A few hours later, he woke up with a terrible headache. Not even the kind that comes with a migraine – this was much worse. It felt as if he’d been hit on the nose a dozen times with a cast-iron pan; his nasal bridge, forehead, and even his cheekbones throbbed. The world spun around him, nausea churned in his stomach, and his limbs were dreadfully numb. Even opening his eyes was a struggle, and it took a few seconds before he realized he was in an unfamiliar place.

He was lying on a stylish, turquoise-blue couch, in the middle of what seemed to be a living room. Beside him, on the coffee table, there were bandages, painkillers, and ice packs slowly melting away.

With hazy eyes, Siwoo lifted his gaze to his own arm, horrified to find that both of his hands were wrapped in bandages. He didn’t want to know what his skin looked like beneath the gauze – he could already guess it wasn’t a pretty sight. He could barely move his fingers, but he still managed to reach up to his face, feeling his wounds. His entire cheek was swollen and battered. He didn’t care. Everything hurt, but not for a second did he pity himself. In fact, his split lips curled into a small grin, because he knew – he had won. He had fucking won. At least, that was the only thought flickering dimly in his foggy mind.

With great difficulty, he sat up and took a better look around the unfamiliar house: pale yellow walls, elegant yet minimalistic furniture, an open-concept kitchen. The moment Siwoo spotted the latter, he forced himself to stand. He was unbearably thirsty.

He staggered toward the sink, still plagued by dizziness and the pounding in his skull. Turning on the tap, he immediately lowered his head beneath the stream of water. The cool sensation revived him slightly, though he still felt disoriented; like being both terribly drunk and painfully hungover at the same time. But perhaps what truly snapped him back to reality was his own reflection, faintly visible on the metallic surface of the sink.

His entire face was indeed bruised and battered. His skin was swollen in multiple places, dried blood clung to his cracked lips, and deep, reddish-purple bruises stretched beneath both eyes, running across the bridge of his nose.

"What the f_ck…" he muttered under his breath before turning away. Maybe it was better if he hadn’t seen that.

For a while, he stood still, leaning against the polished kitchen counter, sifting through his memories. He tried to recall every detail, though there were gaps – one of them being how and why he had ended up at Junho’s place.

Junho.

The moment he remembered the boy’s terrified, then worried, doe-like eyes, the soft caresses of his fingers, his gentle touches, Siwoo’s stomach twisted into knots.

Soft music played somewhere nearby. Siwoo only noticed it after a while, but as his mind became clearer, the melody grew louder. A pleasant tune, gentle violin – he'd never heard the melody, still, it felt familiar.

He swallowed hard and shook his head. What was he supposed to do? Without much thought, he started moving toward the music.

He stopped in front of a slightly open wooden door, painted a deep, rusty brown. From here, he could hear the song clearly. Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand to knock. But just as his bandaged fingers were about to touch the wood, he caught a glimpse of Junho through the gap.

Siwoo’s heart suddenly started hammering against his ribs, as if it had been launched into a hundred-kilometre-per-hour sprint. And it wasn’t just because he saw the boy – of course, he expected Junho to be in the room. No, what truly sent a shiver down his spine was the fact that Junho was practically naked.

His beautiful body was barely concealed by an unbuttoned, elegant shirt, and at that very moment, he was pulling up his underwear over his long, beautiful legs.

Siwoo saw everything.

A graceful, swan-like neck. Rounded shoulders. A delicate collarbone, a smooth, slender waist. Gentle curves along his hips. Elegant thighs. A perfectly shaped, soft-looking bottom. Skin so fine and silky, it seemed to blend with the soothing melody in the background, which had quieted into a mere whisper…

Siwoo felt like he was going to pass out. His entire body trembled. The world spun around him once more, and he instinctively took a few steps back, until he collided with the wall behind him… Or rather, he would have, had he not accidentally knocked over the small table beside him. A flowerpot, which had been resting on top of it, crashed to the floor with a loud, shattering noise.

Siwoo froze.

I’m going to faint. I’m going to faint.

"Jesus!" Junho’s panicked voice rang out as he rushed out of the room, eyes wide with alarm. By now, he had gotten dressed mostly. A crisp white shirt hung loosely over his shoulders, left unbuttoned. The moment he spotted Siwoo, he instinctively clutched the fabric together, as if trying to cover himself.

If only he knew how much Siwoo had already seen.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to—" Siwoo stammered, his voice shaking with embarrassment.

But before he could finish, Junho cut him off.

"I’m just glad you’re awake," he exhaled, lowering his gaze. Then, stepping closer, he looked at Siwoo with a gaze so heavy with sorrow and concern that it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.

"Don't ever do that again. Ever."

Shaking his head, Junho suddenly pulled Siwoo into a hug.

The moment Siwoo felt the warmth of the boy’s bare chest through his shirt, he thought he was going to die. Die.