HAEUN.

───────────────────────‧★ ˎˊ˗

     Upon arriving at the infirmary, Sunghoon slides the door open with his foot, adjusting his grip on me as he steps inside. His breathing is steady, but I can feel the faintest shift in his hold, like he's finally acknowledging the weight of carrying me this whole way.

     But when we enter, the room is empty.

     Well, isn't this just perfect?

     "The nurse must be on break," Sunghoon mutters, more to himself than to me. His tone is flat, unreadable.

     He still hasn't put me down.

     The silence stretches as he scans the room, then walks toward one of the beds, turning his back to it before lowering me onto the sheets.

     Slowly.

     Gently.

     His grip lingers for a second longer than necessary before he finally lets go, and my hands slip from his shoulders into my lap. The warmth of his back is gone, leaving behind only the dull throb of my injuries.

     For a moment, he just stands there, in front of me, saying nothing. Then he clears his throat, shifting his weight. "I'll find the wipes and bandages."

     His voice is quieter now. Muttered. He turns away before I can say anything, heading toward the cabinets and drawers.

     I watch him move, lips parted slightly in something close to awe. Even now, when he doesn't know where anything is, he moves with precision—like he's good at everything without even trying. Like nothing ever fazes him.

     I hate that I notice it.

     It doesn't take him long to find what he needs. In just a few seconds, he's kneeling in front of me again, this time at my feet. I blink down at him, taken aback by the sight.

     I don't think I've ever seen Park Sunghoon beneath anyone. Ever.

     His breath fans against my skin as he studies the dried blood on my knee, the sharp red streak trailing down to my shin. His brows knit together slightly, just for a moment, before he pulls out an antiseptic wipe.

     "I'm going to clean the blood first," he says, more to himself than to me. "Then the wound."

     The cold wipe presses against my skin, and weirdly enough, it's not that cold. Maybe because he's warm. Maybe because he's—

     I stop myself from finishing that thought.

     He's gentle. Too gentle. His movements are careful, precise, like he's mapping out every action before he makes it. He doesn't rush. He doesn't press too hard. And every so often, his eyes flick up to my face—watching, checking, like he's making sure I'm okay.

     Wait. What?

     "Talk to me," he says flatly, discarding the used wipe and pulling out another.

     I blink. "What?"

     "Talk to me." He repeats, this time looking up.

     Oh. He's trying to distract me.

     "About what?" I ask.

     "Anything."

     I swallow, trying to think of something to say—something normal, something light. But instead, the words that slip out are, "Why are you doing this?"

     His hand stills.

     The pause is brief, but I catch it. The way his fingers tense against the wipe, the momentary tightness in his jaw. Then, as if shaking it off, he presses the wipe over my wound, and I tense as a sharp sting shoots through my knee.

     He notices. Of course he notices.

     He lifts the wipe slightly, easing the pressure. "What do you mean?"

     I exhale, trying to ignore the way my heart is suddenly beating in my ears. "Why are you doing all of this? Taking me here, cleaning my wound, looking after me?" I swallow. "You don't even like me."

     Something flickers across his face, too quick for me to catch.

     He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he focuses on the wound again, dabbing at it carefully, like he's buying himself time. Like he's debating whether or not to even respond.

     Then, finally, he exhales.

     "Just because."

     I frown. "That's not an answer."

     He huffs a quiet, almost amused breath. "Really?"

     "You know it isn't." I narrow my eyes. "So what are you really getting at here?"

     For a second, I think he won't answer.

     Then, he shifts slightly, pressing the bandage over my knee. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks.

     "I can't let my opposition die on me before I really beat them, right?"

     My breath catches.

     His tone is light, like he's teasing, but there's something else beneath it. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and I feel something unfamiliar coil in my chest, tightening.

     I open my mouth, but no words come out.

     He holds my gaze for just a second longer before looking away, moving to grab another bandage.

     The air between us is thick. Heavy. Like something lingers in the space between his words and my silence, pressing down on my chest.

