His mom barely finishes opening the door before you’re already slipping past her, worry tightening your chest.

“He hasn’t eaten,” she whispers. “He won’t even sit up.”

You nod once and head straight to his room.

You push the door open quietly.

The room is dim — curtains closed, air warm and heavy. Juhoon is lying curled on his side, blankets tangled around him, hair sticking messily to his forehead. His breathing is uneven, soft and shallow. You can hear the congestion in it.

He doesn’t react when you enter.

Not a flinch. Not a glance. Not even a shift.

You walk to his bed, kneel beside it, and gently touch his shoulder.

His body leans toward your hand instantly — like reflex, like instinct.

You whisper, “Juhoon…?”

Slowly — very slowly — he turns his face toward you.

His eyes are glassy, unfocused, rimmed with exhaustion. His lips are slightly parted, breath warm and unsteady. His voice is barely there when he finally speaks, raw and trembling:

“…you came.”

Two words. That’s all he manages. But it sounds like everything inside him melts when he says it.

You brush his bangs back, and his eyelids flutter like he hasn’t been touched gently all day.

“How long have you been like this?” you ask softly.

He swallows — a small, painful movement — then whispers:

“…don’t know.”

You sit on the bed beside him, and the second you do, he pushes himself weakly toward you. No hesitation. No shame. Just quiet, desperate need. His forehead meets your thigh, his hand fists weakly in your shirt, holding on with whatever energy he has left.

“Hey, hey,” you murmur, sliding your fingers into his hair. “You’re burning up…”

His breath wavers. “Cold,” he mumbles, voice trembling. You stroke his cheek. “Do you want water?”

His grip tightens on your clothes.

“…later,” he breathes. It’s barely sound.

You feel his body shiver once — a small, helpless tremor — and he buries his face deeper into your leg, like he’s trying to hide from the sickness weighing him down.

“Jju,” you whisper, rubbing slow circles on his back. “We need to get your fever down.”

He shakes his head against you — but not stubbornly. Weakly. Like even the thought of moving exhausts him.

Then, in a fragile, hoarse sigh:

“Don’t go.”

Your heart aches.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say firmly.

Something inside him loosens at that. His fingers unclench a little, sliding from your shirt to your wrist, holding onto you instead. His thumb rubs weakly over your skin — slow, barely-there strokes that feel like he’s grounding himself.

“Hurts,” he whispers after a moment, voice so small you almost miss it.

“Where?”

Another tiny swallow. His breath stutters. “…everything.”