https://youtu.be/36tggrpRoTI

[A/N—I know you can hear Woo singing that "I need somebody now, somebody help me now" (https://www.youtube.com/shorts/onAX8FIb0hQ) in your heads, I didn't realize the song fitted so well with his story until now, so enjoy 🤍]

[tw: panic attack, death, mentioned physical violence]

[A few months later...]

☽

A soft brush of lips grazed the top of his head, just a fleeting touch, and he felt a faint smile curl onto his lips as he turned another page in the book on his lap. He didn't look up, already knowing it was San—off to wherever his busy schedule was taking him next. How much things had changed. He could remember a time when even the idea of a touch like that would have made him tense, instinctively pulling away. It was sudden, the way it had started. One day, as San had headed out the door, he'd leaned down, almost without thinking, and pressed a light kiss to Wooyoung's forehead. The touch had been so gentle and unexpected that San had immediately flinched back, gasping, his eyes widening in shock as if he'd crossed a line, "Sorry—I didn't mean to... I just..."

But Wooyoung had just blinked up at him, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in his chest. "It's okay," he'd said, realizing as the words left his lips that he actually meant it. The kiss hadn't bothered him at all. In fact, he'd been surprised by just how much he'd liked it, how natural it had felt. It was like some unspoken barrier between them had cracked open, leaving room for a new routine to grow—a small but meaningful thing that Wooyoung found himself looking forward to. Now, every time San left, that kiss was part of the ritual, a gesture of quiet care that Wooyoung had come to love.

It hadn't even been that long since Wooyoung had moved in, but already their habits had settled into something familiar and warm. Living with San was turning out to be much easier than he'd ever expected, a kind of comfort he hadn't dared to imagine before. It was like they had found a rhythm of their own, one that was surprisingly simple and easy to fall into. Yet, it hadn't always been this way.

A few months ago, the thought of moving out had seemed impossible, even terrifying. Panic had surged through him when the letter came—an official notice, crisp and business-like, stating that the lease on the apartment would expire soon. If they wanted to renew, the rent would rise by nearly fifty percent, a number that hit Wooyoung like a punch to the gut. He remembered how Yeosang had read the letter over his shoulder, and they'd both stood there in stunned silence, reality crashing down around them.

"What are we going to do?" Yeosang had whispered, his voice shaky as he sat on the kitchen stool, eyes wide with worry.

"I don't know," Wooyoung replied, his own voice distant and strained. The timing couldn't have been worse. Wooyoung's income had already taken a sharp dive since he'd stopped seeing Woobin. The decision to cut ties with his most profitable client had been liberating, even necessary, but it had come with consequences—money that had once flowed easily was now a constant source of anxiety. And with his mother's expenses on top of everything else, the idea of affording that new rent was beyond impossible.

They spent the next few days brainstorming solutions, each one more desperate than the last. Maybe they could take in a third roommate, someone to help split the cost. But who? And where would they even put another bed? The apartment barely had room for the two of them as it was. "We could try squeezing someone in here, but it'd be like living on top of each other," Yeosang had said, his expression doubtful. "And what if they're a nightmare to live with?"

"Sangie, hate to break it to you, but we are a nightmare to live with," Wooyoung pointed out, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"We are not," Yeosang replied, sounding almost offended. "We're tidy, respectful of each other's space, we—"

Wooyoung cut him off with a shake of his head, "We have impossible schedules. We're home during the day and out almost every night, coming back at ridiculous hours. And on the rare occasion we sleep like normal people, there's a good chance we'll wake up screaming from a nightmare. Just because we're used to it doesn't mean someone else could handle it" the look on Yeosang's face softened into reluctant understanding as he realized Wooyoung had a point.

"Then what about Hongjoong and Seonghwa? They still have that spare room, right?" Yeosang suggested, though even as he spoke, they both knew it was a stretch. Their friends' apartment was small, the spare room even smaller—more of a large closet than a bedroom.

