Later that evening, Kei blinked against the soft light of his bedroom. The comforter was tucked around him tightly, and the scent of something warm wafted in from the kitchen. His throat ached. His body felt stiff and achy.

He heard humming in the kitchen. Then, soft footsteps.

Sung appeared, holding a bowl of steaming porridge and a worried expression.

“You’re awake.”

Kei managed a small nod. “You’re still here?”

“I found you at the studio,” Sung said, setting the bowl on the nightstand. “You didn’t answer any messages.”

“I lost track of time,” Kei said hoarsely. “I was working. The Hong Kong show... it's not coming together.”

“You were burning up, Hyung.” Sung’s voice dropped, thick with concern. “You should’ve called someone. Me.”

Kei opened his eyes slowly, watching him. "It's your day off. You should be resting too."

Sung crossed his arms, clearly a little upset. "You're seriously saying I should be resting? You're the one half-dead on a couch, still worrying about an exhibition."

Kei gave a weak smile. "Work doesn’t stop for a fever."

"Well, it should!" Sung knelt beside the bed, eyes softening. "I came because I was worried. You ignored messages, calls... what else could I do?"

Sung’s reply was simple, but it hit deeper than Kei expected. Since when had someone prioritized him like that? Probably never. He wouldn't have allowed it.

Sung reached over, brushing Kei's damp hair from his forehead. His touch lingered. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

“I always have,” Kei murmured. “But lately... it’s been different.”

Sung’s thumb brushed lightly against his inner wrist. “Because of me?”

Kei didn't answer.

But his eyes said enough.

The air between them shifted again—closer, warmer.

Then Sung leaned closer, his round eyes searching Kei’s.

“If I kissed you now, Hyung...” he asked, “would you stop me?”

Kei’s breath hitched.