed doors.

J ust Wooyoung.

Just his friend.

Chapter Text

The drive home was quiet, as it always was.

The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, casting soft glimmers over the sleek black interior of the car. Wooyoung rested his head against the window, eyes half-lidded, the hum of the engine lulling him into a kind of calm that only came when he was far away from the boardroom, the whispers, and the suffocating weight of his own name.

San drove in silence. No music. No conversation. Just the occasional glance at the rearview mirror to check if Wooyoung was still upright.

When they pulled up to the estate, the gates opened like clockwork. The familiar stretch of pale brick and the faint scent of lavender from the garden — something San had insisted they keep — greeted them as they stepped out.

Inside, the warmth of the house was a small mercy against the cold world outside.

Yeosang was already waiting by the doorway to the study, hair still tied in that neat bun, though a few strands had fallen loose around his face. He was supposed to leave hours ago but he’s here for some gossip.

“I take it you heard,” San said, slipping off his coat and tossing it over a chair.

Yeosang folded his arms, giving a half-amused, half-exasperated sigh. “Word travels fast, you know that.”

Wooyoung raised a brow slightly, glancing between them.

“The guy you fired,” Yeosang clarified. “Mr. Kang from Jeju called me personally, asking why we keep sending him these corporate rejects.”

San shrugged, utterly unbothered. “He called Wooyoung a ‘so-called heir.’ It was a professional courtesy.”

Wooyoung let out a soft, dry hum, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, before moving toward the dining room. He didn’t need to say it — thank you sat unspoken in the glance he gave San before disappearing down the hall.

Dinner was simple. Grilled sea bass, a delicate soup, and herbal tea. San made sure he ate at least half, nudging the plate back every time Wooyoung tried to wave it off.

When the meal was done, they moved to the study.

San brought out the evening medications — three small, pale pills, a vial, and the evening shot. He handed Wooyoung the glass of water, and as always, waited until the older man raised a finger.

One.

San gave a small nod, drew the syringe, and carefully pressed it into Wooyoung’s hip, the same practiced spot as always. The older man winced, his lips barely parting with the pain, but otherwise stayed still.

Once it was done, San pressed a hand to his shoulder. A silent it’s over.

Wooyoung exhaled, leaning slightly into the touch for half a second before pulling away.

“Bed,” San murmured.

This time, Wooyoung didn’t argue.

He made his way upstairs, steps quiet on the marble floor. San followed a few minutes later, only after clearing the meds away, locking the study, and turning off the lights. Wooyoung got to the pad that stood beside his bedroom door and pressed his hand on it. With a quick chime, the door unlocked.

In the quiet of Wooyoung’s room, the curtains were already drawn. The lavender diffuser on the dresser hummed faintly.

Wooyoung changed into suitable clothes, San’s eyes stared elsewhere trying to inspect the place before watching him lay back against the pillows, one hand resting over his stomach, eyes half-lidded and watching the ceiling.

San stood by the door for a moment, unsure if he should say something — but Wooyoung spoke first, voice soft and raw from disuse.

“Thanks.”

It was one word. But it weighed more than a thousand.

San’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Anytime.”

Then he turned off the light and let the darkness settle around them both.

**

The house was silent.

Soft, distant hums of the city filtered through the dark, but inside the estate, nothing stirred. The staff had long since retired, and Wooyoung was asleep — or as close to it as his restless body would allow.

San stood on the second-floor balcony, the cool night air brushing against his skin, the faint scent of lavender drifting up from the garden below. In his hand, a cigarette burned quietly between his fingers, the tip glowing a soft orange against the darkness.

He rarely smoked. Only on nights like this — when the weight of everything settled too heavy in his chest and nowhere else to put it.

He brought it to his lips, inhaling slow and deep, the burn sharp and welcome.

The phone at his side buzzed.

San fished it out of his pocket, flicking it open to see Yunho’s name flash on the screen.

He answered without a greeting.

“Tell me,” San murmured, voice low and rough from the smoke.

“Vitals stayed stable after the injection,” Yunho’s voice came through calm and clinical, though a hint of fatigue laced his words. “No spikes in BP or heart rate during dinner. That’s good.”

San exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching it curl into the night. “And the new dose?”

“Seems to be holding. But I’ll be honest with you, San — he’s wearing thin. The weight loss isn’t slowing down, and the throat spasms are starting to trigger more often.”

San’s jaw clenched. He took another drag. “Options?”

“I’m adjusting his night meds. Added a mild sedative to help him stay asleep longer. He won’t notice it. And… I need him in for a scan next week. Full workup.”