"But then, would they even want us both? I don't know if they'd be happy with that" Wooyoung asked, already doubting the idea.

Yeosang nodded slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, "You're right, and we'd still be crowded. I don't think it'd work in the long run..."

For days, it felt like they were chasing their own tails, every option leading them back to square one. As the deadline loomed closer, Wooyoung could see the strain in Yeosang's face, the same fear mirrored in his own. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath them, and all they could do was hold on and hope they wouldn't fall.

It was during one of these frantic discussions that San walked in. Wooyoung had been too wrapped up in his anxiety to notice him entering, but suddenly there he was, standing in the doorway, concern etched across his features, "Hey, what's going on?" he asked, his voice gentle but steady.

Wooyoung and Yeosang exchanged a look, hesitating before explaining the situation. As they spoke, San's expression shifted, first to understanding, then to something almost determined. "Okay," he said once they'd finished, "First, let's figure out a plan for Yeosang. Hongjoong and Seonghwa are kind; I'm sure they'd be happy to help and let you stay in their spare room, would that be a good option for you?"

Yeosang nodded hesitantly, "Yeah... Sure, but... What about Woo?" he had asked, uncertainty clear in his voice.

But San had completely ignored his question, shaking his head, "Let's just confirm with them before we panic too much, okay? Why don't you call them right now?"

Wooyoung looked at San in disbelief: he made it sound so simple, like a puzzle that could be solved with the right pieces in the right places. Yeosang, though still nervous, nodded in agreement, "Yeah, okay. I'll call them," he said, his voice steadier now, a spark of hope reigniting as he fished his phone from his back pocket.

San turned to Wooyoung, his gaze soft but steady, "I know this might seem a bit sudden, but... I have a spare room too," he said. "The agency set me up with an apartment near their building. It's big enough for both of us, and you wouldn't have to pay any rent. Plus, it'd be a lot less lonely for me"

Wooyoung's instinct was to refuse, "I... I don't know, San. I don't want to be a burden"

San stopped him by holding up the keys, making them jingle in front of Wooyoung's face, "It wouldn't be that different from how things are now, right? I spend most of my free time on your couch anyway. I even have a key. What could go wrong?"

Wooyoung shook his head, "San, I can't accept it. I don't have a way to pay you back..."

"Maybe you do," San's eyes sparkled with determination, his reassuring smile unwavering. "Let's make a deal"

"What kind of deal?" Wooyoung asked, curiosity sparking despite himself.

"You move in with me. I won't ask you to pay rent, but we'll split the bills, groceries, and anything else that comes up"

"It still doesn't seem fair"

San leaned in slightly, his voice gentle but firm, "If you move in, you can share a bit more about yourself. Nothing that makes you uncomfortable—just little pieces, when you're ready. Pay me back by showing me who you really are, I can listen to you, you can trust me, Woo. And more importantly, I think you deserve someone who really knows you. I could take much better care of you if you let me in"

Wooyoung hesitated, uncertainty tightening his chest, "I don't need you to take care of me, I'm not a baby" he pouted, but San's smile had melted the frown away from his face. He looked into his eyes, all he saw was sincerity, a trust he hadn't believed he could ever earn.

It took him a while to finally make up his mind, but when he agreed, the look on San's face—his smile, bright and toothy—stirred something deep inside. The thought that he would see that smile every day, first thing in the morning and last thing before bed, made something warm unfurl within him.

Now, as he sat on the couch in his new apartment, the memory played in his mind. He heard the door click shut behind San as he left. It had been a couple of months since they moved in together, and though the decision had seemed daunting at first, it quickly became one of the best choices Wooyoung had ever made.

But a promise was still a promise, and he hadn't told San anything yet. Every time he tried to share, the words stuck in his throat, and he ended up changing the subject, keeping his secrets to himself. Guilt gnawed at him, a quiet voice reminding him that San had kept his word, giving him all the space and time he needed, while Wooyoung had done nothing in return.

