After almost half an hour of sitting together in silence, with Tris' head resting against my shoulder, I noticed his breathing had softened. I glanced down and realized he had fallen asleep. Even though we were just sitting on a hard bench in the hospital hallway, he looked utterly exhausted. The weight of his grief had drained him completely.

I didn't move, afraid to disturb him. Watching him sleep, even in this state, stirred something deep inside me—a strange mixture of nostalgia and heartbreak. Tris wasn't just my first love; he had been a part of my life in ways no one else could replicate. And now, seeing him so vulnerable, I couldn't help but want to protect him.

But our quiet moment was interrupted when a doctor approached us. I gently shook Tris awake, whispering, "Hey, Tris. The doctor's here."

He stirred, blinking groggily as he sat up straight. The doctor explained that Tris needed to come with him to process some documents regarding his mother and younger brother. The words felt so clinical, so detached, but Tris just nodded numbly, like he was on autopilot.

I stood up with him and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "I'll head out for a bit," I told him. "I'll buy some food for both of us, okay? You need to eat something. And... I need to eat too."

He nodded, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and pain. Then, with a faint, almost bittersweet smile, he said, "Thank you, thief."

The words hit me like a wave. It had been five years since the last time he called me that. My chest tightened, not from my condition this time, but from the flood of emotions his words brought back. I swallowed hard, blinking quickly to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

I managed a small, shaky laugh. "Still calling me that, huh?"

He just gave a soft nod, his smile fading as the weight of his grief pulled him back down.

I didn't say anything else, just offered a reassuring pat on his arm before turning away. As I walked down the hospital corridor, my eyes stung, but I kept moving. I couldn't fall apart—not now, not when he needed me to be strong.

Walking through the corridors, I kept my head down, tugging my cap lower and adjusting my face mask. I thought I could slip out unnoticed. After all, I wasn't famous enough for people to make a big fuss over me, right?

Wrong.

The moment I stepped into the lobby, I heard whispers that quickly grew louder.

"Is that her?"
"That's Clover! The new face of BTS!"
"Isn't she the one rumored with Taehyung?"

I froze, my heart sinking as a small crowd began to form around me. They weren't aggressive, just curious, but it was overwhelming.

"Clover, can we get a picture?"
"Are you really dating Taehyung?"
"Clover, please just one selfie!"

The questions and requests came all at once, voices overlapping as more people joined in. I could feel my chest tighten, my breathing growing shallow. My heart pounded erratically, and not in the normal way—it was the warning sign I dreaded.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus on calming myself, but the noise only grew louder. My hands shook as I clutched my bag, searching for an escape.

I couldn't let this happen. Not here, not now.

Before I could lose my balance, before the world completely blurred and spun out of control, I felt a strong hand grab mine. The touch was firm but careful, grounding me in the chaos. A voice I didn't expect to hear spoke low and steady, cutting through the noise like a lifeline.

"Move," he said, his tone commanding but calm. "She's not feeling well."

The crowd hesitated, their curiosity momentarily overshadowed by the authority in his voice. I barely registered what was happening as he shielded me from the gathering sea of people, leading me away with surprising ease. My vision was hazy, my legs barely cooperating, but I was moving—somehow.

When the noise finally faded into the distance, I realized we were somewhere quiet, a tucked-away corner of the hospital where no one could find us. The coolness of the space contrasted with the overwhelming heat that had built up in my chest.

I blinked, trying to steady my breathing, and looked up. Of all the people who could have saved me, it was him.

Suga.

"Y-you..." I started, but my voice was weak, and the words faltered.

His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity I wasn't used to. He had always been distant, cold even, since the moment I started working with BTS. He wasn't cruel, but he had a way of making me feel like an outsider. So why was he here? Why now?

Before I could finish my thought or even ask why, the dizziness came back with full force. My knees buckled, and the last thing I saw was Suga's startled expression as he stepped forward to catch me.

Then everything went black.

***

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was the pristine ceiling of a hospital room. The soft hum of machines and the faint scent of antiseptic confirmed it—I was still at Seoul National University Hospital. My body felt heavy, and my chest ached faintly, but what caught my attention was the figure sitting beside me.

Suga.

He was slouched slightly in the chair, his arms crossed, but his sharp gaze met mine the moment I stirred. Relief softened the lines of his face, but he didn't say a word. It was odd seeing him like this—quiet, almost vulnerable in his own way.

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could form the words, the door opened, and a doctor walked in, clipboard in hand.

"Miss Peewee," he greeted, his tone calm but serious. "I'm glad to see you awake."

Suga straightened in his seat, his unreadable mask slipping back on. The doctor approached my bed, and suddenly the air felt heavy.

"We've run some tests," the doctor began, glancing between me and Suga, "and the results show further progression of your condition."

I swallowed hard, bracing myself.

"The diagnostic tests indicate advanced fibrosis in your heart tissue. Your heart's function—its ejection fraction—has decreased further, and the walls of your ventricles have become increasingly stiff. This reduces your heart's ability to fill and pump blood effectively."

