#stitch imagine

[knox-knocks]

Can’t get over the trojans expecting jean to be a big scary raven and getting a scared, sweet kid instead vs the foxes expecting a quiet and unassuming neil and getting a loud mouth mafia nepo baby (affectionate)

[tobiosbbyghorl]

IN STITCHES | PSH | PART 1

pairing: grump surgeon! sunghoon x surgeon! reader

wc: 20.8k first part 14.8k

synopsis: A grumpy, emotionally guarded surgeon and a sunshine-hearted resident collide in the high-stakes world of medicine—what begins with spilled coffee and sharp words slowly transforms into stolen glances, quiet care, and a love powerful enough to heal even the deepest wounds.

It was supposed to be a good day.

The kind where the hospital coffee machine didn’t malfunction, where Y/N’s ID card actually worked on the first tap, and where she could maybe—just maybe—make it through orientation without embarrassing herself.

And then she turned the corner too fast.

Her shoulder slammed into a firm chest, the jolt sending her coffee cup flying—directly onto the pristine white coat of a man walking toward her. It splashed in a perfect arc, dark liquid staining the fabric from his shoulder down to the navy blue scrubs underneath.

“Oh my god—!” Y/N gasped, already fumbling for tissues from her coat pocket. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you—I should’ve—”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just looked down at the damage, then up at her, his jaw tight and eyes sharp.

“Of course,” he said coolly, “it’s always the first-years.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. She stared up at him. Tall. Unsmiling. Ice in his gaze. His name tag read Dr. Park Sunghoon – Cardiothoracic Surgery.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” she blurted, cheeks burning.

“Don’t bother.” He pulled off the coat in one smooth motion, folding it over his arm. “Just try not to cause any surgical accidents when you inevitably panic in the OR.”

Her jaw dropped slightly. “That’s not fair—”

He walked off before she could finish.

Y/N stared after him, mortified, still clutching her now-empty coffee cup. She hadn’t even started her first day, and she’d already gotten on the bad side of the hospital’s most feared surgeon.

Of course, it had to be him.

Welcome to Seonghwa University Hospital, she thought bitterly. You’re officially doomed.

Rounds that afternoon were brutal.

She stood with three other surgical residents, nerves tingling like live wires as Dr. Park reviewed patient charts with clipped efficiency. His tone was clinical, cold, and sharp enough to slice straight through any trace of confidence.

“Dr. Y/L/N,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking toward her. “What’s the protocol for a Type B aortic dissection?”

Her mind scrambled. “Uh—CT angiography to confirm diagnosis, followed by—surgical intervention if there’s evidence of rupture or compromised perfusion—”

“Too slow.” His voice cut clean through her stammering. “If you think for that long during a real dissection, the patient’s already coding.”

Heat rushed to her face. She bit her tongue.

“Review it tonight. Come back with a better answer. Next.”

—

It didn’t stop there.

He questioned her again—this time on anticoagulation protocols—and when she got the answer right, he didn’t acknowledge it. He just moved on without so much as a nod. But when another resident answered wrong, Sunghoon launched into a five-minute correction speech.

By lunch, Y/N sat at the corner of the breakroom table, stabbing at her rice bowl and trying not to take it personally.

“He’s like that with everyone,” another resident, Yeji, said around a mouthful of kimbap. “He’s allergic to praise. Thinks kindness slows people down.”

“I don’t need kindness,” Y/N muttered. “I just need him to stop looking at me like I’m roadkill.”

“He probably respects you,” Yeji said with a grin.

Y/N looked at her like she’d grown a second head.

“No, really,” Yeji shrugged. “The more he criticizes, the more he sees potential.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “That man would criticize a puppy for blinking too slow.”

—

She made the mistake of letting herself relax during an evening case—a relatively routine pericardial window. She wasn’t even assisting, just observing, but she leaned in to see better, her gloved hand briefly brushing against the sterile field.

“Out,” Sunghoon said sharply without turning.

Her breath caught. “I didn’t—”

“You broke the field.”

“It was an accident—”

“I said out.”

The scrub nurse gently guided her back as her stomach sank through the floor. Her chest burned. Embarrassment. Shame. Frustration. All of it twisting together as she stood silently behind the glass.

When the surgery ended, he walked out without looking at her.

But the nurse leaned in and whispered, “He did the same to a fourth-year two months ago. Don’t take it to heart.”

She smiled weakly, but it still stung.

It was nearly midnight by the time she sat down in the stairwell.

Cool concrete steps. The quiet hum of a hospital trying to catch its breath between crises. She pulled her knees to her chest and let her head rest against the wall.

She wouldn’t cry.

She would not cry.

Not over a man who probably hadn’t smiled since the last Olympics.

Her pager buzzed.

Rotation confirmed – Cardiothoracic Surgery: Dr. Park Sunghoon. Start time 5:00 AM.

Y/N sighed. “I hate everything.”

—

She stayed late the next night—not because she had to, but because one of the nurses mentioned a young girl in the cardiac ICU who’d come in with a complex congenital defect. A rare case. A once-in-a-residency kind of case.

Y/N wasn’t on the attending team, but she couldn’t help herself.

The girl, maybe ten, looked fragile in the bed. Tubes and monitors surrounded her like armor. Her mother sat by her side, gently brushing the girl’s hair back from her forehead.

Y/N hesitated outside the door, then stepped in quietly.

“Ma’am?” she said softly. “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

The woman looked up, red-eyed. “No… thank you. She’s just resting. They said she’s stable for now.”

“She’s lucky to have you here,” Y/N said kindly.

The woman gave her a watery smile. “Dr. Park said there’s still a chance. But the way he said it… I don’t know if he believes it.”

Y/N knelt beside the bed, brushing a thumb gently over the girl’s tiny hand. “Sometimes doctors get tired. We see so much heartbreak, we forget that hope can still matter. But your daughter’s here. She’s fighting. And you’re doing everything right.”

The woman sniffled. “Do you think she’ll make it?”

Y/N smiled softly. “I think miracles happen here every day.”

The woman didn’t reply—but she held her daughter’s hand tighter.

Y/N left the room a few minutes later, shoulders tense but heart strangely full.

And then she saw him.

Sunghoon stood against the wall, arms crossed, half-shadowed by the ICU lights. His eyes had that unreadable gleam again—not anger, not coldness. Something else.

“You talk a lot,” he said flatly.

She rolled her eyes. “Thanks.”

“You’re not even on this case.”

“I know.”

He studied her for a long moment. “Why waste time on false hope?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Hope isn’t false,” she said quietly. “It’s survival.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Barely there, but it was real.

He didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked away.

But this time, she saw it—just a flicker—hesitation in his steps.

And that, somehow, felt like the beginning of something she didn’t yet have a name for.

⸻

Y/N’s alarm blared at 4:15 a.m., and for the third time that week, she debated quitting medicine altogether.

Her shoulder still ached from the equipment cart that nearly crashed into her the night before—some intern had rushed around a blind corner, and she’d instinctively stepped in to protect the patient’s IV line. The cart clipped her hard, sending her stumbling back into the wall. No break, thankfully, but the bruising was deep.