San deserved more. More than anyone, he deserved the truth. It wasn't fair to keep him in the dark.

Tonight, Wooyoung decided. When San comes back, I'll tell him something—even if it's just a small part. He deserves that much.

With the decision made, a strange kind of calm settled over him.

The kitchen felt foreign at first, the scent of fresh ingredients almost overwhelming. It had been so long since he'd cooked for anyone, let alone cooked with care. As a kid, he'd learned to cook out of necessity. It was about survival, about getting food into his stomach when there was no one else to do it. But now, as he gathered the ingredients and set the stove, it felt different. He wasn't doing this out of obligation—he was doing it because he wanted to. Because he wanted to make something special for San.

His fingers moved more carefully than usual, slicing vegetables and stirring the pot with a deliberate slowness, savoring the process. He didn't just throw things together; he took his time, each movement thoughtful, each ingredient carefully chosen. There was something soothing about it, like he was giving a piece of himself to the meal. It was strange—he never expected cooking to feel like this. But somehow, preparing this meal for San made the weight in his chest feel a little lighter.

By the time San returned, the apartment was filled with the warm, inviting scent of the food he had made. He looked up as the door clicked open, his hands still steadying the pan on the stove.

San stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of the neatly set table, the steam rising from the dishes. "This smells amazing," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He sounded surprised, and Wooyoung could feel his heart rate spike for a moment.

"It's... for you," Wooyoung said quietly, unsure how else to explain it. "I'm sure you had a big day, I thought you could use a healthy homemade dinner instead of our usual take out..."

San's smile grew, his gaze softening as he crossed the room to take a seat. They ate in a comfortable silence, the food tasting better than Wooyoung had expected, almost as though it held the weight of his unspoken feelings. He couldn't help but notice how San ate with appreciation, his eyes meeting Wooyoung's occasionally, making it feel like everything was calm—even if his heart was racing with nerves.

The food was a small comfort, but the real challenge laid ahead. Wooyoung had to open up. He wanted to, but every time he thought about it, the words stuck in his throat. It wasn't just hard to talk about—it was terrifying. Yet, he couldn't keep hiding forever.

San leaned back in his chair, his attention fixed on Wooyoung as if sensing the tension in the air. Wooyoung had been edgy all evening, even slicing his finger earlier in a distracted moment. The small cut on his hand was now covered with a plaster, a tiny reminder of how much anxiety had gripped him all day.

San's gaze flicked to Wooyoung's hand, and his brow furrowed in concern. "What happened? Your hand..."

Wooyoung glanced down, his heart thumping. He had hoped San wouldn't notice, but now that he had, there was no way around it. "It's nothing," Wooyoung muttered, waving it off, "I just cut myself with the knife. It's nothing to worry about. I've had worse"

But San's gaze darkened, his concern only deepening as he studied Wooyoung's face, "Let me see it," he said softly, leaning forward, his voice gentle but insistent.

Wooyoung hesitated for a moment but finally held his hand out, the plaster a stark contrast against his pale skin. San took it, his fingers brushing over the bandage to move it, his expression falling when he saw the injury.

"Woo... this isn't nothing," San said quietly, his voice tight.

"I'm used to physical pain," Wooyoung said, the words coming out before he could stop them. It was the truth, in a way.

There was a long pause as San processed the words, his gaze fixed on Wooyoung, as if trying to make sense of them. Wooyoung could feel the weight of it, the way San's concern lingered, and for a moment, the silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Then, Wooyoung stood up, his legs a little unsteady beneath him, and slowly walked over to San's side of the table. He sat down next to him, his heart beating wildly in his chest. San didn't say anything, but his presence felt like an anchor, steady and patient.

Wooyoung reached over, pulling up the sleeve of his shirt with trembling fingers, just enough to reveal the back of his left hand. Scars marred the pale skin there, old cuts and burns inflicted by a cigarette. He turned his hand over and showed San, his finger tracing lightly over the rough patches of skin, "A client did this," Wooyoung explained quietly. "Back when I used to meet them outside of the Nest..."

