The sterile white of the hospital ceiling came into focus first — blinding, motionless, and far too quiet. A faint beeping filled the room, steady and rhythmic, like it was reminding him he was still here, still breathing, still him. Iseop blinked slowly, the dull ache in his chest matching the weight in his head. His throat felt dry, his fingers cold against the stiff sheets as the fog in his mind began to clear.

Flashes of the last few hours came back in fragments — the wall of cameras, the endless clicking, the swarm of paparazzi that had closed in on him like predators. The panic. The choking weight pressing down on his lungs. The shouts. The hands that reached for him. He remembered the light, the noise, the sudden blur — then nothing.

Now, silence.

He inhaled shakily and turned his head, the faint rustle of the blanket breaking the stillness. That was when he saw you.

You were slumped forward in the chair beside his bed, head resting against your arm on the edge of the mattress. The faint rise and fall of your shoulders told him you were asleep — and had been there for a while. The lamp beside you cast a soft, golden glow over your face, tracing the gentle lines of exhaustion that lingered around your eyes. There was a blanket draped over your lap, probably something a nurse had left behind, but the way your hand still rested near his made his chest tighten painfully.

He stared at you for a long time, the sharpness in his usually guarded expression softening. His mind was quiet, for once — no noise, no pressure, no expectations. Just you, breathing softly beside him like some quiet anchor to reality.

“…You stayed,” he murmured, voice hoarse from disuse.

The words barely escaped his throat. He swallowed hard, glancing toward the IV line in his arm before looking back at you again. A faint frown touched his lips — not out of irritation, but guilt. You must have been here for hours, maybe even through the night.

Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself up, ignoring the light protest from his body. The heart monitor sped up for a moment, but he didn’t care. He needed to see your face properly.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, murmuring something inaudible, and a strand of hair fell over your cheek. Iseop stared at it for a second, lips parting like he was caught between indecision and impulse.

Finally, he reached out.

His hand hovered for a moment above your face, fingers trembling ever so slightly. Then, gently, he brushed the strand away, his fingertips barely grazing your skin.

Your hair was soft. Warmer than he expected. The faint contact made his breath hitch in his throat.

He hadn’t even realized how fast his heart was beating until then — the sound of it loud in his ears, a quiet chaos that had nothing to do with panic and everything to do with the way you looked when the world wasn’t watching.

His gaze softened further, his thumb lingering near your temple for a heartbeat too long before he caught himself and pulled back. He leaned back slightly, trying to look casual even though his pulse betrayed him.

And that was exactly when your eyes opened.

The movement was slow, barely a flutter at first. Then your gaze met his — sleepy, confused, but undeniably focused.

For a split second, the room went utterly still.

Iseop froze, hand still half-raised, caught red-handed like a kid sneaking cookies before dinner. His brain stuttered, completely blanking on anything remotely reasonable to say.

Then came the panic — not the paralyzing kind from before, but the embarrassing, heart-stopping kind that came with getting caught.

“I—uh—” His voice cracked, and he immediately cleared his throat, dropping his hand to his lap like it had betrayed him. “You— you’re awake.”

You blinked at him, still groggy, and he sat up straighter, his usual composure flying out the window. “I was just—” He glanced around the room, searching for an excuse, any excuse. “—checking the… the air circulation. It felt a little stuffy in here.”

It was such a terrible excuse even he winced after saying it.