Of course, Sunghoon hadn’t said a word about it. He’d looked at the scene, confirmed the patient was fine, and walked away.

Classic.

She hadn’t even had a second to ice it properly.Now, with her arm throbbing and her body protesting every step, she rushed to the operating theater.

He was already there when she arrived.

“You’re late,” he said flatly without looking up from the chart.

“It’s 4:59,” she breathed out, chest rising. “Technically, I’m early.”

His eyes flicked up. “Technicalities don’t save lives.”

She gritted her teeth, fingers twitching by her side. “Understood.”

She moved to scrub in, but lifting her arm to tie the back of her gown made her wince involuntarily. Her fingers paused. Her shoulder tensed. She bit her lip, trying not to make a sound.

And then, suddenly, he was behind her.

Not a word. Not a breath.

Just quiet, practiced fingers tying her gown strings for her.

She froze.

“Next time, ask someone for help,” he said, voice low but firm. “You’re no use to the team if you pretend you’re fine.”

Y/N turned slightly, stunned. “How did you—?”

“You’re favoring your left side. And you winced when you reached for the tray yesterday.”

He tied the final knot and stepped back. His face gave nothing away.

“Be sharp today. It’s a double bypass, and the attending will expect quick thinking.”

Just like that, he was all business again.

But her heart skipped—just once—and her shoulder didn’t hurt as much.

—

Later that day, during rounds, she fumbled her words again. Her brain was foggy with exhaustion and a dull throb beneath her collarbone.

“What’s the minimum ACT required before initiating cardiopulmonary bypass?”

Her lips parted. Her mind blanked.

Sunghoon stared.

“Dr. Y/L/N?”

“480 seconds,” she managed, finally.

He looked unimpressed. “Don’t guess in surgery. If you don’t know, say so. Guessing gets people killed.”

Her stomach dropped. She nodded quietly.

After rounds, she sat alone in the on-call room, feeling the sting of his words settle in her chest. But not even twenty minutes later, a nurse knocked on the door.

“Dr. Park asked me to bring this to you,” she said, holding out an ice pack wrapped in a soft towel.

Y/N blinked. “What? He—?”

“Said you might need it. Said you wouldn’t ask.”

The nurse left before she could say anything else.

Y/N stared at the pack for a long moment before pressing it gently to her shoulder, lips pulling into a reluctant smile.

—

The next morning, she stood by the OR board, scanning the list for her name. Her stomach clenched when she saw it.

Lead assist – Dr. Park Sunghoon.

She’d barely gotten over the last case.

But she scrubbed in anyway, tied her gown on her own this time, and walked into the OR ready for war.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t speak more than necessary.

But when the scalpel was passed and she moved to retract, he said quietly, “Switch to your left hand. Don’t strain your dominant arm.”

She blinked.

“You noticed?”

“I’m not blind,” he replied, voice clipped. “And I don’t want my resident passing out mid-case because she’s trying to prove something.”

Y/N swallowed a smile and shifted her grip. “Noted.”

The case went well.

She followed his movements with precision, matching his rhythm as best she could. And once, just once, he looked up and met her eyes over the surgical mask.

It was only a second. A flicker.

But her chest tightened.

He saw her.

Not just as a clumsy first-year or a liability.

He saw her.

—

It was almost midnight again.

She walked out of the OR with trembling legs and a heavy heart. Her shoulder was screaming again. She leaned against the hallway wall and took a breath.

She didn’t hear his footsteps until he was beside her.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed her a paper cup of warm barley tea from the staff lounge. The lid was crooked, as if he’d never prepared one before.

She looked up at him, stunned.

His eyes didn’t meet hers.

“You shouldn’t take painkillers on an empty stomach,” he said simply.

She took the cup with both hands, fingers brushing his for a fraction of a second.

“…Thank you.”

He started to walk away again, but she called after him softly.

“Why do you do that?”

He turned.

“Act like you don’t care,” she said. “But then… you always show up.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, finally:

“Because caring makes people expect things. And expectations get people hurt.”

She stared at him, heart pounding.

“But if we stop caring, we stop hoping,” she said. “And without hope, what’s the point?”

Sunghoon paused.

His voice was almost a whisper this time.

“Why waste time on false hope?”

She met his gaze, steady and warm.

“Hope isn’t false,” she murmured. “It’s survival.”

Something in his eyes cracked—not broken, but softening.

He didn’t reply.

But when he walked away this time, he moved slower.

Like maybe her words had stayed with him.

⸻

The surgical board shifted again.

This time, it wasn’t an accident.

She was paired with Dr. Park Sunghoon for the third time in a week. It couldn’t be coincidence anymore.

Y/N glanced toward the nurses’ station where he stood, arms crossed, reviewing charts. He didn’t look her way—but he didn’t need to.

She could feel it.

He requested me.

—

They prepped for a long aortic valve replacement. Y/N double-checked the patient’s chart, heart hammering in her chest as she reviewed each step in her head. This time, she didn’t want to slip. Not in front of him.

As they scrubbed in, he said nothing.

But once in the OR, while waiting for anesthesia, he turned to her.

“Walk me through your plan.”

She blinked. “My plan?”

“You’re lead assist. Act like it.”

That was new.

He’d never let her speak up like this before.

She straightened. “We’re approaching through median sternotomy. I’ll retract—carefully, since the patient’s anemic—and keep the field clear for cannulation. Once perfusion is initiated, I’ll monitor pressure and—”

His gaze didn’t leave hers.

“Good,” he said.

Her heart stuttered.

Not because of the praise—but because of the way he said it.

Low. Quiet. Like it wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone else but her.

—

The procedure was long. Six hours.

At one point, she nearly lost grip of the retractor when her shoulder screamed in protest. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

Sunghoon didn’t look up.

But when the attending called for a clamp change, he reached over—under the drape—and adjusted her grip, subtly easing the weight off her injured arm. “You’re overcompensating,” he murmured. “Use your body, not your wrist.”

It wasn’t softness. It was technical.

But his touch lingered a beat too long.

And her hands didn’t tremble after that.

—

A week passed, then another.

They kept getting assigned together.

Somehow, she found herself gravitating toward his pace, matching his rhythm. He never gave her easy praise. Never babied her.

But he watched.

When she caught a medication error before it reached a patient’s chart—he didn’t say thank you. Just looked at her for a second too long and passed her a sterilized pen. When a code blue erupted mid-shift and she rushed to help, he appeared beside her two minutes later, silently taking over compressions so she could breathe.

No one else noticed. But she did.

And once—after a particularly brutal shift—she found a pack of muscle relief patches in her locker. No name. No note.

Just taped carefully to the inside, with a pair of latex gloves beside them.

—

One night, she caught him eating dinner alone in the on-call room. Cold noodles, barely touched. His shoulders were slumped—an unusual sight.

“Rough day?” she asked, hesitating in the doorway.

He looked up, startled.

Then back down at his food. “Long one.”

She moved to the counter to pour herself some stale coffee.