San's eyes widened in horror, his breath catching, "Oh my god, Woo... I'm so sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with disbelief and regret.

Wooyoung shook his head, a small, empty smile tugging at his lips. "It's nothing," he said again, though this time, it felt different. "I'm used to it. It's nothing compared to..."

His voice trailed off, and in that moment, he could feel the weight of his memories rising up, unbidden, flooding his mind with painful clarity.

His fingers drifted to the scar on his right cheek, the faint ridge of it still sensitive to the touch, even after all these years. The memory hit him like a punch to the stomach—his father, that day. He could still hear the sound of the belt crack through the air, the sharp pain that followed as it cut into his skin. He had been lucky that he missed the eye, but the sting had burned for days, reminding him of the rage that had been directed at him. The he couldn't escape.

His breath hitched, and he felt a lump form in his throat. He swallowed it down, forcing himself to speak. "It started with my father... He—he used to... beat me" his voice faltered, the weight of the words pressing on him harder than he had anticipated, "He'd use anything—his belt, his fists, anything he could get his hands on"

Wooyoung's voice cracked as he said it, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like the burden of the past was beginning to slip free from his chest. He wasn't sure what would happen now, but he had said it. The first truth.

San's silence stretched for a moment, but his expression shifted—eyes softening with something between disbelief and sorrow. He reached out, instinctively brushing his hand over Wooyoung's arm, "I'm... I'm so sorry you had to go through that," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "No one should ever hurt you like that"

Wooyoung flinched at first, the gentleness in San's touch disarming him. It was too much. Too much to take in all at once. But then, as San's fingers lingered on his arm, Wooyoung felt something stir within him. He wasn't used to comfort, not like this—soft, without judgment. His breath shuddered in his chest, and the walls he'd built so carefully around his pain started to crumble.

"I... I've got more," Wooyoung whispered, his voice almost lost in the quiet of the room. His eyes flitted toward the floor, not daring to meet San's, but his hands betrayed him. They trembled slightly as he slowly pulled his sleeves up, exposing his forearms.

The scars there were raw, jagged marks of years spent in isolation and self-inflicted pain. He didn't need to explain, San didn't need words, Wooyoung was aware that he knew. He had known for long. He could feel San's gaze linger on the scars, not in judgment, but in something deeper. It was like San was absorbing each mark, as though trying to understand the history of them, of him. Wooyoung's breath caught as San's fingers, soft but careful, brushed the lines of his skin, like he was tracing the pain, the hurt, the parts of Wooyoung he'd buried long ago.

The touch was both tender and excruciating. Wooyoung flinched slightly, but didn't pull away. Instead, his breath grew shallow, and for the first time, he allowed himself to feel vulnerable, truly vulnerable, with someone else.

San didn't speak; his silence was more comforting than any words could be. His eyes softened, his touch lingering, and Wooyoung wondered if San understood, or if he was even capable of fully understanding the weight of those marks. He didn't know. But there was a strange, quiet kind of safety in the way San's hand stayed on his arm, not pressing for more, just... there.

Slowly, Wooyoung moved, guiding San's hand up, to where his collarbones met. The right one, a little off-center, had been broken years ago. A car accident his father had told the doctors and Wooyoung had been too delirious to deny it. As San's fingers hovered over it, Wooyoung's mind swirled with the darkness of that night. He was just a kid then—too young to fight back, too young to stop the storm that was his father. But he was tired too. So, so tired so he had tried to run away.

"This is..." he started, his voice shaking as the scene replayed before his eyes like it had happened only the day before.

He remembered the despise in Kyungmin's eyes when he went to wake him up. He remembered how he had refused at first, how Wooyoung had to struggle to convince him to leave the bed. Kyungmin refused to talk to him, he had refused to even look at Wooyoung for months, and he couldn't really blame him.

