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It's late in the evening when Lee Know's phone rings, interrupting the calm silence of his apartment. He's in the middle of unwinding after a long day, the soft glow of the TV flickering in the background as he absently scrolls through his phone. When he sees the hospital's number on his screen, his heart skips a beat.
"Hello?" he answers, his voice already tight with unease.
"Is this Lee Minho?" a voice asks, professional and calm, but it does nothing to ease the sudden anxiety gripping his chest.
"Yes, that's me," he replies, his throat dry. There's a long pause, and he can hear the faint sound of papers rustling on the other end. The silence stretches, and with each passing second, his heart pounds harder.
"We have Y/N Y/L/N here at the hospital. You're listed as her emergency contact."
The words slam into him like a physical blow, knocking the air out of his lungs. "Is she—" He swallows, trying to steady himself. "Is she okay? What happened?"
"I'm afraid I can't discuss details over the phone. But we need you to come as soon as possible."
"Please," he begs, his voice cracking. "Just tell me if she's okay. I need to know if she's—"
"We'll explain everything when you arrive, Mr. Lee," the nurse says gently. "Please come as quickly as you can."
The call ends, and for a moment, he just stands there, frozen in place. His mind is racing, a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and fears. He can't breathe, can't think. All he knows is that you're in the hospital, and they wouldn't even tell him what was wrong. His imagination runs wild, filling in the terrifying blanks. He sees you hurt, bleeding, alone—and it's enough to propel him into action.
He's out the door in a flash, his hands shaking as he fumbles with his car keys. The drive to the hospital is a blur, his mind consumed with worst-case scenarios. Every red light, every slow car feels like a personal attack, an obstacle keeping him from getting to you. By the time he pulls into the hospital parking lot, he's barely holding it together.
The harsh lights and antiseptic smell hit him as soon as he enters the building, but he barely notices. He rushes to the front desk, his voice trembling as he asks for your room number. When the nurse directs him down the hall, he doesn't waste a second, practically running through the maze of corridors until he finds your room.
He pushes the door open, his breath catching in his throat when he sees you. You're lying in bed, looking pale and tired, an IV attached to your arm. Your eyes widen when you see him, and a small, relieved smile pulls at your lips.
"Minho—"
But before you can say anything else, he's at your side, his hands reaching for yours. Tears are streaming down his face, his whole body trembling with the force of his emotions. "Y/N, what happened? They wouldn't tell me anything, and I thought—I thought—" His voice breaks, a sob escaping before he can hold it back.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," you say softly, squeezing his hands even though your own are weak. "I'm okay. It's not—"
"I was so scared," he whispers, his forehead pressing against your hand. "I thought I'd lost you. I didn't know what to do. I—" He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to pull himself together. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
You can feel his pain, his fear, and it tears at your heart. You reach up, your fingers brushing against his cheek, wiping away the tears that continue to fall. "You're here now. That's all that matters."
He nods, his grip on your hand tightening as if he's afraid to let go. "What happened?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Appendicitis," you say, your voice still hoarse. "They had to take it out. I was in a lot of pain, but it's okay now. I'm just sore and tired."
Relief floods through him, so overwhelming it makes him dizzy. He lets out a shaky laugh, pressing your hand to his lips. "You scared me so much," he murmurs, his tears mingling with your skin. "Don't ever do that again, okay?"
"I'll try my best," you joke, your smile weak but genuine.
He laughs again, a choked, watery sound, and you can't help but smile wider. But your moment is interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. You both look up to see your roommate, a middle-aged woman with a stern expression, eyeing you both with a mixture of confusion and irritation.
"Could you keep it down?" she snaps. "Some of us are trying to sleep."
Minho stiffens, his eyes narrowing as he looks back at you. He hates that you're sharing a room with someone like this, hates that you can't even have a moment of peace after everything you've been through. Without another word, he stands up, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.
"I'll be right back," he says, his voice firm despite the tears still glistening in his eyes.
He leaves the room, his heart still pounding in his chest, and heads straight for the nurse's station. He's not one to throw his weight around, but for you, he'll do anything. After a few tense words and more than a little convincing, he arranges for you to be moved to a private room. It costs more, but he doesn't care. You deserve to be comfortable, to have space to rest and heal without any added stress.
When he returns to your room and tells you the news, your eyes well up again, but this time it's with gratitude and love. "Minho, you didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did," he interrupts gently. "I want you to be comfortable. I want you to rest without worrying about anyone else. You're the only thing that matters to me right now."
The move is quick, the nurses helping you into a wheelchair and rolling you down the hall to a much quieter, much cozier room. Once you're settled in the new bed, Minho pulls up a chair beside you, holding your hand again.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promises, his voice steady now, his eyes soft as he looks at you. "I'll stay with you as long as you need."
"You have practice," you say, your voice wavering. "You shouldn't be skipping for me."
"Practice can wait," he says firmly. "You're more important."
And he means it. He stays by your side the entire time, holding your hand through the worst of the pain, wiping your tears when the aches become too much. He brings you food, sneaking in your favorite snacks even though the nurses scold him for it. Han even lends him his Nintendo Switch, and Minho spends hours playing games with you, his laughter a soothing balm against the sterile hospital walls.
He's there for every doctor's update, every medication change, every moment you need him. And when you finally fall asleep, exhausted but peaceful, he stays awake, his eyes never leaving your face, his hand still holding yours.
Because you're everything to him. And he'll be damned if he ever lets you go through anything alone again.