“You know,” she said cautiously, “for someone who tells everyone else to rest, you really suck at it yourself.”

His lips twitched. Just slightly.

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop on my advice.”

“Maybe if you said something nice once in a while, I wouldn’t have to,” she shot back, raising her brows.

He looked over at her again.

Not irritated.

Amused.

“You think I’m not nice?”

She sipped her coffee. “I think you’re complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“Yeah.” She leaned on the counter. “You bark at interns and bark louder at residents. But then you hand someone tea when they’re too stubborn to admit they’re in pain. Or… request someone to assist you just so she doesn’t get stuck with scut work.”

His eyes darkened slightly. “You noticed.”

“I’m not blind either.”

A beat passed.

He set his chopsticks down and looked at her fully now.

“You’re not like the others.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re too kind for this place,” he said quietly. “Too… hopeful.”

The words struck a chord—somewhere between compliment and caution.

She smiled softly. “You say that like it’s a weakness.”

“I’ve seen what this job does to people.”

“So have I.” She tilted her head. “But I still think kindness doesn’t have to die in order for us to survive.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond for a moment.

Then, so low she almost didn’t hear it—

“I don’t want to watch it die in you.”

Her breath caught.

And in that silence, their eyes locked—nothing but the hum of fluorescent lights between them.

He blinked first.

And just like that, the moment passed.

But something had shifted.

She wasn’t sure what exactly—but it lingered in her chest long after she left the room.

—

They didn’t speak of it the next day.

But she caught his fingers brushing hers when he handed her a clamp. Saw his jaw tighten when an attending snapped at her during rounds.

And once, when she laughed at something a fellow said during a break—Sunghoon turned away just a little too sharply, gaze dark.

The line was still there.

But now, they were toeing it.

Every day, just a little more.

⸻

The OR was unusually quiet.

Only the steady rhythm of machines, the murmur of the circulating nurse, and the soft rustle of gloves broke the silence. They were closing up after a smooth procedure—just the two of them. No attendings, no audience.

Y/N stitched with quiet focus, her sutures clean and symmetrical. Her fingers moved confidently, almost instinctively.

Sunghoon watched for a few moments longer than necessary.

“Where’d you learn to suture like that?” he asked, voice low.

She glanced up, surprised he’d noticed. “Oranges.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“In med school. I used to practice on oranges. My roommate was furious for months.”

His mouth twitched—just barely.

Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Good technique,” he said instead, and turned back to the tray.

The compliment settled in her chest like warmth on a cold morning. She didn’t need his praise—but it still mattered.

—

The following morning, Y/N was running late to rounds when she bumped into someone outside the break room.

Dr. Seo Jaemin. Neurosurgery’s golden boy.

“Whoa, easy there,” he said, steadying her. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry—late again.”

“Here.” He handed her a protein bar. “Skipped breakfast, didn’t you?”

She blinked. “How’d you—?”

He winked. “You always skip breakfast.”

She laughed softly. “Thanks, Dr. Seo.”

“Call me Jaemin.”

From across the hallway, Sunghoon walked past without a glance.

But during rounds, he was impossible.

Every minor presentation from Y/N was scrutinized. He interrupted, questioned, forced her to repeat data she’d already gotten right. Even her notes weren’t spared. By the end of the session, she was red-faced and silent, fingers curled tight around her clipboard.

As the group dispersed, he walked ahead without waiting. “You don’t need compliments,” he muttered without turning around. “You need discipline.” The protein bar stayed in her coat pocket the entire day—untouched.

—

They didn’t speak again until three days later.

It had been a grueling shift—four back-to-back surgeries, all high-risk, high-pressure. Y/N didn’t remember the last time she drank water, much less sat down. During the lull between cases, she collapsed onto a bench outside the OR, head in her hands.

A shadow passed in front of her.

Then—“Catch.” She looked up.

A cold coffee cup hovered in front of her. Sunghoon stood there, gaze trained somewhere over her head.

She blinked. “Is this… for me?”

“Iced Americano. Half shot. No sugar,” he said, still not looking at her.

“You memorized my order?”

“No,” he replied curtly. “You mutter it every morning. It’s hard not to hear.”

And just like that, he walked away.

She stared after him, stunned.

And then smiled.

—

The next shift didn’t go as smoothly.

Midway through an elective gallbladder procedure, her body turned on her.

At first it was a wave of heat. Then a chill. Her vision swam, the room tilted, and her hands began to shake.

Sunghoon noticed before anyone else did.

“Y/N,” he murmured under his mask, “you good?”

“Fine,” she whispered, though her knees told a different story.

He didn’t press—but his next command came faster. Sharper.

“Clamp.”

Ten minutes later, she faltered. A sharp sway—and she nearly hit the floor.

He caught her elbow in a flash, his grip firm.

“Someone take over. Now.”

Without a word, he finished the procedure himself. Efficient. Controlled. Afterward, he walked her—no, practically carried her—to the on-call room. His expression unreadable.

“You don’t get to collapse on my table,” he muttered, kneeling beside her and pressing a cold pack to her flushed skin.

She managed a weak laugh. “Thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t,” he said, voice flat. “I just don’t like replacing residents mid-surgery.”

“Right,” she mumbled, eyes slipping shut. “Of course.

But his hand lingered at her pulse longer than it should have. And when she fell asleep, he didn’t leave.

—

The next morning, she was back on her feet and heading to radiology when she overheard the nurses by the stairwell.

“…Park Sunghoon? Yeah. His fiancée was a cardiac fellow.”

“She died, right? Complication post-op?”

“Yeah. A rupture. He was in surgery when it happened.”

“He hasn’t been the same since. Doesn’t date. Doesn’t talk. Ice cold.”

Y/N kept walking. Didn’t let herself react.

But when she saw him later that evening—pacing outside the OR, tense—she didn’t flinch at the way he barked at a nurse or scolded a junior. She didn’t even flinch when he looked at her and said, “You’re on trauma call tonight. Hope you’re not planning to faint again.”

Instead, she smiled softly.

“I’m tougher than I look, Dr. Park.”

He stared at her for a beat too long.

Then turned away without another word. But that night, she found a small packet of electrolyte tablets slipped into her coat pocket. No note. No explanation.

Just like the coffee.

Just like him.

—

It started with silence.

Not the biting, clipped kind he used to wield like a weapon—but the kind that filled the space between them without pressure. The kind that settled in easily, like breath.

They were on-call together again. Two traumas back-to-back, one failed code blue, and a teenage stab wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

It was after that last one—after hours of blood, shouting, hands inside a chest cavity—that they sat side by side in the dim locker room. Neither spoke. She glanced at him. His scrubs were soaked. His jaw clenched.

Her hand moved without thinking—offering him the leftover chocolate from her coat pocket.

He didn’t take it. Just stared.

But didn’t leave.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “I imagine how different everything would be if I wasn’t in this field.”

He didn’t answer.

She tucked the chocolate back into her coat and stood to leave.

Then, softly, barely audible: “Me too.”

She turned, startled.

His eyes were fixed ahead. Still guarded. Still distant.

But something in his voice—cracked. Human.