He knew Kyungmin despised him for what he did, for what he allowed his father to do to him, but what could Wooyoung do? He wouldn't leave without his little brother, so he had forced him out of his bed.

He remembered the sound of their footsteps, Kyungmin's small, hurried ones echoing in the empty streets. The fear in the air was thick, oppressive, and the cold of the night wrapped around them like a suffocating shroud. He could feel the weight of his brother's hand in his, their feet slipping against the slick pavement as they tried to escape.

Then came the screech of tires, the headlights flashing in the distance. He turned to look, and in the fading light of the alley, he saw his father's car. The horn shattered the silence, angry and unrelenting. Kyungmin's grip tightened on his hand, but the car came too fast.

And then... nothing.

He woke up on a stretcher. Pain blurred the edges of his awareness, panic pressing down on his chest.

For a moment, he thought the strange stillness was just a dream—a nightmare he could wake from if he kept his eyes closed long enough. But the cold light breaching through his eye lids and the ache that radiated from his body told him otherwise. Something was wrong. Something was missing.

When he turned his head, he saw it. The white towel. It covered a shape so small, too small, on the stretcher beside him. His breath hitched, his chest collapsing in on itself. He stared, willing it to move, to rise, to be anything other than what he knew it was.

It didn't move.

The realization hit him like the car had hit them. It knocked the air from his lungs, filled his head with a piercing static that drowned out the voices around him. Kyungmin was gone. He had pulled his brother out of bed, out of the house, and into the street. He had taken his hand, and then he had let it go.

And now Kyungmin was gone.

The officers at the hospital didn't believe his protests—he was too young, too shaken. His father had already told them everything: a tragic accident, caused by Wooyoung's reckless decision to take his brother outside in the middle of the night. He ran into the street, his father had said. I couldn't stop in time.

Wooyoung hadn't said a word. How could he? His father's version of the story made him sound responsible, and the guilt clung to him like the blood on his hands that night. Maybe it really was his fault.

He remembered the white of the towel covering Kyungmin's small body next to him. It was so clean and pure compared to the red that dirtied everything else.

His chest tightened. He gasped, struggling for breath. The panic set in like a flood. His heart hammered against his ribcage, and he felt suffocated by the weight of it all. His skin felt too tight, too hot, his vision blurring around the edges. He couldn't breathe, couldn't focus.

"Kyungmin..." he managed to whisper before his throat constricted in a wave of nausea.

The name echoed in his mind, the image of his brother's lifeless body flashing in his mind's eye. It was too much. He thought he was ready, thought he could do this, but when he opened his mouth to speak his brother's name again, his chest clenched painfully. His skin was dump with what he knew to be sweat but in that moment he thought he could still feel the blood. On his body, on his clothes, on his hands. Stained. His heart seemed to stop, constricted by guilt and grief. He couldn't breathe. Dirty. Guilty.

Another wave of nausea hit him, overwhelming and sudden. The room spun for a moment, and Wooyoung stood, stumbling on his own feet, feeling like he might actually be sick.

San must have sensed the shift immediately reaching out to steady Wooyoung by the shoulders. His eyes turned sharp with concern. "Hey, look at me," he said, his voice low and steady, but full of care, "It's okay. You don't have to tell me everything right now. We can go slow"

Wooyoung's chest tightened as he tried to steady himself, but his mind raced with memories he wasn't ready to face. He couldn't—he wasn't ready. He was...

"Shhh," San whispered softly, shifting closer. He pulled Wooyoung into a gentle embrace, his hands rubbing soothing circles on his back, "It's alright. You're safe here, okay? You don't have to go back there. You don't have to rush. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere"

The warmth of San's arms wrapped around him, his voice whispering soft reassurances at his ear and Wooyoung's heart thudded hard against his chest. The comfort was too much, and in that moment, it felt like the floodgates of everything he'd been holding in were about to open. The tears came again, more freely now, and as they slid down his cheeks, they felt like a release. Like he was letting go of years of pain and fear all at once. He felt his knees buckle and if it wasn't for San strong arms around him he would have fallen to the ground.

