Jungtae sat upright on the hospital bed, his back supported by stacked pillows. White gauze covered his shoulder and part of his upper back, taped down carefully.
His shirt in a plastic was folded on the side table, stained dark where the blood had soaked through last night.
His mother stood close to him, holding a small container of soup in one hand and a spoon in the other.
"Open your mouth," she said.
Jungtae obeyed without arguing. He swallowed slowly.
"There," she said, watching his face. "Does it hurt when you move?"
"Just a little," Jungtae replied. "But it's fine."
She didn't look convinced. She scooped another spoonful and brought it up to his lips.
On the chair near the bed, Owen sat with one leg crossed over the other. His knuckles were wrapped in fresh bandages, white against his skin.
There was a faint bruise near his mouth that he hadn't bothered to hide. He leaned back slightly, one arm resting on the chair's armrest.
"I'm glad you're okay," Owen said.
