The hospital was a storm that day — not of rain, but of urgency.
The morning had started with a critical trauma case: a construction accident, multiple fractures, internal bleeding. Every second mattered. Every hand, every word carried weight.
Dr. Akhiera Smith stood in the operating room beside Dr. Hyunwoo Kang, their movements sharp, efficient, wordless. They had done this before — long hours, tense silences, trust built on quiet understanding. But today, the air felt heavier.
"Blood pressure dropping," the nurse warned.
Hyunwoo's voice was calm but clipped. "Increase fluids. Prep for external fixation."
Akhiera frowned behind her mask. "He's not stable enough for that. We need to clamp and stabilize internally first."
"That'll take longer," Hyunwoo said. "He's losing blood fast."
"And if we rush it, he'll code," she shot back.
Their eyes met — sharp, unyielding. The team around them hesitated.
Dr. Sooha Lee's voice broke the tension. "Enough. Follow Dr. Smith's lead."
Hyunwoo stepped back, jaw tight. The procedure went her way — precise, methodical. When the bleeding finally slowed and the monitors steadied, the air in the room exhaled. But between them, the silence stayed heavy.
After the surgery, Akhiera found him in the locker room, sitting on the bench with his elbows on his knees, head bowed. The sound of the locker door closing echoed too loudly.
She hesitated at the threshold. "You shouldn't take it personally. I was just doing what I thought was right."
Hyunwoo looked up, eyes tired. "And you think I wasn't?"
"That's not what I meant."
He exhaled sharply. "You undermined me in front of the whole team."
"I didn't—"
"Yes, you did," he said quietly. "You could've spoken to me outside, but you made the call mid-procedure."
She crossed her arms, keeping her voice even. "Because I didn't have time to debate while the patient was bleeding out."
He stood, his tone still calm but laced with something raw. "You think I don't know that? I've been doing this for years, Akhiera. You could've trusted me."
Her composure cracked. "Trust isn't blind obedience. I did what I believed would save him."
"Then you should've been the one leading from the start."
The words landed heavier than either of them intended. For a second, the room went utterly still — just the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of rain starting outside.
Akhiera's throat tightened. "Maybe you're right," she said softly, and left before he could answer.
The day dragged on, both of them buried in work, exchanging only professional words when necessary. The warmth that had grown between them — the laughter, the easy comfort — felt replaced by distance.
By evening, the rain had become a steady rhythm against the windows. Most of the staff had gone home, leaving the hospital quiet except for the low buzz of machines and distant footsteps.
Akhiera sat in the empty cafeteria, staring at the untouched coffee cooling beside her. The argument replayed in her mind, every word sharper in retrospect. She hadn't meant to hurt him — but she also couldn't shake the sting of being doubted.
The door creaked open.
She didn't need to look up to know it was him.
"Coffee?" Hyunwoo asked, his voice gentler this time.
She glanced up. He was holding two cups, one extended toward her. His usual calm was there again, but his eyes were softer — remorse flickering beneath them.
"I already have one," she said quietly.
"I know," he said, setting his cup down beside hers. "But that one's cold."
She sighed, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "You're persistent."
"Occupational hazard," he replied. "We don't give up on people easily."
A pause stretched — not cold this time, just uncertain.
"You were right," he said finally.
Her brow furrowed. "About what?"
"The clamp. The timing. It saved him."
Akhiera blinked. "That's not—Hyunwoo, it's not about being right."
"I know," he said softly. "But I was proud. And tired. And… maybe I took it out on you."
She stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "You were doing what you thought was best. I should've handled it differently too."
He sat across from her, elbows on the table, eyes searching hers. "You don't always have to be calm, you know. It's okay to get angry."
"I wasn't angry," she said, then smiled ruefully. "Maybe a little."
He laughed under his breath. "Good. It means you care."
"About the patient," she teased lightly.
He shook his head, eyes meeting hers. "Not just the patient."
Her heart caught.
The rain tapped gently against the glass, filling the silence between them.
They stayed there for a while, the tension slowly dissolving into quiet understanding.
At one point, Hyunwoo slid a small pack of biscuits across the table. "Peace offering," he said.
She arched an eyebrow. "You think cookies can fix everything?"
"They're a start," he said, smiling.
She broke one in half and handed him a piece. "Truce?"
"Truce."
For the first time all day, their laughter returned — soft, hesitant, but real.
When they finally stood to leave, Hyunwoo held the door open for her. The rain had eased to a drizzle, city lights shimmering through the mist.
"Do you want me to walk you home?" he asked.
She shook her head gently. "I'll be fine."
He nodded, then added, "Still — take the umbrella. You'll forget yours again."
She smiled faintly, accepting it. "You're impossible."
"Predictable," he corrected.
As she stepped out into the quiet night, the cool air brushed her face, carrying the faint smell of rain and roasted chestnuts from a nearby street. She opened the umbrella, watching the water bead along its edges — the same one they'd once shared in their first rain together.
For a long moment, she just stood there, feeling the steady patter above her and the lingering warmth of forgiveness.
Back inside, Hyunwoo watched from the doorway, a small, knowing smile on his lips.
Arguments, he realized, didn't break the connection — they deepened it.
Sometimes care wasn't gentle. Sometimes it was the choice to stay, even when pride wanted to leave.
And that night, beneath the soft Seoul rain, both of them stayed — even apart.