"It's not your fault" San whispered, his fingers brushing the tears away from his face with the gentleness of someone who cared, and Wooyoung couldn't help but lean into the touch.

He had always kept his distance, always pushed people away, but now, with San, everything felt different. The feeling of San's warmth, the quiet way he held him—Wooyoung didn't feel judged. He didn't feel broken.

He just felt... cared for.

"Thank you," Wooyoung whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He couldn't remember the last time he'd said those words, but they felt like the most honest thing he could say, "Thank you, Sanie. For everything"

San's hand tightened around him, and Wooyoung could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again, "There's no need to thank me, Woo. I'm here. Always"

Wooyoung felt his heart swell in his chest, a new warmth spreading through him. He hadn't expected to feel this way—he hadn't expected to feel so... seen.

Without thinking, he pressed against that taut body more and wrapped his arms around San with all the strenght that was left in his body, the warmth of San radiating through him, melting the little ice still clinging to his heart. Wooyoung buried his face against his shoulder, the tears still coming but no longer painful. The weight was lighter now, and for the first time, he didn't feel so alone in it.

"I don't deserve this," Wooyoung whispered, his voice trembling. "But thank you. Just... thank you"

San pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Wooyoung's eyes. His gaze was soft but so steady it made Wooyoung's breath catch. "You do deserve this," San said, his voice firm but full of warmth, "You deserve so much more than you think you do, Woo. I wish you could see that"

The way San looked at him—like Wooyoung was something fragile and precious but still whole—sent a flutter of unease through his chest. Not the kind of unease that came with fear or shame, but something warmer, deeper, unsettling in its gentleness. His stomach twisted, and he wasn't sure why. He was suddenly too aware of the weight of San's hands on him, the closeness between them, the way San's thumb brushed against his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

San's lips quirked into the faintest smile, "You'll see it one day," he said, his tone light but laced with conviction.

It took Wooyoung several weeks to tell San more. To tell him more about his past, about Kyungmin.

It wasn't a steady path. He did it with baby steps. The words came in fits and starts, tangled in his throat until they spilled out in a rush, leaving him shaking and raw. Each time, San would be there—steady, patient, his presence like an anchor in the storm. But it wasn't easy. There were tears that Wooyoung couldn't hold back, panic attacks that stole his breath and made his chest feel like it would cave in. Some nights, San held him until the shaking subsided, whispering reassurances that Wooyoung could barely hear over the roar of his own guilt. Other times, Wooyoung would shut down completely, retreating so far into himself that it left San aching with helplessness.

But little by little, the pieces came together. One night, as they sat in the quiet of the apartment, Wooyoung finally told him everything. About his father's abuse, about Kyungmin's bright smile before it faded into anger, about the way he'd blamed Wooyoung for everything the man did. And then, through trembling lips and averted eyes, Wooyoung spoke of his mother.

"Is this why you need the money?" San asked, his voice carefully measured, but Wooyoung could hear the tension in it.

Wooyoung froze, his hands pulling at the hem of sleeves. He didn't answer. He couldn't.

San's jaw tightened as he pushed again, his voice sharpening, "To buy drugs for her addiction? Wooyoung, is that what you're doing?"

Wooyoung flinched, closing his eyes tightly. The words felt like a slap, and he hated how raw and exposed they made him feel. "It's not like that," he mumbled, avoiding San's eyes, "She's not... she's not a bad person"

San let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, "Not a bad person? Wooyoung, she's your mother. She's supposed to take care of you, not make you feel like you're only good for enabling her addiction"

Wooyoung's head snapped up, his eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and desperation. "You don't understand," he said, his voice cracking, "She's been through so much. Kyungmin's death destroyed her. She—she doesn't have anyone else. If I don't help her, who will?"