San’s eyes flicked toward the window where the soft glow of Wooyoung’s bedside lamp still seeped through the curtain crack.

“You know how he gets about hospitals.”

“I know,” Yunho sighed. “But if he keeps putting it off…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

San rubbed a hand over his face, then took another drag, burning the cigarette nearly down to the filter.

“I’ll talk to him,” San murmured.

A long silence stretched between them, both men knowing what that really meant.

“Keep me posted,” Yunho said softly. “And San… get some sleep, man.”

San gave a quiet, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. You too, doc.”

He ended the call and leaned against the railing, staring out over the dark, empty city.

The cigarette finally burned out between his fingers.

San crushed it in the ashtray, pocketed his phone, and made his way back inside — as if none of it ever happened.

Wooyoung never knew he smoked.

And San intended to keep it that way.

San locked the balcony door behind him, the cool air still clinging to his skin as he made his way down the hall. The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the air system and the occasional soft creak of the old wood settling.

He passed Wooyoung’s door on his way to his own room, pausing for just a second.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp still shone beneath the crack, and San could just make out the steady rise and fall of his breathing through the slightly open door.

Good.

For now.

San didn’t knock. He just moved on.

In his room, the lights stayed off. He shrugged off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and let them both drop to the floor before collapsing onto the bed. No showers. No ritual. Just the heavy exhaustion of a day too long and a mind that wouldn’t quit.

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

And, as it always did, the image came back.

The sharp angles of Wooyoung’s shoulder blades when he changed shirts. The way his trousers clung loose to hips that used to fill them better. The sunken lines beneath his eyes, half-hidden by hair he let fall in front of his face.

And that fucking untouched pastry on the plate.

San ran a hand over his face, sighing deep into the darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to come, but it didn’t. It rarely did.

Because every time he closed his eyes, the numbers came back too.

49 kilograms.

That’s what Yunho’s last report said. For a man Wooyoung’s height, that was already a danger zone. And it wasn’t stopping.

San knew it, and so did Wooyoung — even if he pretended not to.

The worry wasn’t just about the weight. It was about what it meant. What it was leading toward.

And what San could — or couldn’t — do when it came.

He turned onto his side, tugging the blanket up, but it felt like his bones hummed with restlessness.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Yunho.

“Don’t forget. Full workup. Next week.”

San sighed and typed back.

“I won’t.”

He put the phone down and stared into the dark.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

But neither did giving up.

**

San wasn’t sure when he dozed off.

It wasn’t a clean sleep — more like his body gave out for a while, but his mind kept pacing circles. The kind of sleep where you don’t realize you were under until you’re ripped back to the surface.

A sound.

Faint. Soft. But enough.

San’s eyes snapped open, instinct kicking in faster than his thoughts could catch up. The house was dark, the only light coming from the sliver under his door. He lay still for a moment, heart already climbing.

Then it came again.

A muffled noise. A faint shuffle of fabric. Barely there.

But he knew where it came from.

Wooyoung’s room.

San was up before his body even complained, tugging a hoodie over his bare shoulders and quietly opening his door. The hallway was silent, but the subtle shift in the air told him something was off.

The lamp in Wooyoung’s room was still on.

It should’ve been off hours ago.

San crossed the hall, his steps soundless on the marble. He didn’t bother knocking — he never did when it was like this. The door gave under his hand with a soft creak.

There he was.

Wooyoung was sitting upright in bed, one hand gripping the sheets like a lifeline, his breathing uneven. Not panicked — Wooyoung didn’t panic — but unsteady in a way that made San’s chest ache.

His hair was messy, the fine strands clinging to his damp forehead. The hollow under his eyes was deeper now, like shadows settled there permanently.

San stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“You good?” he asked softly, voice low, careful not to startle.

Wooyoung looked up at him.

And it wasn’t his usual cold stare. It wasn’t even that soft, quiet gratitude from earlier.

It was tired. Bone-deep. A kind of weariness San hated seeing because it meant the pain was worse than he was letting on.

Wooyoung opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it. He just gave a weak nod and looked away.

San sighed, running a hand through his hair. He crossed the room, grabbed the glass of water on the nightstand, and held it out.

“Small sips,” San murmured.

Wooyoung hesitated — he always did. Swallowing still wasn’t easy. But after a moment, he took the glass and drank.

San watched the way his throat moved, subtle, careful, cautious.

“Bad dream?” San asked, leaning against the bedpost.

Another slow nod.

San didn’t push it. He’d learned years ago that Wooyoung would talk when he wanted to. And when he didn’t, you just stayed close. Stayed still. Kept the dark at bay until the worst passed.