Something that felt like the beginning of a confession.

—

A week later, they were paired on a complex cardiac procedure.

It was high-risk. High-stakes. The kind of case most attendings watched like hawks.

But Sunghoon didn’t hover.

He stood beside her, guiding, correcting—but not belittling.

And when she took the lead on a critical step, he didn’t stop her. Just murmured, “Careful,” like a reminder instead of a warning. After the successful surgery, she sat down at the nurses’ station to chart.

He dropped a granola bar beside her.

“Eat.”

She blinked at it, then up at him.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t respond.

But that night, he didn’t leave the hospital either.

She found him alone in the chapel—hands steepled, eyes blank. She didn’t go in. Just stood by the doorway for a moment and left him there. She never mentioned it the next morning. But he nodded at her in the elevator. A real nod. Like an acknowledgment.

That was new.

—

Then came the patient with the DNR.

Elderly. Peaceful. Ready.

The family wasn’t.

Y/N was the one who held the daughter’s hand while Sunghoon explained—clinical, detached—the reality of palliative care.

After the family left, she turned to him.

“Don’t you ever get tired of pretending none of this affects you?”

He met her gaze. Calm. Cold.

“Feelings get in the way of logic.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “You can care and still be a good doctor.”

He didn’t answer.

But later that day, she found him sitting beside the patient’s bed in silence, hands folded, just… keeping her company.

She didn’t say anything.

Just watched from the doorway.

She saw him gently adjust the blanket. Saw him whisper something under his breath before standing to leave.

—

A few days after that, she found herself alone in the stairwell, trying to catch her breath after a long call night. Her hands were shaking—adrenaline still high after a failed intubation.

The door creaked.

He walked in.

Paused when he saw her.

“You okay?”

She nodded, swallowing hard.

Then, surprising even herself: “You were right. About feelings. They do get in the way.”

Sunghoon stepped closer. Not too close.

“They also keep you human,” he murmured.

She looked up at him.

For the first time, he didn’t look untouchable. He looked tired. Worn.

Real.

“Did it happen here?” she asked quietly. “Your fiancée?”

His eyes froze.

And for a moment she thought he might snap.

But instead, he exhaled.

“ICU,” he said. “Complication post-op. We were supposed to have dinner after she recovered.”

She didn’t speak.

He didn’t need her to.

His next words came like splinters.

“I told her she was fine. That the surgery went perfectly. I went back to the OR… and she coded alone.”

The silence between them shifted.

Heavy. Sacred.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded once, eyes shining—but he didn’t cry.

He never cried.

Instead, he looked at her—really looked—and said, “You remind me of her.”

Her breath caught.

“Not because you look like her. You don’t,” he added quickly. “But you… you care the same way.”

She opened her mouth, but he turned, reaching for the stairwell door.

Before he pushed it open, he paused.

“Be careful with that kind of heart,” he said softly. “It gets people hurt.”

And then he was gone.

⸻

She didn’t bring it up again.

Not the chapel.

Not the stairwell.

Not his fiancée.

The next day, she greeted him like nothing had happened. Gave a short nod during rounds, answered his rapid-fire questions like always, kept her tone level, calm.

Sunghoon never mentioned it either. But he noticed. Noticed the way she no longer challenged him on every clinical judgment. Not because she was afraid—no, Y/N didn’t scare easily—but because she was beginning to understand him.

The difference between wall and armor. Distance and protection.

She didn’t force closeness. She let silence speak. And that, more than anything, softened the tension between them.

⸻

They began to fall into rhythm.

A subtle, unspoken routine formed over the next few weeks.

If he came in early, there’d be a fresh cup of his exact coffee order on the counter—never handed to him directly, just waiting by the nurse’s station.

If she looked pale or tired, he’d ask her to triple-check the supply room—code for “take a breath, hide for five minutes, I’ll cover.”

They started reviewing cases together during night shifts—him pacing, her curled on a chair, tossing back ideas until they cracked the diagnosis like a puzzle.

Still professional. Still distant. But different now.

Their walls were shifting. Slowly. Quietly.

⸻

The night everything changed came unexpectedly.

The ER called in a critical: a child—six years old—brought in from a construction site accident. Crush injury. Collapsed lung. Internal bleeding.

The kind of trauma that pulled every doctor into overdrive.

Sunghoon and Y/N were first to respond.

Blood pooled around the tiny body. Alarms screamed. A nurse shouted vitals—BP dropping fast.

Sunghoon issued orders fast and sharp, steady in chaos. Y/N worked alongside him without hesitation, fingers slick with blood as she held pressure against the wound.

“He’s crashing—”

“Move!” Sunghoon barked, grabbing a scalpel.

Y/N held the child’s head steady as Sunghoon performed a rapid thoracotomy, opening the chest wall to decompress.

“You’re cutting too shallow,” she said, voice calm, measured.

He glanced at her—just a second—but enough to correct.

“Retractor.”

“Here.”

They worked as one. Focused. In sync.

And when the monitor finally beeped steady again—when the bleeding slowed, when the child breathed—Y/N leaned back, breathless.

Sunghoon looked at her.

Not just looked. Saw her.

His eyes softened. And for the first time—not a smirk, not an almost—but a real, genuine smile broke across his face.

Small. But there.

“You did good,” he said softly.

She blinked, stunned. “Did you just… smile at me?”

He stood. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as he turned, she swore—swore—his ears were red.

—

The shift ended hours later. The adrenaline faded. Exhaustion hit like a wave.

She found him outside the hospital, leaning against the railing under the early morning sky, tie loose, hands in his pockets.

She joined him quietly, handing him a bottle of water. No words needed.

They stood side by side in silence.

Then, without warning, his shoulder brushed hers.

Barely. Softly.

But he didn’t pull away.

Neither did she.

And when her hand lingered by his on the cold metal railing, he didn’t move.

Just let it rest there. Close enough to feel the warmth.

—

From that day forward, something shifted between them.

She caught him watching her sometimes. Not like before—not critical or guarded. Just watching. Quietly.

And one night, when she fell asleep during a case review in the break room, she woke up to a blanket draped over her shoulders. A chair pulled next to hers. He sat there, arms crossed, pretending to be reading.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“You snore,” he muttered.

She rolled her eyes, smiling into the blanket. “I do not.”

But he was smirking now.

And this time, she didn’t look away.

⸻

The rain came down in sheets.

She stood beneath the flickering streetlight, soaked through, arms wrapped around herself as her phone died for the second time that night. The last bus was thirty minutes late. The emergency shift had been brutal—three codes, one loss—and she hadn’t eaten since noon.

When the car pulled up, she didn’t recognize it right away. Not until the window rolled down and a familiar voice snapped, “Get in. Before you get pneumonia and ruin my schedule.”

She blinked. “You drive?”

“Clearly.”

“Since when do you give rides?”

“Since you’re too stubborn to call a cab.”

She got in without arguing. The heater was already on, blasting warm air into her frozen fingers.

They drove in silence for a minute before he spoke again, eyes on the road.

“You should’ve paged someone. You looked like you were going to pass out in the OR.”