     Then, before I can even process it, his fingers curl gently around my wrists, pulling my hands forward.

     His touch isn't rough. Isn't demanding. It's careful. The warmth of his skin against mine sends a jolt through me, and before I can react, he's already started cleaning the scrapes on my palms.

     I suck in a sharp breath as the antiseptic wipe glides over the raw skin. It stings, but not as much as the unfamiliar tenderness in his movements.

     What the hell? Is this really Sunghoon?

     "So who did it?" His voice is quiet, steady. But there's an edge to it. A cold, underlying sharpness.

     I blink at him, thrown off by the abrupt question. "What?"

     His grip on my wrists tightens—just slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to hold me there.

     "Come on, Haeun." His eyes flicker up to meet mine, dark and unreadable. "Who made all this happen?"

     I swallow, suddenly hyperaware of the way his fingers brush against the inside of my wrist. I can feel my pulse hammering beneath his touch, betraying me.

     "It doesn't matter," I shake my head, trying to tug my hands back, but he doesn't let go. Instead, his grip softens, his thumb skimming lightly over the skin just above my knuckles.

     "Tell me." His voice drops lower, a quiet demand.

     I exhale sharply, glaring at him. "Why do you care?"

     He doesn't answer.

     Instead, his eyes flick downward, back to my hands. His movements slow—not hesitant, but careful. The wipe grazes my wrist, his touch almost unbearably light, like he's afraid of hurting me.

     Like he's trying to be gentle.

     It's infuriating.

     "You're not answering me," I snap.

     His lips press into a thin line. Then, finally, he speaks. "I don't."

     A sigh slips out before I can stop it.

     Why am I sighing? Why does something close to disappointment settle in my chest? I hate him. He hates me. Of course neither of us care.

     I shake the thought off and scoff. "Exactly. If anything, I should be the one asking questions."

     Sunghoon looks up, blinks twice, tilts his head.

     "What?"

     I narrow my eyes. "I don't know. Maybe why you're going around punching people?"

     His fingers still. Just for a second.

     Then, slowly, he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, nodding once. "So it was Hajoon."

     My breath catches. "What?"

     "Nothing." He responds half-heartedly, placing a band aid on my palm. "You're good to go."

     I look at him for a moment. Just look at him. I don't know why, actually. I sigh deeply. "Sunghoon, why did—"

     Something cool presses against my forehead. His hand.

     His palm is large, firm, slightly calloused, yet still extremely soft. But cold, in an oddly comforting, cool way. A stark contrast to my own skin, which, now that I think about it, is kind of burning.

     His brows knit together, lips pressing into a thin line as he studies me.

     "You have a fever."

     I scoff, leaning back. Or, I try to. His hand follows. "No, I don't."

     Sunghoon's gaze flickers to my face, then down to my throat. "You do." He pulls his hand away, and the absence of his touch makes my forehead tingle, heat creeping back into my skin.

     "I don't," I insist, even as my limbs feel heavier by the second.

     He scoffs, biting back a smirk as he turns toward a drawer, rummaging through it.

     I sigh, exhausted. "What are you doing?"

     He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulls out a thermometer—one of those in-ear ones—before slipping on a new sterile cap.

     When he turns back to me, I instinctively lean away.

     But before I can even protest, Sunghoon steps forward, and his hand is already at my temple, fingertips grazing my skin as he brushes my bangs aside.

     I hold my breath.

     Why am I holding my breath?

     The thermometer beeps.

     Sunghoon pulls it out. A second, lower beep follows—louder, more definitive.

     His gaze flickers to the screen. Then, he scoffs, turning it toward me with a pointed look.

     "You don't have a fever, you said?"

     I glance at the reading. 40 degrees Celsius.

     Holy shit.

     My stomach drops. Okay, maybe I am a little sick.

     But Sunghoon doesn't look smug. He doesn't tease. He just stares at the screen, his expression blank, save for the subtle tightening in his jaw.

     Then, his voice drops, dangerously calm. "Haeun."

     I swallow, my fingers gripping the edge of the bed. "What?"

