The rain had returned to Seoul — soft, steady, endless.
It began in the late afternoon, a curtain of silver washing over glass and stone. From the window of her office, Dr. Akhiera Smith watched droplets trace paths down the pane, blurring the skyline into watercolor. The sound was comforting — rhythmic, familiar.
Her day had been long, filled with emergency consults and unfinished reports. But the rain, somehow, quieted everything. It always had.
She smiled faintly, remembering another night, months ago — lost streets, an umbrella, a stranger's kindness. Back then, she hadn't known how that moment would change everything.
A soft knock pulled her from her thoughts.
Hyunwoo stepped in, hair slightly damp, umbrella in hand. "You're still here."
"I could say the same," she said, standing to stretch.
He smiled, that quiet, knowing smile she'd come to recognize — the one that never rushed, never demanded, only understood. "The residents are downstairs arguing about who gets the last umbrella. I thought I'd rescue you first."
"Always the hero," she teased.
"Always the one with better timing," he replied.
She laughed, taking her coat. "I guess it's a tradition now."
"Sharing umbrellas?"
"Getting caught in the rain."
The hospital lobby was nearly empty when they stepped out. The rain poured harder now, drumming softly against the pavement, filling the night air with its song. Hyunwoo opened the umbrella, and she instinctively stepped under it, their shoulders brushing.
The world outside blurred — lights shimmering through mist, streets glowing with reflection. They walked without hurry, their steps syncing naturally.
"You know," she said, smiling to herself, "every time it rains, something happens."
He glanced at her. "Good things, I hope?"
She thought for a moment. "Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Well," she teased, "sometimes it includes you nearly setting your kitchen on fire."
He groaned. "You're never letting that go, are you?"
"Never," she said, laughter soft and bright against the rain.
They stopped by a familiar stall — Ms. Eunhee Choi's, glowing under the same red awning as before. Steam rose from pots, mingling with the cool mist.
Eunhee looked up and broke into a grin. "My favorite rainy pair!"
Hyunwoo sighed, resigned. "You're never going to forget that nickname, are you?"
"Why would I?" she said, handing them two cups of hot fish cake broth. "Rain always brings you together. You should thank the weather gods."
Akhiera smiled, fingers warming against the paper cup. "Maybe we should."
They stood there in silence, sipping quietly, watching the city move — umbrellas floating by, headlights bending through puddles, neon signs flickering in the haze.
There was a peace between them now, different from before. Not just comfort, but closeness that asked for nothing — a connection that had outgrown words.
Hyunwoo glanced sideways at her. "You ever think about how far we've come since that first night?"
She met his gaze. "Every time it rains."
He smiled faintly. "You were lost."
"And you were smug," she said.
"Still am."
She laughed, shaking her head. "You haven't changed much."
"I think I have," he said quietly.
Something in his tone made her pause. When she looked at him, there was no teasing in his eyes this time — only warmth, deep and steady.
"You've changed too," he added softly. "You smile more now. You let people in."
Her heart stirred. "Maybe that's your fault."
"I can live with that."
The rain softened, falling now in silver threads. They started walking again, their reflections following them in the puddles below.
Akhiera's voice broke the silence. "Do you ever wonder what people think when they see us?"
"Probably that we're two overworked doctors avoiding sleep."
She laughed, but the question lingered. "Do you think they'd see…" She trailed off, unsure how to finish.
Hyunwoo looked at her, his expression gentle. "What do you see?"
Her breath caught. The streetlight above them glowed through the rain, painting gold across his face. She saw kindness, familiarity, something achingly safe — and something more, rising quietly beneath it all.
"I don't know," she said softly. "But it feels like home."
He didn't answer — just smiled, eyes warm and unreadable. "That's enough."
They reached the corner where their paths usually parted. For a moment, neither moved. The rain had eased to a whisper.
"Do you want to keep the umbrella?" he asked.
She shook her head, smiling. "You always say that."
"And you always refuse."
"Because I like knowing you'll still have to find me next time it rains."
He chuckled softly. "So you do that on purpose."
"Maybe."
He tilted his head, the amusement fading into something softer. "Then I guess I'll keep hoping for rain."
Her heart stumbled — not from surprise, but from the gentle truth in his voice.
"Goodnight, Hyunwoo," she said quietly.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Goodnight, Akhiera."
She took a few steps away, then turned once more. "For what it's worth," she said, smiling, "I think I'd hope for rain too."
He laughed — a low, quiet sound that followed her into the mist.
Later that night, when Akhiera reached home, she placed the umbrella by her door and paused. Water still clung to her coat sleeves, cool and real. Her reflection in the window blurred with raindrops, and behind it, Seoul shimmered like a dream.
She thought of his smile, his steady presence, the way their laughter fit so easily between storms.
And as the city exhaled around her, she realized that love didn't arrive like thunder — it crept in softly, through shared umbrellas, burnt dinners, rooftop silences, and cups of coffee left on her desk.
It wasn't loud. It was patient.And it was already here.