Each word felt like a stone sinking into my chest. I couldn't meet Suga's eyes, but I could feel his presence beside me, silent and steady.

The doctor continued, his voice unwavering but laced with gravity. "We'll need to adjust your medications. You'll likely require higher doses of diuretics to manage fluid retention and increased beta-blockers. Additionally, I'm recommending oxygen therapy for severe episodes of breathlessness."

My throat tightened. Oxygen therapy?

"As for the prognosis..." the doctor hesitated, his eyes softening. "Without a heart transplant, your condition will continue to decline. We're looking at a rapid progression over the next one to two years."

The room fell silent.

I nodded numbly, though the weight of his words pressed heavily on my chest. A transplant. Time running out. It was nothing new, but hearing it spoken so plainly never got easier.

The doctor placed a gentle hand on the bed's railing. "I'll give you a moment. If you have any questions or concerns, let me know."

He stepped out, leaving me alone with Suga.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence hung between us like an unspoken truth. When I finally turned to look at him, his expression was impossible to read—his eyes dark, his jaw tense.

"I—" I started, but my voice cracked.

"Don't," he said softly, cutting me off. His voice lacked its usual cold edge, replaced by something I couldn't quite place.

For the first time, I saw something different in Suga's gaze. Not pity, but understanding.

The silence stretched on, heavy and unbroken. I could feel Suga's presence beside me, steady as ever, but his quietness made me restless. My mind drifted back to earlier, to the chaos in the hospital lobby. Amid the crowd and their voices, I remembered hearing his—calm, clear, and protective.

"She's not feeling well."

I turned my head to him slowly, still trying to wrap my mind around everything that had happened. "Earlier," I began softly, my voice still weak. "You said I wasn't feeling well. How... how did you know?"

He didn't respond right away. His gaze remained fixed on some invisible point in the room, his expression unreadable. Finally, with a sigh, he turned to face me.

"I knew the first time I met you," he said nonchalantly, as if the words held no weight.

My eyes widened. "What? What do you mean?"

"At the party," he continued, his voice calm but firm. "The night Jungkook and RM found you through the crowd. The night Taehyung approached you. I saw you taking your meds in the hallway near the restroom."

I blinked, the memory rushing back. That night, I thought no one had noticed. I'd been so careful.

"That's actually the real reason why I was against you working with us," Suga admitted, leaning back in his chair. His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was something else there—a trace of frustration, or maybe concern. "It's not because I didn't think you were talented. I just knew how exhausting and overwhelming this life would be for someone... like you."

My chest tightened, and I wasn't sure if it was because of his words or my condition.

"I could tell," he continued, his gaze locking onto mine. "The way you tried so hard to compose yourself at that first press conference. How you held your breath and forced a smile like it was second nature. And it made sense when you didn't want to drink alcohol that first night we stayed at your house."

My mind reeled, replaying every interaction we'd had since I joined them. All this time, I thought Suga was cold toward me because he didn't like me or didn't trust me. But now, the truth hit me like a tidal wave.

"I didn't know exactly what was wrong," he admitted, his voice softening. "But I could tell something was. And that's why I followed you earlier when you left the studio so suddenly. I had a feeling you didn't want anyone to know, but I couldn't just stand there and do nothing."

The lump in my throat grew, and I had to blink back the tears threatening to spill. Suga had known all along, and while his cold demeanor had thrown me off, it was clear now that it came from a place of concern, not indifference.

"I..." My voice wavered. I didn't know what to say. Gratitude, embarrassment, and a strange sense of relief all warred within me.

"I'm not good with words," he added, breaking the silence again. "But... just take care of yourself. Don't push too hard. Even if no one else notices, I will."

His words settled over me like a blanket—unexpected, warm, and oddly comforting.

I couldn't help but faintly smile, despite everything. It dawned on me that this was just who Suga was—quietly observant, noticing the little things no one else did. Even though his actions often came across as cold or detached, they were anything but.

"Yoongi," I said softly, using his real name for the first time since I'd known him.

He turned to me, his expression unreadable as always, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

"Can I ask you for a favor?" I continued, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded slightly, waiting for me to speak.

"Don't tell anyone about this. Please," I said, meeting his gaze. "Not Taehyung, not Jungkook, not anyone. I don't want them to know."

His brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he considered my words.

"Why?" he asked simply, his tone neither judgmental nor curious, just straightforward.

I sighed, trying to gather my thoughts. "Because... I don't want to be treated differently. I don't want them to look at me with pity or worry. This is my burden, and I'll carry it."

He studied me for a long moment, his sharp eyes piercing through my weak façade. Then, with a small sigh of his own, he nodded.

"Fine," he said. "I won't tell anyone. But..." He paused, his gaze softening just a fraction. "If it ever gets too much, you tell me. Don't wait until it's too late."

I felt a lump rise in my throat again, but this time, it wasn't from sadness or fear. It was from the quiet reassurance in his voice, the unspoken promise that I wasn't alone, even if I chose to carry this in silence.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice trembling.

He leaned back in his chair, his typical nonchalant demeanor returning as he shrugged. "Don't make me regret it."