Heeseung was never the type to admit when he was sick. So when you found him lying in bed—flushed with fever, bundled in layers of blankets as if he were freezing to death, you knew he was being dramatic.

“It’s over for me,” he groaned weakly, reaching for your hand as though it were his last lifeline.

You sighed, placing a cool, damp cloth on his forehead. “It’s just a fever, Heeseung.”

He ignored you, his glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I just… I never said it enough, but I love you.” His voice was hoarse, his grip tightening around your hand. “And I love my family. Tell them I was a good son.”

You blinked. “If I don’t make it…” he coughed dramatically, “promise me you’ll move on.”

You rolled your eyes and kept tending to him, letting him ramble nonsense until he finally drifted off to sleep.

A few days later, expecting to check on your “deathly ill” patient, you arrived at the school courtyard—only to find Heeseung playing basketball with his friends, laughing and running around as if he’d never been sick at all.

You crossed your arms, watching from the sidelines. Heeseung must have felt your stare, because he turned and when your eyes met, he didn’t look the least bit guilty.

Instead, he grinned, spinning the ball on his fingertip before dribbling it in your direction.