“I was fine.”

“You were swaying.”

She risked a glance at him.

His jaw was tight. But his hand—resting on the gearshift—was relaxed. Open. Like he’d just unclenched it after holding something too long.

“Thanks for coming,” she said softly.

He didn’t look at her.

But his hand moved. Turned the heat up two more notches.

—

Three days later, the hospital lost power.

Backup generators kicked in for the surgical floors, but not the on-call rooms.

They found themselves stuck in the same one. Only one cot. One blanket. The temperature already dropping.

“Take the bed,” she offered.

“You’re exhausted.”

“You’re worse.”

A beat passed.

Then, without another word, she laid down on the narrow cot and patted the space beside her.

He hesitated.

Then joined her.

Back to back. Barely touching.

At first.

She fell asleep fast—her breath slowing, fingers curling near his side.

He didn’t sleep.

Just turned slightly, watching her.

She mumbled something. A dream. His name, soft like a memory. And then: “Don’t go.”

He froze.

Didn’t move for a long time.

When she woke up hours later, his jacket was draped over her and his arm was resting—lightly, protectively—beside her head. Her cheek was inches from his chest, where his heartbeat kept steady time.

He was awake.

But he didn’t pull back.

Just met her gaze and murmured, “You talk in your sleep.”

She flushed.

“Did I say anything embarrassing?”

He looked away, but his voice was almost gentle.

“No.”

Just true.

—

The next day, everything cracked.

A teenage patient coded in surgery. Sunghoon had been leading. All protocol followed. All decisions correct. But the bleeding was too fast. The heart gave out. He stormed out before the family could be told. Before the paperwork could be started. She found him in the supply room, sitting on the floor, scrubs bloodstained, hands shaking in his lap.

She didn’t speak.

Just sank down beside him, legs crossed, fingers gently brushing his. When he didn’t pull away, she took his hand fully in hers.His voice broke when he finally spoke.

“I did everything right.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

She didn’t argue. Just let him lean into the silence, her palm against the back of his hand. His head dropped forward. And for the first time, he let someone see him fall apart.

—

Two nights later, the fight came.

It was stupid, at first—a disagreement over procedure order, a miscommunication during rounds. But the tension had been building for days.

“I don’t understand you,” she snapped, pulling off her gloves after surgery. “You act like caring is a weakness. Like the minute someone gets too close, you’ll break.” He slammed the clipboard down.

“Because I know what it costs!”

The room went still.

His chest heaved. Her eyes widened.

His voice was quieter when he continued.

“Caring doesn’t save lives. Skill does. Discipline. Control.”

“But it’s not enough,” she said, voice shaking. “You said it yourself. Sometimes it’s not enough. So why push everyone away? Why be alone through all of it?” He looked at her then. Not angry. Just tired. “Because if I let myself care again, I won’t survive the next loss.”

Her breath hitched.

She stepped closer. Slowly.

“You’re not alone.”

He didn’t move. She raised a hand—barely touched his arm.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He didn’t answer. But his eyes closed. Just for a second.

And then, he exhaled.

A sound like surrender.

⸻

The hospital buzzed quietly in the background—hallway chatter, the click of nurses’ shoes, the low beeping of monitors. She caught sight of him reviewing charts near the nurses’ station and lingered. She hadn’t said it properly—not the way she wanted to. So she walked toward him, steadying her breath.

“Dr. Park.”

He looked up. Cool. Composed. Always.

She lowered her voice. “Can we talk?”

He gave a short nod and stepped aside into the vacant resident lounge. She followed, hands in her coat pockets, heart thudding louder than it had any right to. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have challenged you like that. Not without knowing what you’ve been through. I crossed a line.”

He didn’t respond right away. He watched her for a beat longer than she was comfortable with—until he finally sighed and leaned back against the counter, eyes heavy.

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

She blinked.

He looked past her, almost through her. “It was a standard lap appy. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was scheduled for a major case the next morning, so I left her in post-op.” There was a hollowness to his voice, like the memory had worn down over time, but the edges still cut.

“She said she felt off. Lightheaded. But her vitals were fine. I figured it was the anesthesia. Post-op nausea, maybe. I told the nurse to page me if anything changed.” He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t stay. I didn’t listen.” Her chest tightened.

“There was a slow internal bleed. A small vessel rupture. Missed on imaging. She coded twenty minutes later.” His voice cracked. Just barely.

“They couldn’t bring her back.”

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “Sunghoon…”

“I checked the scans again and again. I should’ve caught it. I should’ve been there.” He didn’t cry—but she saw the guilt, raw and thick behind his eyes.

“I never got to say goodbye. And I promised myself I’d never get distracted again. No attachments. No soft spots. Just skill.”

He finally looked at her.

“But then you showed up. With your jokes. And your oranges. And your endless goddamn optimism. You make it hard to remember why I built that wall in the first place.”

Her eyes burned.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “For everything you lost. For what it did to you.”

For a second, he just looked at her—like maybe he saw her differently now. Maybe the light wasn’t so blinding. “Thank you,” he said. Simple. Honest.

And she knew what it cost him to say it.

—

The shift wore on, but something between them had shifted.

It showed in the way he handed her a suture kit without her asking. In how he quietly corrected her charting error but didn’t make a scene. In how they stood closer than usual while consulting a post-op patient. That same patient, an older woman with a mischievous smile, squinted between them.

“You two married?” she asked, a little too loud.

They both stiffened. “No,” Sunghoon said flatly. Too flat.

But she smiled, flustered. “Definitely not.”

The woman hummed. “Could’ve fooled me. You fight like one of those couples on medical TV shows.” Sunghoon cleared his throat. “Focus on your recovery, Ms. Kang.” As they left the room, she bit back a grin. “You know she’s not wrong. He rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching too many dramas.”

“I bet you’d be the arrogant lead.”

“I am the arrogant lead.”

She laughed. And for the first time in days, he smiled.

Really smiled.

And it was quick. Barely there. But she caught it. She always would.

⸻

It was nearly midnight when the trauma call came in.Pediatric emergency. Eight-year-old girl. Car accident. Blunt abdominal trauma. Sunghoon and Y/N exchanged a glance the second the page went out. Both already moving before words were necessary. She pulled her gloves on with trembling hands as they waited by the trauma bay doors. Sunghoon stood beside her, steady and calm—but his eyes flicked to her just once, landing on the set of her jaw.

“You okay?”

She nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… kids always get me.” His voice was low. “Same.”

The gurney rolled in, chaos surrounding them—nurses shouting vitals, blood pooling beneath the child’s shirt, a terrified mother in tears nearby. The girl’s lips were pale, her breathing shallow “Possible spleen rupture,” one nurse shouted. “BP dropping fast.”

Sunghoon’s voice cut through the noise. “OR now.”

They rushed together. He barked out commands, she assisted without hesitation—already anticipating his steps, handing instruments, suctioning blood. Her hands didn’t shake. Not once. She didn’t flinch when things got messier. She held pressure where needed, held eye contact when he needed confirmation.

They saved her.

It took everything. But they did it.

