They say hospitals smell like chemicals and blood.
To me, they smell like secrets, clean sheets, cold corridors, and the quiet sigh of lives waiting to be fixed. I thought I had seen it all, working in these sterile walls, but nothing prepared me for him.
Dr. Maet C.
The first time I saw him, he wasn't smiling. He stood near the nurses' station, tall, unreadable, his coat hanging open like he wore authority as casually as air. His eyes… dark, focused… moved through the room like he owned it. And maybe he did.
Everyone said he was brilliant. Cold. Dangerous to fall for.
They were right about at least one of those.
I told myself I didn't care. I was just another nurse doing my shift.
But that night, when he leaned close to correct the way I was suturing a wound, his breath brushed my ear.
"Gentle," he murmured, voice low and steady. "You don't force it… you guide it."
My hands trembled. It wasn't just the suture that broke, it was the silence between us.
After that, I started noticing things I shouldn't.
The way his jaw tightened when he was angry. The way his sleeves were always rolled up, veins visible, confident hands that healed by day and ruined hearts by night.
Everyone had a story about him.
But I didn't want their stories.
I wanted my own.
And the night it finally began—was the same night everything inside me started to fall apart.
It was a quiet night.
The kind that makes the air heavy, like something's waiting to happen. The wards were half asleep, machines humming softly, nurses whispering over coffee. I was tired, but my mind wasn't resting.
Then he walked in.
Dr. Maet.
Late, again. His hair was messy, sweaty, that same calm but tired look in his eyes. He signed off a few files, said something to a patient, then found me at the counter.
"You're still here," he said.
I smiled, pretending not to care. "Someone has to keep this place from falling apart."
He leaned closer, his hand brushing the edge of my file. "And you think you're the one holding it together?"
I looked up, and for a second, the hospital disappeared.
It was just his voice, low and teasing, and my heartbeat refusing to behave.
He laughed quietly, then said, "You need a break. Come upstairs."
I knew what he meant — the rooftop.
It was where he went when the world got too loud. I followed him there once before, just to breathe in the silence.
Tonight, I followed again.
The city lights were fading under the mist. He stood near the edge, hands in pockets, staring down like he carried the weight of every patient he couldn't save.
"Do you ever stop thinking?" I asked.
He turned, eyes softer this time. "Do you?"
I wanted to tell him no — that I thought about him even when I tried not to. But words stuck in my throat.
He stepped closer. The air changed.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," he said quietly.
"Like what?" I whispered.
"Like you want to know what happens if you don't walk away."
My chest tightened. The night wind carried his scent — sharp, clean, dangerous. And I realized in that moment, walking away wasn't something I could do anymore.
He reached out, just barely touched my chin, and then…
The hospital alarm broke through the silence.
Code Blue.
He pulled back instantly, eyes cold again, doctor mode on.
"I gotta go," he said, already turning away.
And just like that, he was gone.
But my heart was still running after him.
The alarm echoed through the corridors — sharp, metallic, urgent.
For a second, I froze. Then training kicked in.
I ran.
My shoes slapped against the tiles as I rushed down the hallway, past the nurses, past the flickering lights. Room 207.
That's where the code was coming from.
Dr. Maet was already there. His sleeves rolled up, voice steady, commanding the room like he was born for it.
"Chest compressions — now. Adrenaline, one milligram IV push."
The patient was an old man, frail, motionless. Machines screamed in protest. I joined the team, taking over compressions, counting under my breath as sweat slid down my back.
"One, two, three—"
"Switch," he said. His hand brushed mine as he took over. Firm, confident, relentless.
For minutes, the world shrank to that room — just the sound of his voice, the rhythm of pressure and breath, the thin line between life and death.
Then… the monitor beeped.
A faint pulse. Weak, but there.
Everyone exhaled.
He looked up at me, and for a second, our eyes met — exhaustion, relief, something unspoken.
He gave a small nod. "Good work."
That should've been it.
But when everyone left, I stayed behind to fix the mess… the wires, the gloves, the sheets. He stayed too.
"You handled that well," he said quietly.
I didn't look up. "It's part of the job."
He stepped closer. "No. You didn't panic. Most people do the first time they lose a pulse."
"I've learned not to show it," I said, voice softer than I meant.
He was close enough now that I could feel the warmth of his breath near my ear. "You don't have to hide everything, you know."
I turned to face him. The room was dim, just the monitor light flashing against his face.
"Neither do you," I said.
Something changed in his eyes then — a flicker of emotion, like he was fighting himself.
He reached up, brushed his thumb against my cheek, slow and uncertain.
And just as I leaned into the touch, a nurse walked in.
"Doctor, ICU needs you."
He pulled his hand back instantly. "Coming," he said, voice back to that cold professional tone.
He walked out without looking at me again.
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