     "How long."

     "...How long what?"

     Sunghoon lifts his gaze. I shut my mouth.

     "How long have you been running yourself into the ground?" he asks, voice soft, but deceptively so.

     I shift uncomfortably. "I haven't—"

     "Haeun." 

     I look away. "I don't know," I mutter. "A few days."

     Sunghoon's silence is deafening. I peek at him from the corner of my eye, expecting a lecture, a scoff—maybe even a triumphant I told you so. But his expression is unreadable.

     He exhales sharply. Then, without a word, he turns, walking to another cabinet.

     I blink. "Why are you doing all of this?"

     Sunghoon doesn't answer immediately. His fingers curl around the handle of the cabinet, knuckles taut, but he doesn't move to open it just yet. His back is to me, broad and stiff, the tension in his shoulders betraying something unspoken.

     I swallow, shifting against the infirmary bed. "Sunghoon—"

     A quiet scoff leaves his lips. "You're still talking."

     I narrow my eyes. "Excuse me?"

     He finally pulls the cabinet open, reaching for something inside. "You're on the verge of passing out, and yet you're still running your mouth." He turns, a cold pack in one hand, a bottle of pills in the other. His gaze flickers over me, sharp. "I don't know whether to be impressed or concerned."

     "Maybe you should be neither," I bite back.

     He steps closer. I instinctively push myself further into the bed, though I'm not sure why. He doesn't miss it.

     He smirks slightly. "Relax."

     "I am relaxed."

     Sunghoon hums, unimpressed. He sets the cold pack down beside me, then pops the pill bottle open, shaking out two tablets into his palm. He holds them out. "Take them."

     I hesitate.

     He exhales through his nose. "Haeun."

     I clench my jaw, snatching the pills from his hand before tossing them into my mouth.

     Sunghoon watches as I grab the water bottle beside me and take a long sip. Only when I've swallowed does he finally move again.

     His hand lifts.

     I freeze as his fingers brush against my temple again, brushing more stray strands of hair out of the way to feel my skin. His hand then moves to my cheek, pressing the back of his hand to it.

     The coolness of his skin is a stark contrast against the heat burning beneath my own.

     His expression doesn't change, but his eyes—deep, focused—trace over my face, flickering from my eyes to my cheeks, to my lips, before settling back on my forehead.

     "You're really hot."

     I choke. On absolutely nothing. A full-blown coughing fit takes over me as my body betrays me in real time.

     He just said what?

     Sunghoon blinks, brows knitting together as he processes my reaction. And then, realization dawns.

     Clearing his throat, he quickly averts his gaze to a random spot on the wall. "I meant—your fever. Your head, uhm... you're burning up." His voice is rough, awkward. "Obviously."

     His hand disappears into the pocket of his P.E. trousers, feigning nonchalance, but it does nothing to hide the way the tips of his ears are steadily turning pink.

     I hum, amused despite myself. Sunghoon—flustered. It's almost cute. Almost.

     Silence lingers between us, stretching out longer than it should. Sunghoon clears his throat again, shifting his weight. "I should go. Gym teacher's probably wondering where I am."

     A sharp pang hits my chest, though I don't know why.

     I nod, keeping my voice neutral. "Okay."

     He turns toward the door, hand reaching for the handle—only to hesitate.

     Then, without looking at me, he mutters, "Wait for the nurse to come. Don't even think about leaving, Hammie."

     My fingers twitch at the sound of that nickname.

     I lower my head, exhaling through my nose. I don't answer, but I know he gets the message.

     Sunghoon stands there for a second longer, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, with a sharp sigh, he slides the door open.

     And just like that, he's gone.

     I plop back onto the bed, the sterile scent of the infirmary filling my lungs. The silence is heavier than before.

     And for some stupid reason, I don't like it.

───────────────────────‧★ ˎˊ˗

like a fever fever fever fever...... (sorry😔)

sunghoon vs hajoon pt 2......???????

wordcount; 2280
edited; ✘

thank you for reading,
nana<3