⸻

Afterward, silence.

The girl was stable. Post-op team had taken over. Y/N leaned against the scrub sink, gloves off, surgical gown untied and hanging from her shoulders. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Sunghoon stood beside her, washing his hands slowly. His sleeves were soaked, hair mussed, voice hoarse when he finally said, “You were good in there.”

She turned her head. “You too.”

He glanced over. “I always am.”

She gave a soft laugh. “And there’s the arrogant lead again.”

He smirked—just faintly. Then his expression softened. “But tonight… I couldn’t have done it without you.” Her breath caught. The silence between them shifted—heavier now, but not with anger or grief. With something warmer. Closer. Unspoken.

“I—” she started, but didn’t know where she was going with it.

He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough that her back straightened, and she could feel the static rising between them like the charged hum before lightning strikes. “You really don’t give up on people, do you?” he said quietly.

She shook her head. “No. Not even you.”

A beat passed.

Sunghoon reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face—slow, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right, but did it anyway.Her eyes searched his. “You can care, Sunghoon. And still be brilliant.”

He didn’t answer.

Just leaned in.

Not all the way.

Close enough that she could feel his breath. Close enough that if either of them moved even an inch—

A nurse barged in. “Dr. Park! Radiology needs—oh.”

They both froze.

The nurse blinked, then cleared her throat. “Sorry. Just—whenever you’re ready.” Sunghoon took a slow step back, jaw tightening. But his eyes never left hers. Not even for a second. When the nurse was gone, he said nothing.

Neither did she.

They just stood there in the silence. Both wondering what would’ve happened if no one had walked in.

—

After the almost-kiss, everything felt different—but Y/N wasn’t sure if she liked it. Her mind raced the entire drive home. Why had her heart fluttered? Why had his touch felt like it meant something when they’d spent so much time fighting, pushing each other away?

She stared at the ceiling for hours, the memory of his gaze lingering. She replayed it over and over in her mind, wondering if she had imagined the tension—or if there was something real there. Something more than just the exhaustion and the adrenaline of the surgery.

The next day, she tried to push it out of her head, but it lingered, creeping into every interaction they had. Sunghoon was still Sunghoon—cool, collected, and distant. But there were little things. Moments that made her heart trip over itself.

—

It started with him offering to drive her home after a late shift.It wasn’t anything grand. Just a simple, “I’m going that way. Get in.”

She almost said no—except she didn’t want to walk in the dark by herself. And there was something undeniably reassuring about him offering without asking for anything in return.

“Thanks,” she said, quietly getting into the car. The hum of the engine filled the space between them as he drove, the headlights cutting through the streets.

The drive was short, but still, it felt like time had slowed. He didn’t speak much, just focusing on the road. But every now and then, his eyes flicked to her—just for a split second—like he was checking to make sure she was okay. When they reached her apartment, she was about to open the door when he handed her a bag from the passenger seat.

“Here. Snacks,” he muttered, a little awkwardly. “You haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

She blinked, surprised. “I—thanks. I didn’t—”

He just nodded, turning the key in the ignition as if it were nothing. “Get some sleep,” he said before she could close the door. “You look like you could use it.” She nodded, feeling a rush of warmth in her chest. And just like that, he was gone. But it didn’t feel like the same cold, indifferent Sunghoon. There was a softness there now—quiet but there, nestled beneath the layers of his usual tough exterior.

—

Rumors started to spread a few days later. At first, they were innocuous—lighthearted teasing from the other doctors and nurses, all focused on the new dynamic between her and Sunghoon.

“Did you notice how he handed you the snacks? Just like a couple.”

“You’re telling me he actually offered to drive you home? Dr. Park? That’s—wow.”

But then, as these things often go, the rumors fizzled out just as quickly as they started. The teasing slowly died, conversations returned to the usual medical chatter, and life resumed as normal. They’d even been assigned to different surgeries for a while, their paths crossing less and less. Still, the air between them was different. It wasn’t as charged as it had been that night, but it wasn’t as distant, either. There was an undercurrent to everything they did—little glances, half-smiles, and more moments where their eyes lingered longer than they should.

—

The change wasn’t just in the rumors. It was in how he kept appearing at unexpected moments.

Another long shift came, and this time, it was his turn to bring in coffee. It wasn’t even a special occasion, just a Tuesday afternoon. And yet, when he set the cup in front of her without saying a word, she felt that familiar flutter again.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, looking up at him in surprise.

“I know.” He shrugged, standing there like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You were up all night with that trauma patient. You look like you need it.” She took a slow sip, eyes studying him. He looked so calm on the surface, but she could feel the tension just beneath it. Something had shifted in him, and she wasn’t sure if she was imagining it or if he was letting his guard down—just a little.

“I appreciate it,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. And he actually smiled at her then—a small, genuine thing that took her by surprise “Don’t mention it,” he said, turning to leave. But before he stepped away, he looked at her over his shoulder. “I’ll check on you later. Make sure you’re not about to fall asleep standing up.”

She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face.After all the walls he’d put up, the small gestures felt like a breakthrough. A crack in his armor. As the days went on, those small gestures kept coming—more rides, more snacks, more lingering moments of silence that said more than words ever could. He never pushed for more. Never made a big deal out of it.

But she noticed.

And for the first time, she realized that she wasn’t the only one starting to care.

⸻

It started with her laughter.

A quiet evening in the resident lounge. Most of the staff had gone home. Y/N was curled up on the beat-up couch with a granola bar and a chart in her lap, lips pressed together in deep concentration—until something on the page made her snort softly. She didn’t even realize he was there. Sunghoon watched from the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just frozen when he heard the sound.

“You always read discharge notes like they’re comedy scripts?” he asked, stepping in.

She looked up, startled, but relaxed when she saw him. “Sorry. This kid just wrote ‘Doctor Park is scary but he saved my guts, so I guess he’s alright.’” She grinned, eyes flickering toward him. “You’re earning a fanbase.” He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the small twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Terrifying and efficient. That’s my brand.”

She smiled—bright, easy. And he didn’t look away.

It was quiet after that. Not uncomfortable. Just…quiet.She scooted over slightly, patting the empty spot beside her without thinking. “You can sit, you know. I won’t bite.”

He hesitated—but only for a second.

Then he sat.

Too close.

Or maybe just close enough.

They didn’t speak for a while. Her shoulder brushed his when she reached for her drink. His knee accidentally bumped hers. He didn’t apologize. Neither did she. The tension wasn’t sharp anymore. It was soft, slow, warm—like settling into something unspoken.

“You don’t stay late unless you’re avoiding something,” she said quietly, still flipping through her notes. He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her fingers trace the lines of ink on the page. “And you don’t bring snacks to people unless you like them,” he replied.

She paused. Looked at him. “So you do like me?”

He held her gaze for a beat too long.

“I never said I didn’t.”

That made her breath catch—just a little. Enough that she had to look away.

“I’m not used to this,” she admitted, the words coming out softer than she meant. “The in-between. The almosts.” He turned slightly toward her. “Then let’s stop pretending it’s an almost.”

The air shifted.