“You wanna crash in the spare room?” San offered, half a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’ll keep the wolves away.”

That earned him the smallest, faintest curve of Wooyoung’s lips.

San took it as a win.

He moved to sit at the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far.

And in the quiet, with the city lights bleeding through the curtains and lavender hanging in the air, they stayed like that. No words needed.

San stayed awake while Wooyoung drifted back under.

Because someone had to.

And it would always be him.

Morning came in slow streaks of pale gray light filtering through the heavy curtains. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the room, mingling with the cool air from the barely cracked window.

Wooyoung’s eyes fluttered open.

The room was quiet. Still.

For a long moment, he just lay there, letting the haze of sleep fade. His body ached — the familiar kind, the one that made every movement feel like his bones were made of glass and his skin a size too big.

But something felt… off.

The bed beside him, where San had sat hours ago, was empty.

The chair by the window was empty too.

He sat up slowly, the sting at his hip a dull throb. His throat felt dry, but better than it had the night before. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

7:13 AM.

Too late for San.

Wooyoung already knew.

He got up, moving with careful, practiced ease, and padded down the hall. The house was bathed in soft morning light now, staff moving like quiet ghosts in the background.

When he reached the dining room, he wasn’t surprised to see the table already set.

Breakfast, laid out neatly.

A steaming bowl of congee, a cup of herbal tea, lightly buttered toast, and a covered plate of fruit — all still warm, the kind of detail only San would make sure of even if he wasn’t here to see it.

A folded note sat next to the tray in San’s clean, distinct handwriting:

“6AM jog. Eat before you pass out. Don’t argue. —S”

Wooyoung stared at it for a long moment.

His lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He picked up the spoon and started with the soup. Slow, careful sips, his stomach protesting but not rejecting it. The warmth helped. The silence helped.

He didn’t need San hovering for it to be a reminder that someone still gave a damn.

Always did.

Somewhere out there, San was probably pounding pavement, earbuds in, pretending he wasn’t worrying every other step.

And Wooyoung — for once — finished his meal.

Down to the last spoonful.

About an hour later, the front door clicked open.

San stepped in, damp hair pushed back, dressed in a plain black tee clinging to his chest and grey joggers, his boots traded for worn running shoes. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, and his breathing was steady — as if he hadn’t just run a 10K in the early morning chill.

He passed one of the house staff with a quick nod, making his way toward the dining room where the scent of cooled tea and faint lavender still lingered.

Wooyoung was exactly where San expected him.

Seated at the table, hair tousled from sleep, one hand wrapped around a cup of tea, the other lazily scrolling through something on his tablet. But what made San pause for half a second was the empty breakfast tray beside him.

Clean.

Finished.

San didn’t comment. He didn’t need to.

“Morning,” he murmured instead, heading straight for the water decanter by the counter, pouring himself a glass.

Wooyoung glanced up briefly, brow arching as if to say you’re late.

“Had to take a call,” San said, already knowing what the look meant. He downed half the glass in one go, then leaned back against the counter.

Wooyoung stared at him, waiting.

San sighed, setting the glass down. “Yunho called while I was out.”

Wooyoung’s eyes sharpened immediately, his whole posture subtly shifting. San recognized the flicker of tension beneath his skin. No matter how much he pretended not to care, anything from Yunho meant it was about him.

“Test results from last week’s blood work came back,” San continued, voice even but low, careful.

Wooyoung set the cup down, his hand still curled around the handle.

San rubbed a hand along his jaw, then finally said it. “Weight’s dropped another kilo. BP’s still unstable. He wants a full scan. Next week.”

Wooyoung’s gaze dropped, the shadows under his eyes darker in the morning light.

San crossed the room, stopping a few steps away. “He’s not asking this time, Woo. He said if you dodge it again, he’ll come here himself with the damn scanner.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between them.

Wooyoung didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

His fingers tapped against the rim of the cup, a small, anxious habit San knew too well.

San sighed, crouching slightly so they were eye-level. “Hey,” he murmured, voice softer now. “It’s not just a scan, alright? We’ll be in and out. I’ll be there. No hospital bullshit, no one hovering. Just Yunho, me, and you.”

Wooyoung’s lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tight.

Then, after a long beat, he gave the smallest of nods.

San let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and gave him a half-smile. “Good.”

He stood, ruffling Wooyoung’s hair once, earning a faint scowl — but no protest.

“Finish your tea,” San murmured, heading toward the stairs. “I’ll clean up.”

And as he left the room, a faint weight lifted off his chest.

One step at a time.

Always.