San stared at him, his expression hard but not unkind, "And helping her means what? Keeping her addicted? Making sure she can keep poisoning herself? How is that love, Wooyoung? How is that what she needs?"

Wooyoung opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He didn't know what to say. San leaned forward, his voice softening but no less firm. "You think you're doing the right thing, but you're not. You're just keeping her stuck. And worse, you're hurting yourself in the process. You're bending over backward to please someone who made you believe you weren't enough, and you think if you do this one thing, maybe she'll love you the way you deserve"

Wooyoung's chest tightened. San's words hit far too close to home, peeling back layers he wasn't ready to face, "I don't care if she loves me," he said weakly, but his voice betrayed him.

"Yes, you do," San said softly, "And you deserve that love, but not like this. Not by sacrificing yourself for her addiction"

Wooyoung's hands trembled in his lap, his defenses crumbling, "I just... I don't know how else to help her," he whispered, his voice small and broken.

San reached out, resting a gentle hand on Wooyoung's knee. "Maybe the first step is stopping. Don't buy the drugs for her anymore. She might hate you for it at first, but real love isn't about giving someone what they want. It's about giving them what they need"

Wooyoung stared at him, his eyes swimming with doubt and pain. He wanted to believe San was right, but the fear of losing his mother completely clung to him like a vice. San's gaze softened further, filled with an unyielding care that made Wooyoung's chest ache.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said gently, "I'll be here, Woo. I'll help you, no matter what it takes. But you can't keep doing this—not to her and not to yourself"

Wooyoung's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his walls slowly crumbling under the weight of San's words. "I... I'll try," he whispered. He sat there in the stillness that followed, the words echoing in his mind. I'll try. They felt fragile, almost weightless, but they carried a heaviness he couldn't quite shake. Was it really that simple? Just stop? Just let go?

His thoughts churned, a storm of guilt, doubt, and something else he couldn't name. For so long, his mother's needs had defined him, shaped the contours of his life. If he didn't take care of her, who would? If he stopped, what would that make him?

But then there was San—steady, unyielding, and full of a kind of faith in him that Wooyoung couldn't understand. San's hand lingered on his knee, grounding him in a way he didn't know he needed. Wooyoung glanced at it, then up at San's face. The warmth in his eyes wasn't pity; it was belief.

You can't keep doing this—not to her and not to yourself.

The words struck deeper than Wooyoung wanted to admit. Maybe he'd been wrong all along—about what love was, about what it meant to be enough. Maybe San was right, and this wasn't about saving his mother at all. Maybe this was about saving himself.

☽

AN—Posted today cause tomorrow I'll be out and unable to be here. I feel a short explanation is necessary here. Before posting this, I had another chapter written that delved into San and Wooyoung rebuilding their relationship from scratch. It explored how San, slowly finding his place in the music industry, struggled to make time for Wooyoung. In response, Wooyoung and Yeosang decided to give San a spare key to their apartment so he could visit and stay whenever he could. This led to San spending most of his nights at their place like he used to do when Wooyoung was still recovering. Nothing much happened between the two of them though, only the usual. Yeosang slowly warms up to San though even if they don't really become best friends.

The chapter also hinted at Woobin's disappearance. While not explicitly stated, a conversation between Wooyoung and Xiaolong revealed that nothing good had happened to Woobin. Xiaolong had beaten him badly and threatened to destroy his life, his career—everything—if he ever approached Wooyoung or showed up at The Nest again. (Not kill him, though; Xiaolong believed death was too merciful for someone so vile.) This moment highlighted Xiaolong's power and the frightening lengths he would go to when protecting the people he cared about.

So, why aren't you reading that chapter? Because it felt a bit dull, filled with unnecessary details that detracted from the main story. Including it would have meant cutting more important parts from this chapter and the next ones—something I didn't want to do. Hopefully, this brief explanation helps fill in the gaps.

Thoughts so far?