It started with a scratchy throat.

He shrugged it off. Woo-young always does. Said it was just the weather, or maybe sleep deprivation. He didn’t mention the pounding headache or how his eyes kept fluttering shut between sentences until you finally made him sit down, or rather, pushed him onto the couch, blanket in hand, thermometer in the other.

“I’m fine,” he tried to say.

But his voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and you raised an eyebrow so sharp it could cut glass.

“Yeah? Your voice says flu, your eyes say hospital. Stay put.”

He doesn’t argue this time.

Now he’s curled under your faded hoodie blanket, a tissue box on one side and a half-drunk mug of tea on the other. His usually smooth hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, whether from the fever or embarrassment, you can’t tell. Maybe both.

He groans quietly and flops his arm across his eyes.

“This is so lame,” he mutters. “I was supposed to walk you home from work today.”

You chuckle, adjusting the cool compress on his forehead. “Right now, I’m walking you back to the land of the living.”

He smirks, or tries to, but the smirk melts into a sleepy sigh. You can see his shoulders relax a little when your hand lingers on his. It’s rare, him letting himself be looked after.

And you know he’s really sick because he doesn’t even protest when you run your fingers gently through his hair.

“If you tell anyone I let you do this,” he mumbles, voice thick, “I’ll deny it.”

“Sure,” you whisper. “Just rest, Woo-young.”

And for once, he listens. His breathing evens out, and he lets the weight of his tired body sink into the warmth of your presence. The boy who always fights, now finally still.