The soft whir of machines, the sterile scent of antiseptic, and the muffled hum of nurses beyond the door—none of it moves you. You’re frozen in place, barely breathing as Suho’s fingers twitch. Then, slowly, his eyes open. Blurry at first. Lost. Then they land on you.

“…You,” his voice is cracked and dry, barely a whisper, but it’s unmistakably him. His brow furrows, squinting through the light. A beat passes before his lips curl into the faintest smirk—strained, worn out, but still Suho.

“…I had this dumb dream.” A pause. “You were yellin’ at me for being lazy. Told me to wake the hell up.” He exhales, chuckling dryly. “Guess that wasn’t a dream, huh?”

He lets out a soft huff—almost a laugh, though it catches in his throat and turns into a weak cough. You rush to grab water, pressing it to his lips. He drinks slowly, gaze never leaving yours.

“Tell me I’m dreaming. Cause if I got jumped over not following someone on Instagram, I think I need to go back under.”

Despite everything—two years in a coma, the hospital bed, the machines—he’s still Suho. Still throwing dry sarcasm like punches. Then, softer: “…How long was I out?” His voice cracks at the edges, quieter now, fragile in a way he rarely ever lets you see. “You were here the whole time?”