“MOVE!” a voice bellowed from behind me just as I was about to step forward and touch Yoongi for the first time in several months. Startled, I whirled around to find the source of the sound- a very flustered doctor- a new one- with a different style of coat. “Out of my way,” she demanded as she moved, a heavy accent suddenly very apparent on her voice. I scrambled back towards the back of the room, my back bumping against Han Geng’s chest. Quickly, he reached out to keep me still. He seemed not at all fazed. This was pretty clearly Yoongi’s previous doctor from Australia, judging by the familiarity and accent. She was a bit unkempt, but still I couldn’t help but notice she was incredibly lovely. She had bobbed blonde hair, bronze skin, and deep blue eyes that gave her a youthful appearance, despite the apparent frustration marring her face with creases. She worked quickly, grasping Yoongi’s wrist while glancing at the ever-beeping heartrate monitor. “Those dipstick seppos thought they could just pump him full of sedatives,” she began to rant to herself, her voice a muffled murmur as she worked, shuffling around the bed to tamper with the various machines, finally moving to the source of his IV drip to mess with the small valves there. Once she was satisfied, she seemed to slow down, resting her hands on the railing of the slightly inclined head of the hospital bed for a moment. She reached out, brushing some of Yoongi’s matted, damp hair out of his closed eyes, and I felt my skin crawl and my teeth clench. The doctor took a deep breath, straightened up, and stormed back out of the room without even acknowledging either of us.

We stood there for a quiet moment before I turned to face Han properly, “Is she always like that?” I asked, trying my best to keep the panic- and jealousy- out of my voice.

His even features broke into a little crooked smile as he glanced down at me, “Dr. Mormont? Yeah. She’ll calm down once she gets everything the way she wants it.” He sounded a bit exasperated as he looked away as if he were reminiscing about the months spent across the ocean.

I sighed heavily, processing my thoughts and his words. Before I did anything else though, I turned and threw myself into Han Geng’s tall frame, wrapping my arms around his torso in a long overdue hug. “Thank you for everything,” I mumbled into his shirt, squeezing him as if that would help convey my gratitude.

The suddenness of the gesture took him by surprise, but soon enough, the shaking of his laughter caused me to pull away, but he was grinning down at me. “It was quite the adventure,” he admitted, his voice wispy and light, a contrast to his masculine, angular face. He reached out to pat my shoulder reassuringly, “He’s gotten a lot better.” He gave me a little nudge towards the medical examination bed, “Heechul should be here soon. I’ll go meet him downstairs.”

He turned to leave, but I felt compelled to call out to him, “I’m sorry about Ellen.” I remembered back to when I saw them greet each other so warmly in the Chinese airport the day Namjoon and I were rescued. No doubt Heechul had told him.

His little half-smile, void of any surprise, confirmed my suspicions. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too,” he gave me a little nod before turning away and walking back out the door.

Once I was alone, I took out my phone. The mention of Heechul reminded me that I should probably check it. Sure enough, I had about eight text messages from the man himself. More importantly, there was no missed call or message from Jin, so Hobie must still be getting worked on in his own room. Putting the device back in my hoodie pouch, I grabbed one of the little roll-y stools and settled at Yoongi’s side, opposite from his casted arm. It was almost hard for me to really believe that he was really there, in front of me. He looked worn out, despite being asleep. His skin was paler than usual with an unsettling grey tinge, and he had obviously lost a lot of muscle mass. Not that he had a lot to start with, but he had spent way too much time immobilized. I leaned forward, resting my chin on the light blue blanket, idly listening to the methodical beeps and occasional huff from the oxygen machine. I did my best to quell my discomfort by taking in every detail of Yoongi’s unconscious face as I could. He looked like he was sleeping, his dark lashes motionless against his skin. His brows were hidden under his sweat-dampened hair, but he looked calm. At least he didn’t look like he was in pain. Until, suddenly, he did. I sat up as his face began to furrow, his prominent overbite twisting into an uncomfortable grimace. He was waking up. Unsure of what to do, I simply sat up, watching in apprehension.

Yoongi made a strangled, gurgling groan as he shifted ever so slightly, his range of motion unfortunately limited. “Hannie,” he groaned, calling out weakly. I stiffened at the sound of his voice: low, gravely, and strangely sultry from fatigue. “Hannie, my head is killing me,” he moaned again, his mouth pulling into that familiar overly exaggerated frown, his already downturned features highlighting the expression. I couldn’t help but laugh once at the sight. It was a stifled, desperate laugh, half in disbelief, the other in relief. Of all the expressions for me to see, it was ironically fitting for it to be that silly scowl of his. At the sound of my voice, he stilled completely, as if any movement would break the illusion. There was a moment of suspension where neither of us moved or made a sound. Finally, Yoongi’s head tilted towards me slightly, and his right eye cracked open, squinting against the light.

