It was nearly midnight when the hospital finally exhaled.
The corridors that buzzed all day with urgency had gone still. Only the faint hum of the ventilation and the rhythmic beeping of distant monitors filled the silence. Most of the staff had gone home. The city outside glowed — endless windows, headlights threading through the streets like slow-moving stars.
Dr. Akhiera Smith sat in the lounge, finishing her notes, the fatigue sitting heavy in her shoulders. The night shift lights gave everything a soft, dreamlike tint.
She rubbed her neck, glanced at the clock, then at the rain-streaked window. Another long day. Another one survived.
"Still here?"
She looked up to see Dr. Hyunwoo Kang, leaning on the doorframe, his jacket half-zipped, a paper bag in his hand.
"Couldn't sleep," she admitted. "And I had reports to finish."
He raised the bag slightly. "Instant ramen and coffee. Rooftop therapy?"
She blinked, then laughed. "That's a combination for disaster."
"Exactly," he said. "Best medicine."
A few minutes later, they were sitting on the hospital rooftop, wrapped in the hum of the city. The air was cool and clean after rain, carrying the faint smell of asphalt and pine. Steam curled up from their ramen cups, fogging the night air.
"You do realize this is technically trespassing after hours," Akhiera said.
"I'm pretty sure saving lives gives us rooftop privileges," Hyunwoo replied, smiling.
She chuckled. "That's not how rules work."
"Then it's a good thing I'm bad at following them."
They ate in silence for a while, the kind of easy quiet that came only after too many shared days. The city lights shimmered below — Seoul breathing, glowing, alive.
When the wind picked up, Hyunwoo stood and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders without asking.
"You'll freeze," she protested softly.
He smiled. "I'm fine. You, on the other hand, look like you're auditioning for a winter drama."
She rolled her eyes, but the warmth of the jacket and the gesture sank deeper than she let on.
After a while, he asked, "Do you ever think about what you wanted to be before all this?"
"Before surgery?"
"Before everything," he said. "Before hospitals. Before routines."
She thought for a moment, watching a plane blink across the horizon. "I wanted to be a writer once."
He raised a brow. "Really?"
She nodded, smiling faintly. "Stories fascinated me. The way words could build worlds, heal hearts. But then my mom got sick, and… I guess my idea of healing changed."
"From words to medicine," he murmured.
"Maybe not so different," she said quietly. "Both try to make sense of pain."
He looked at her for a long moment, admiration softening his features. "You always say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're carrying a whole story inside you."
She smiled, brushing it off. "What about you? What did you want to be?"
He leaned back against the railing, eyes drifting over the skyline. "I wanted to be a photographer once. Before medical school. I used to take pictures of everything — people, street lights, sunsets. Then my father passed, and I just… stopped."
Akhiera's voice was gentle. "Why?"
He hesitated. "Because every photo reminded me of moments I couldn't go back to. So I started fixing bones instead of freezing time."
She studied him quietly, the way his jaw tightened, the way his gaze stayed on something distant. "You miss him," she said softly.
"Every day," he admitted. "He was stubborn and kind. The kind of man who found joy in the smallest things — like morning coffee, or fixing a leaky faucet. I think that's why I love the small stuff now. It reminds me of him."
Akhiera's chest ached — a tender ache, like recognizing a mirror in someone else. "He'd be proud of you."
Hyunwoo smiled faintly. "You sound sure."
"I am."
The wind rustled between them, carrying their shared silence. Below, the river shimmered like a thread of silver through the city.
Later, they sat with coffee cups in hand, knees almost touching, talking about everything and nothing.
"Do you ever regret coming here?" he asked suddenly.
She looked down at her hands. "Sometimes, yes. The loneliness was harder than I expected. But then there are moments like this — small, quiet ones — that remind me why I stayed."
He nodded slowly. "Because of coffee and bad ramen?"
She smiled. "Because of people who make it feel less lonely."
His gaze lingered on her, unreadable for a moment. Then he said softly, "I'm glad I'm one of them."
She met his eyes. "You are."
The words hung between them — simple, but real. The air felt warmer somehow, even in the chill.
Minutes turned into hours. They lay back on the cool concrete, shoulders close but not touching, staring up at the sky. The city drowned out most stars, but a few shone faintly through the haze.
"Look," he said, pointing. "Orion's belt. You can barely see it, but it's there."
"I didn't think you were the stargazing type," she teased.
He smiled. "I'm not. But I like looking at things that are far away and still shining."
She turned her head, studying him in the dim light. "You say things like that," she whispered, "and it's hard to know if you mean them."
He turned too, meeting her gaze. "I always mean them."
For a moment, neither spoke. The world below them blurred into motion and sound, but up here, time stood still.
Akhiera felt her pulse quicken — not from surprise, but from recognition. It wasn't new, this feeling. It had been quietly blooming for weeks, like a secret she was still learning to admit.
But instead of speaking, she smiled faintly and looked back at the sky. "We should probably go before the nurses report us."
Hyunwoo chuckled softly. "Let them. I'd argue it's a wellness session."
She laughed, sitting up and brushing off her coat. "You'd argue anything."
"Only when I'm right."
As they walked back toward the stairwell, their hands brushed — once, twice — then rested together for the briefest second before pulling apart.
Neither said anything. They didn't need to.
Before parting ways, Hyunwoo paused by the door. "Hey," he said quietly. "Thanks for coming up here."
She smiled. "Thanks for the ramen."
"Anytime."
She hesitated, then added softly, "You know, for someone who stopped taking photos, you still notice all the beautiful things."
He blinked, caught off guard. "Maybe because of the company."
And just like that, the quiet between them deepened into something new — not yet love, but close enough to feel its echo.