The first thing Suho saw when he opened his eyes was the blurred outline of the hospital ceiling. The light was harsh, too white, and it stung. His body felt heavy, stiff, like it belonged to someone else. He let out a rough breath, swallowing against the dry ache in his throat.

Then he noticed him.

Si-eun sat in the corner by the wall, arms crossed, gaze anchored to the floor. His posture was rigid, controlled, as if even the rise of his breath was measured. He didn’t notice Suho awaken, or maybe he did and simply waited.

Suho tried to speak. His voice came out strained. “Si-eun.”

Si-eun’s head turned sharply. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes widened a fraction. He stood from the chair, walking toward the bed with slow, careful steps.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice quiet and low, almost monotone.

Suho gave a small, weak smile. “Yeah.”

Si-eun stopped at the edge of the bed. His face was unreadable, but his eyes moved rapidly, taking in Suho’s vitals, the rise of his chest, the trembling in his fingers. It was the kind of observation that wasn’t kindness on the surface, but instinctive concern buried under logic.

“You need water,” Si-eun said. He reached for the cup, but Suho shook his head slightly.

“Wait. Just… stay here for a second.”

Si-eun paused. The air felt tight between them.

“You look exhausted,” Suho said quietly.

Si-eun did not respond. His gaze hardened, dropping to the floor. “You don’t get to say that. Not right now.”

Suho blinked, surprised by the coldness. “Si-eun…”

Si-eun finally looked up, eyes sharp but voice controlled. “You almost died.” He spoke calmly, but there was a sharpness in it, like something brittle underneath. “You keep doing that. Throwing yourself at everything. Acting like you’re the only one who needs to get hurt.”

Suho swallowed. “I had to protect you. Them. Everyone.”

“That isn’t an excuse,” Si-eun replied. His voice didn’t rise, but each word felt heavier than the last. “If you’re gone, then what happens?”