Again.

And this time, it didn’t feel like something to run from.

His hand found hers, resting between them on the couch. He didn’t grab it. Didn’t squeeze.

Just let it sit there, his fingers brushing hers—tentative but real. She looked down at their hands.

Then up at him.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered, smiling.

“And yet here you are,” he said. And he was smiling, too—more with his eyes than anything else.

They didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

But when she leaned her head gently against his shoulder, and he didn’t move away—instead letting out a quiet breath like he’d been waiting for this—they both knew something had changed.

Not a crack in the wall.

A door.

Opening.

Just enough.

⸻

Y/N didn’t expect to see anyone from the hospital on her day off. She had planned for coffee, maybe a walk around the park, and a moment to breathe without pagers screaming in her ear.

So when she saw him—Park Sunghoon, dressed down in a hoodie and joggers, standing outside a boutique pet store with a pristine white poodle perched in his arms—she froze.

Her first thought: He’s kind of hot when he’s not telling me I’m doing things wrong.

Her second: Is that a dog?

“Dr. Park?” she called, half in disbelief, half in amusement. Sunghoon turned, clearly not expecting to see her either. His expression didn’t soften right away, but his posture relaxed, and the corner of his mouth twitched. The poodle—fluffy, snow-white, with a little pink bow on her collar—blinked curiously at Y/N.

“Y/N,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying my day off. Clearly not as productively as you,” she teased, nodding to the dog. “This yours?” He adjusted the dog in his arms, like he didn’t quite know what to do with her fluff. “Gaeul. Technically my sister’s. I’m just filling in while she’s out of town. Temporarily.”

“Sure,” she said, eyes twinkling. “You look natural with her.”

“I’m being judged by a resident and a poodle,” he muttered, but his lips tugged into something suspiciously like a smile. Before he could say more, Gaeul wiggled excitedly in his arms, clearly interested in Y/N. Sunghoon hesitated—then extended the leash. “You want to walk with us?”

It wasn’t phrased like a date. Not even close. But it felt like one.

—

The walk wasn’t long, but it was peaceful—quiet jokes, soft teasing, and a few moments of silence that didn’t feel awkward at all. She kept glancing at him when he wasn’t looking, surprised by how easy it felt. How different he was out here, in the sun, not shrouded in harsh fluorescent light or tense OR pressure.

He caught her looking once.

She quickly looked away. “I just can’t believe you own chew toys.” “They’re not mine.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, not buying it. “I bet you even talk to her in baby voice when no one’s around.” He didn’t respond.

Which meant he absolutely did.

—

Later, they ended up near a small bistro she liked, tucked between buildings, the kind of place with mismatched chairs and fairy lights strung across the outdoor patio. He glanced at her as they paused in front of it.

“You eaten yet?”

“No.”

“You want to?”

She blinked. “With you?”

“Unless you’ve got another emergency poodle date lined up.” She laughed—and it felt good, falling out of her chest that easily. “Okay. Let’s eat.”

—

Dinner was simple. Pasta, wine, shared appetizers. Gaeul napped peacefully in the seat beside Sunghoon, occasionally pawing at his hand when she wanted a scrap of food. Y/N watched him sneak her a piece of chicken, and something in her heart melted. She didn’t even realize how long they’d been sitting there until the sun dipped lower, coloring the sky peach and gold. The conversation had wandered—from their most annoying patients to childhood stories to travel dreams—and somehow, without meaning to, their knees were touching under the table.

“You’re different outside the hospital,” she murmured.

He raised a brow. “Better or worse?”

“Still grumpy,” she said. “But less… guarded.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her for a moment, then leaned back.

“This was nice,” he said quietly. “You. Here.”

Her heart did a little somersault.

“So was this, like… a date?” she asked, teasing—but there was a hopeful edge under her voice she couldn’t hide. He didn’t tease back.

Instead, he tilted his head, watching her with eyes a little too serious. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you want it to be?” Her smile was slow. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Sunghoon nodded once, then leaned forward, just enough for his voice to drop slightly. “Then let’s call it one.” And just like that—unofficial, simple, but undeniably something—the shift between them became real.

No masks. No operating room tension. Just him, her, and the warm beginning of more.

⸻

The morning air in the hospital was brisk, the corridors buzzing with early rounds and shuffling residents. But Y/N walked in lighter than usual, barely noticing the chill. She wasn’t just glowing—she was radiating. Like some invisible switch had been flipped, and everything suddenly felt warmer, brighter, closer.

Of course, someone noticed.

“You’re smiling,” Heeseung, one of the cardio fellows, said as they scrubbed in side by side. “That’s suspicious. Who let you have fun?” Y/N rolled her eyes, hiding the faint color creeping up her neck. “I’m just in a good mood.

“Right,” Heeseung said with a smirk. “Totally unrelated to you being seen near a very broody attending last night with a dog that looked like a cloud.”

She nearly dropped her surgical cap.

“You saw that?”

“I was walking back from the clinic. Couldn’t miss it. You two looked…” He cocked his head, playful. “Uncharacteristically cozy.”Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” he asked, grinning.

Before she could reply, the OR doors pushed open—cue the very subject of their conversation.

Park Sunghoon entered with a clipboard in hand, his usual calm intensity intact. Except… something about him was off. He didn’t bark at anyone. He didn’t rush. And when he passed by her at the sink, his fingers grazed hers—barely—but deliberately. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of touch.

And then—he smirked.

Tiny. Barely there. But real.

Her brain short-circuited.

She glanced sideways at Heeseung, who now looked like he was watching a drama unfold in real-time. “I take it back,” he whispered. “This is better than TV.”

“Shut up,” she muttered.

But she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.

—

During the procedure, it was business as usual—Sunghoon giving instructions, Y/N assisting like always, but the atmosphere between them was subtly different. When she handed him instruments, his fingers lingered for just a breath longer. When she asked for clarification, he actually gave her a soft nod instead of an irritated sigh. And when the surgery wrapped up and she peeled off her gloves, she felt his eyes follow her for a second longer than necessary. Outside the OR, she pressed her back to the wall, trying to cool off the butterflies flapping against her ribs.

Heeseung passed by, clapping her lightly on the shoulder. “So. Coffee? Or should I just start planning your engagement party?” She shoved him down the hall. Behind her, Sunghoon’s voice rang out calmly. “Dr. Lee. If you’re done playing matchmaker, rounds start in ten.”

Heeseung straightened immediately. “Yes, sir.”

But as he passed, Sunghoon flicked his eyes toward Y/N—still faintly amused, still very much aware—and added with an almost imperceptible twitch of his lips:

“Glad someone’s in a good mood this morning.”

Y/N didn’t stop smiling for the rest of her shift.

⸻

Her shift dragged longer than expected, the kind of slow where time felt thick, and her body begged for rest. But even through the fatigue, her mind kept drifting—back to last night, to his quiet smirk this morning, to the way his fingers brushed hers in passing like it meant nothing and everything all at once. Y/N found him late that evening reviewing scans in the diagnostics lounge. Most of the hospital had quieted by then. The vending machine buzzed faintly behind her, and the soft hum of a nearby ECG monitor pulsed in rhythm with her nerves.

