Saturday evenings in Seoul had a way of feeling like home — the city alive but not demanding, the streets soft with music, and the air rich with the scent of food.
It had been Minji's idea, as always."You two work too much," she'd said, hands on her hips in the hospital cafeteria. "So this weekend, you're cooking. Together."
Akhiera nearly dropped her coffee. "Cooking?"
"Yeah. At Hyunwoo's place. He's volunteered."
Hyunwoo, passing by with his clipboard, blinked. "I what?"
"Volunteered," Minji said again, flashing a mischievous smile. "You're welcome."
And that was how, on a quiet evening, Dr. Akhiera Smith found herself standing in Dr. Hyunwoo Kang's apartment kitchen — sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely, staring suspiciously at a bowl of flour.
"This is a terrible idea," she said.
"Agreed," Hyunwoo replied, holding a pan like it was a surgical instrument. "But at least we'll have documentation for future blackmail."
She laughed, shaking her head. His apartment was warm and lived-in — stacks of medical journals, a camera on the table, the faint aroma of roasted coffee beans lingering from earlier. A small balcony opened to a view of Seoul's skyline, lights twinkling against the dusk.
"Okay," Hyunwoo said, clapping his hands once. "Tonight, we're making kimchi pancakes and japchae. Easy. Sort of."
"Define easy," Akhiera said.
"Not dying in the process."
"That's… comforting."
They began with enthusiasm and zero coordination. Akhiera chopped vegetables with precision — too much precision — while Hyunwoo improvised everything else.
"You're cutting them like you're doing microsurgery," he teased.
"I like accuracy."
"Accuracy is for hospitals. Cooking is chaos."
She gave him a deadpan look. "Maybe that's why you're bad at it."
He gasped theatrically. "Excuse me, I'm an excellent chef."
"Really?"
"Ask the smoke detector."
As if on cue, the pan hissed violently. Oil splattered. They both jumped.
"Hyunwoo!"
"Okay, okay! That's just… dramatic frying!"
"That's burning!"
The smell confirmed it — acrid, smoky, unmistakably burnt. The alarm began its shrill protest.
"Turn it off!" Akhiera shouted, waving a towel.
"I'm trying!"
She grabbed a pot lid, fanning the air wildly. "This is why surgeons shouldn't cook!"
"And this," he countered, laughing helplessly, "is why anesthesiologists invite us to dinner instead!"
It took five chaotic minutes and a heroic amount of laughter before the smoke cleared. Hyunwoo opened the window, muttering apologies to the neighbors. Akhiera leaned against the counter, breathless and laughing so hard her cheeks hurt.
"That was…" she began.
"Tragic?" he offered.
"Legendary," she corrected, grinning.
He looked at her then, really looked — hair falling slightly loose, eyes bright from laughter, a smear of flour on her cheek. Something in his chest tightened, the kind of warmth that crept in quietly and stayed.
Without thinking, he reached forward and brushed the flour away with his thumb. "You've got something here."
She froze. His touch was gentle, brief — but the air changed. Her breath caught, just for a second, before she smiled, defusing the tension with a soft laugh. "Thanks, chef."
He smiled back, a little slower this time. "Anytime, sous-chef."
Once the chaos settled, they ordered takeout — bibimbap and fried chicken — and sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by bowls, napkins, and the comforting mess of the evening.
The city lights stretched across the windows like constellations. The rain from earlier in the week had cleared, leaving a chill that crept in through the glass. Hyunwoo draped a blanket over her shoulders without a word.
"See?" he said. "Perfectly executed dinner."
"You mean perfectly ordered dinner."
"Details," he said with mock seriousness, taking a bite.
They ate and talked — about work, about music, about nothing and everything. Hyunwoo told her about his first disastrous surgery as a resident ("I fainted after 12 hours on my feet — classy, right?"), and she shared how she once mispronounced a medical term so badly that her professor still called her by it as a joke.
"See?" he said between laughs. "You're human after all."
She rolled her eyes. "You doubted it?"
"Maybe a little," he teased. "You're too composed. It's suspicious."
Akhiera smiled softly. "That's not composure. It's… survival."
He looked at her, curiosity softening into concern. "You mean?"
She hesitated, then shrugged. "When you've been through enough, you learn to look steady even when you're not. People trust calm faces. So I wear one."
Hyunwoo didn't reply right away. He simply nodded, eyes warm. "You don't have to wear it with me."
Something about the way he said it — gentle, not demanding — reached her deeper than she expected.
She met his gaze. "Thank you."
He smiled, the corner of his mouth curving softly. "Besides, you're pretty bad at pretending when you're annoyed. That helps."
She laughed, tossing a napkin at him. "You're impossible."
"But you're smiling," he said.
She was — without even realizing it.
Later, they ended up on the small balcony, each with a mug of tea. Seoul sprawled beneath them, shimmering and infinite.
"It's funny," Akhiera said after a while. "I thought moving here would make me feel more alone. But lately, it's the opposite."
Hyunwoo leaned on the railing, glancing at her. "That's because you stopped trying to face everything alone."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe I just met the right people."
"People, plural?" he asked with mock offense. "I was hoping to take full credit."
She laughed softly. "Fine. You can have partial credit."
"I'll take it."
The wind brushed past them, carrying the faint hum of the city below. They fell quiet, comfortable in the silence.
Hyunwoo turned toward her. "You know… even if we set fire to the kitchen, I'm glad we did this."
She laughed. "Me too."
He tilted his head. "You trust me enough for round two?"
"That depends," she said playfully. "Are you going to follow the recipe next time?"
He grinned. "No promises."
Their laughter mingled with the night — warm, unguarded, easy. Somewhere between burnt pancakes and borrowed blankets, something tender had taken root.
They didn't name it yet. They didn't need to.
Sometimes, closeness wasn't in confessions or grand gestures. It was in the laughter that lingered long after the smoke cleared, in the warmth that stayed even when the night grew cold.