My breath caught in my throat as soon as I caught sight of his rich, dark iris. There was nothing objectively unique or special about Yoongi’s eyes, but just seeing the sheen; the slight movement of that one eye truly brought him to life. I could only silently watch as he struggled to focus, his other eye opening slightly as his head turned more towards me. He blinked once, brow furrowing as his mouth went slack, his dry, cracked lips parting slightly. His arm lifted off the bed with great effort, and he looked as if he were about to swipe at me like a mirage. Instead, I caught his hand with mine. It was unsettlingly cool and clammy, but I felt his fingers tighten slightly around mine. It was weak, but it was something. I finally broke into a wide smile, swallowing the tears of joy that were threatening to fall. “Hey,” I managed to whisper, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

His eyes stayed steady on mine for as agonizing few seconds until he suddenly coughed, sitting up slightly from the effort. I stood quickly in concern, only to find a little grin on his face. He was laughing, in a strange pathetic way. Unfortunately, the strain of the expression caused one of the cracks on his lips to split, the deep red of exposed flesh just barely visible. He seemed not to notice, or he was used to it, because he paid it no mind. “Really?” he croaked, eyeing me again before letting himself fall back to the thin pillows, “I finally make it here on my deathbed, and all you can manage is ‘hey’?”

I felt my smile creep up on me and I could feel something in my chest expand with joy, “You’re not dying anymore, you sterile ingrate.” His eyes had closed, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch up into a little smirk. I leaned forward to lean my elbow on his mattress, “Who trips on some dirt and almost dies, anyway?”

“Aaah,” he sighed contentedly, his smile widening, small droplets of blood gathering on his lips, “There’s my girl.” It was just a whisper, hardly audible, but I caught it. He sounded relieved. My heart swelled with the use of my girl. Despite his eyelids remaining firmly sealed, I caught a very quick tear slide down his face. He took another deep breath, but it was slightly ragged as he let it go. I understood how he felt as I was practically choking on the emotional blender that was my brain. Joy, relief, with a sprinkle of anger and frustration at the situation, with undertones of fear and apprehension for the future.

My gut wrenched as I watched him, his hand still in mine. I gave it a gentle squeeze, “Yoongi,” I called gently as I stood. His hand clenched reflexively as his eyes snapped open again, facing me in mild panic, as if he were afraid I was going to leave already. Chuckling slightly, I simply leaned over him, his downturned eyes following my every move until I closed the distance to gently press a kiss to his mouth. His breath was rancid, my nose caught on his oxygen line, and his lips tasted of medicine and blood, but I still felt the same schoolgirl elation wash over me when I felt him move against me, even if it was feeble and slight. Words eluded me, so I remained silent, letting the kiss speak for itself.

When I pulled away to sit back down, he simply gaped at me for a moment, letting my hand slip away. I reached up to wipe the little smear of blood off of my lips while I watched him with concern. Had I been too presumptive? Inwardly, I panicked that perhaps his feelings had changed, but he interrupted my thoughts with a soft whisper, “Zoey,” his low voice was so quiet, “You waited for me?”

We were both quiet, studying each other’s faces. I bit back the tears of joy that continuously assaulted the backs of my eyes. I didn’t want to ruin that moment with pathetic crying. It was then that his face slid into that comfortable, contented smile that had been reserved for me- the only smile that had confused me before I recognized it for what it was. He was only going to tease me if I started sobbing, so instead I laughed, trying to be subtle about wiping my eyes as I spoke, “What?” I gawked at him for a moment, “You make it sound like I’m the great catch here. You are the famous celebrity,” I reminded him, jabbing him lightly in the rib with my finger. He squirmed under my touch, but I saw a tiny half smile teasing his lips.

“Not like I had a lot of options,” he retorted, letting out an exaggerated despondent huff. When I rolled my eyes, he managed to laugh once, “I mean, sure Hannie’s hot and all, but,” he let his voice trail off for a moment as a little smirk crossed his face, “He’s way out of my league.”

My head shook slowly as I spoke, “I don’t know,” I turned to look over my shoulder to ensure the room was empty before looking back to him, lowering my voice, “You did manage to score hot blonde Aussie doctor.”

He choked on his own giggles, struggling with the fact that he had effectively zero functional arms. “Doctor Mormont? Careful,” he warned once he caught his breath, “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, America.” The return of the familiar nickname caused me to practically melt in my seat. The familiarity of the situation was overwhelming. We exchanged shy smiles again, but we fell into a familiar, comfortable quiet. His eyes slid closed once again as he took a deep breath, as if he were pushing through a sudden wall of pain. I watched as his hand balled into a tight fist, and I instinctively rolled away to stand up, as if I could do something to help him.

Before I could even call for help, one of the machines began to blare, causing me to stumble back, nearly tripping over the stool I had been perched on. Soon enough, the aforementioned hot blonde doctor came rushing in, a pair of nurses on her heels. “Out of my way,” she grumbled at me, practically running me over as she rushed to Yoongi’s side, fussing with the machines again. She was much more aggressive this time, her frustration apparent in every movement. Squirming away, I backed myself to the far wall, watching in mild horror.

“What’s wrong with him?” I finally shouted over the beeping and the three voices. I was getting frustrated not knowing exactly what was going on. It might not have been th