The night did not loosen its grip.
It lingered in the apartment like a held breath, thick with the sound of shallow breathing and the faint hum of the refrigerator cycling on and off. Min Yu sat beside his grandmother's bed with his back straight and his hands folded together, posture rigid not from discipline but from fear. Every rise of her chest was counted. Every pause felt too long. Every sound beyond the walls—a passing car, a distant siren—made his shoulders tense as if expecting impact.
He had not slept.
He had not allowed himself to consider sleeping.
The paramedic's words echoed in his mind, looping relentlessly: Watch her breathing. Don't let her slip too deeply. If anything changes—anything at all—call immediately.
Min Yu obeyed like obedience itself could keep her alive.
The lamp on the bedside table was dimmed to its lowest setting, casting a weak amber glow over her face. She looked smaller like this, fragile in a way that stripped the air from his lungs. Her mouth was slightly open, breath rasping softly, uneven but present.
Present was everything.
He leaned forward whenever the sound changed, whispering her name, brushing her hand, grounding himself in the sensation of her skin against his fingers.
Time passed without shape.
He didn't notice the ache settling into his lower back until it flared sharp enough to steal his breath. He didn't notice how heavy his eyelids had become until the room swam for a moment when he blinked. He didn't notice the way exhaustion pressed against him like a tide—because fear was louder.
What he did notice was movement in the doorway.
He turned his head sharply, heart leaping, only to stop short.
Baek Hoa stood there, coat already draped over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened and abandoned entirely. He looked different in the low light—less sharp-edged, less imposing. Still intense, still controlled, but quieter. As if the night had reached him too.
Min Yu opened his mouth.
"You should go," he said automatically, the words falling out before he could stop them. "You've been here long enough."
Hoa didn't respond right away.
He stepped into the room instead, movements careful, measured. He set a glass of water within reach of the bed, adjusted the angle of the lamp, and checked the window without being asked—closing it just enough to block the draft.
"I'm not leaving," he said at last.
Min Yu's chest tightened. "You don't have to stay."
"I know."
"Then—"
"I want to."
The words were simple. Unforced. They settled into Min Yu's chest and stayed there, heavy and warm and unsettling all at once.
Silence followed. Not awkward. Shared.
Min Yu turned back to his grandmother, refocusing, counting breaths again. Hoa remained nearby, presence steady, not hovering but not distant either. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes moving between Min Yu and the slow rise and fall of the quilt.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
At some point, Min Yu's head dipped forward despite his effort to stay upright. His chin brushed his chest, his spine bending under the weight of exhaustion.
Hoa noticed immediately.
He straightened and crossed the room in two quiet steps. "Min Yu."
Min Yu startled awake. "I wasn't sleeping."
Hoa crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes. "I know."
"I can't," Min Yu said, voice rough. "I can't sleep."
"You won't," Hoa agreed calmly. "But you can move somewhere your body won't punish you for standing guard all night."
Min Yu shook his head. "I can't leave her."
"You won't," Hoa said again, certainty in his voice. "The couch is two steps away. I'll watch her. If anything changes, I wake you."
Min Yu hesitated, fear and fatigue warring inside him.
Hoa held his gaze. "I promise."
The word landed solidly. Heavy. Real.
Min Yu nodded.
They moved to the living room. The couch was narrow and worn, its cushions sagging in familiar places. Hoa folded a blanket and laid it across the backrest.
"You take the couch," Hoa said.
"And you?" Min Yu asked.
Hoa glanced at the floor. "I'll sit."
"That's ridiculous," Min Yu murmured. "It's a couch."
Hoa studied him, then gave a faint, almost-smile. "Then move over."
Min Yu's heart skipped.
He shifted to one end of the couch. Hoa sat beside him, careful not to crowd, leaving a small but deliberate space between their shoulders. The room was dimmer here, the light from the bedroom barely reaching them.
For a long while, they said nothing.
Min Yu stared at the doorway to his grandmother's room, listening to the faint, uneven rhythm of her breathing. His eyelids grew heavier despite his resolve.
Hoa shifted slightly and drew the blanket over both of them.
Min Yu turned his head. "Hoa—"
"Sleep," Hoa said softly. "I'll wake you."
Min Yu's protest faded before it formed. The warmth of the blanket, the quiet presence beside him, the permission to stop holding everything together—his body accepted it before his mind could argue.
His eyes closed.
He woke to warmth.
Not the suffocating kind. The steady kind.
An arm rested loosely around his shoulders, holding him in place as if he'd drifted there and been kept without being trapped. His cheek pressed against a solid chest, the rise and fall beneath it slow and even.
Min Yu froze.
Hoa.
His heart hammered. He stayed still, afraid any movement would shatter the fragile calm of the moment.
He breathed.
Hoa smelled different this close—clean, grounded, faintly like coffee and fabric warmed by skin. The heat of him seeped through Min Yu's sweater, settling into places that had been cold for too long.
Slowly, Min Yu lifted his head.
Hoa's face was inches away.
In sleep, the sharp lines softened. His brow was smooth, lashes casting shadows against his cheek. One hand rested lightly at Min Yu's upper arm, thumb brushing bare skin where the blanket had slipped.
Min Yu's breath caught.
Hoa stirred.
Min Yu tried to pull back, panic flaring—but Hoa's arm tightened instinctively, keeping him from slipping away.
They opened their eyes at the same time.
They stared at each other.
"Did something change?" Hoa asked, voice rough with sleep.
Min Yu swallowed. "No. She's… the same."
Hoa exhaled, relief passing through his gaze before awareness caught up to him.
His arm loosened immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay," Min Yu said quickly.
Hoa paused. "Are you sure?"
Min Yu nodded, heart racing. "You didn't wake me. I must have leaned."
Hoa studied him, then nodded once.
They didn't move away right away.
Min Yu felt every point of contact—his knee brushing Hoa's thigh, the blanket tucked around them, the warmth that lingered.
Hoa's gaze dropped to Min Yu's mouth.
Min Yu noticed.
Hoa lifted his hand slowly, stopping just short of Min Yu's cheek. "May I?"
Min Yu nodded.
Hoa's fingers brushed his cheek—light, careful, reverent. Min Yu leaned into the touch without thinking.
Their foreheads met.
Hoa's breath fanned across Min Yu's lips. "You fell asleep," he murmured. "I didn't think you would."
"I didn't mean to," Min Yu whispered.
"I'm glad you did."
The almost-kiss hovered there, fragile and electric.
Min Yu's hand curled into Hoa's shirt.
Hoa closed his eyes for a brief second—then pulled back just enough to breathe.
"Not like this," he said softly. "Not when you're exhausted."
Min Yu nodded, disappointment and relief tangling together.
They sat in quiet closeness until dawn crept in, pale light tracing the edges of the room.
When Hoa finally stood to leave, Min Yu followed him to the door.
"I'll come back later," Hoa said. "After work."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," Hoa replied.
Min Yu watched him go, heart unsteady.
The apartment no longer felt empty.
But it felt dangerous in a new way.
The distance began the next day.
Min Yu didn't plan it. It happened in small, defensible choices—replying slower, choosing different paths across campus, telling himself he was too busy to meet Hoa's gaze when it found him anyway.
Warmth lingered in his body.
So did fear.
And as he walked through campus, phone silent in his pocket, Min Yu realized something had shifted.
He wasn't running.
But he wasn't ready to stand still either.
And somewhere behind him, unseen but unmistakable, Baek Hoa began to notice the space forming.
The chase had already begun.