She knocked lightly on the doorframe.

He looked up. “You’re still here?”

“Barely,” she said, stepping in. “I was going to grab dinner before I collapse. Thought I’d ask if you wanted to join. Since you—” she paused, gathering her courage, “—seemed like you didn’t hate my company last night.” Sunghoon’s brows lifted, surprised—but not unpleasantly.

“You’re asking me out?” he said carefully, not mocking, but definitely amused.

“Technically, I’m asking if you want udon and maybe a beer at that tiny hole-in-the-wall spot by the train station,” she said, arms crossed, meeting his gaze with quiet defiance. “But if you need to call it a date—” He stood slowly, slipping the folder under his arm, that same unreadable expression settling over his features.

“I’ll call it dinner,” he said simply. “Unless you decide otherwise.” Her heart thudded, and she followed him out with a soft smile.

—

The place was dim and warm, all steam and sizzling broth and cheap plastic stools. It didn’t take much for conversation to flow again—stories about ridiculous patients, gossip they’d both overheard, moments they’d survived in chaotic silence. At one point, she laughed so hard she accidentally choked on a sip of beer, and he leaned forward with concern—hands braced on the table, eyes focused.

“You okay?”

She coughed once, nodding, waving a hand. “I’m fine.”

“You should chew before you drink,” he murmured, sliding a napkin toward her. “It’s basic survival.”

She grinned as she wiped her mouth. “You’re bossy even off-duty.” He tilted his head, eyes lingering a second too long. “You wouldn’t like me if I weren’t.”

“I think I already do,” she blurted—then froze.

His gaze sharpened, but instead of teasing her, he said—softly, without irony:

“I know.”

Her throat tightened, caught between panic and warmth.

The rest of dinner passed in that quiet, humming space—closer now. Like they were both slowly inching toward something they couldn’t define yet, but neither wanted to stop. Outside, under the glow of streetlights, he didn’t offer to drive her home.

He just walked beside her, hands in his coat pockets, shoulder brushing hers every few steps. When they reached the corner where their paths split, she turned to say goodbye—but Sunghoon spoke first.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said. “Whatever… this is.” She didn’t respond right away. Just stepped closer.

“Then don’t think too hard about it tonight,” she whispered. “Just walk me home.” So he did.

⸻

The next morning, Y/N showed up early to rounds with a coffee in each hand—one hers, the other a quiet gamble. She didn’t expect much. Maybe a nod. Maybe nothing. But when she passed Sunghoon in the hallway outside the nurse’s station, he took the cup without a word. Their fingers brushed. His gaze dipped to the coffee sleeve, then to her. “Still trying to bribe your way into my good graces?” he murmured, a corner of his mouth twitching.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. “Bribes are more effective than flattery with you. That much I’ve learned.” A beat passed. His voice was lower when he added, “You’re not wrong.”

—

They were checking in on a sweet older patient in recovery—a woman who’d had a complicated mitral valve repair that Sunghoon had handled with his usual precision. Y/N stood beside him as he reviewed the charts, jotting quick notes. The woman, Mrs. Choi, smiled up at them from her bed with knowing eyes and years of unspoken wisdom crinkled at the corners.

“Doctor Park,” she said suddenly, her voice soft but clear. “You’re different when she’s around. Sunghoon paused mid-note, not looking up. “I’m always professional.”

She waved a frail hand. “Professional, yes. But warmer. Not so much like a machine.” Y/N choked back a laugh, quickly glancing at Sunghoon—who, for the first time in weeks, looked genuinely flustered. “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Choi added kindly. “It’s a compliment. She brings the color out of you. You both make a good pair. In surgery and in life.” Sunghoon didn’t respond right away, flipping a page in her chart with more force than necessary. But then, without looking at Y/N, he said under his breath, “Tell me when your fan club starts mailing out T-shirts.”

Y/N smiled. “Only if you promise to wear one.”

—

Later that afternoon, they passed in the hallway again, mid-shift. No words. But he slowed down just long enough to let his fingers graze hers—barely a touch, almost an accident.

Except it wasn’t.

She turned, heart stuttering, only to find him already walking away. But his hand lifted briefly in a lazy half-wave—uncharacteristically casual.

She couldn’t stop the grin that followed.

⸻

It was nearly 3AM by the time they finally peeled off their scrubs, the adrenaline of the six-hour operation slowly bleeding out into exhaustion. The OR had been tense—delicate vascular repair on a child, high-risk and high-stakes. They’d barely spoken during the procedure, every move precise, instinctive. In sync. Now, the silence in the break room felt heavier, softer somehow.

Y/N sat on the worn-out cot first, back against the wall, her eyelids already drooping as she clutched a water bottle with trembling fingers. Sunghoon leaned against the doorframe, watching her for a long beat. “You should sleep,” he said quietly.

She looked up, too tired to smile. “You too. You look like hell.”

He scoffed lightly, but there was no bite to it. “Flattery again?”

“Always.”

He finally moved, shrugging off his coat and tossing it over the back of the chair. Then he hesitated—just for a second—before sitting beside her on the cot. There wasn’t much space. Their shoulders brushed. He didn’t pull away.

Neither did she.

The room was dim, the air slightly too warm. Her head dropped onto his shoulder without warning, and when she realized it, she jolted back with a quiet gasp.

“Sorry—”

He caught her wrist gently before she could move further. “It’s fine,” he said, softer than she’d ever heard him. So she settled back in, slower this time.

She felt his breath steady beside her. His body warm and solid. After a while, he shifted just enough to ease her down gently onto the cot, stretching out beside her. She blinked at him, eyes wide.

“You’re going to sleep here too?”

“You think I’ll leave you unsupervised after today?” he murmured. “You’ll probably try to round on three patients in your dreams.”

She chuckled, eyes fluttering shut.

Then came the quiet surprise—his arm sliding around her waist, anchoring her close. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t bold.

It was careful. Considerate. Quiet.

Like everything he did with her lately.

She melted into it, letting her hand rest lightly against his chest. His heartbeat thudded against her palm—steady, controlled, but undeniably there.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Neither of them moved. Just before she drifted off, she whispered, “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.” He didn’t respond. But the grip of his arm around her tightened just a little.

Enough to say, I know.

⸻

When Y/N blinked awake, the room was filled with that hazy, gray pre-dawn light seeping through the slats of the blinds. Her body ached with the kind of deep, all-consuming fatigue only surgeons knew—but it wasn’t discomfort that pulled her out of sleep.

It was warmth.

Steady, solid warmth wrapped around her like a cocoon. A strong arm still draped over her waist, and the quiet rhythm of someone breathing close—too close to be anyone but him. Her head was resting on his chest. Her fingers were curled loosely into the soft fabric of his shirt. And Sunghoon… Sunghoon hadn’t moved. She froze for a second, trying to process how close they still were, how completely tangled. She could hear his heartbeat. Feel it. She could feel everything. Slowly, carefully, she lifted her head just enough to see his face. Eyes closed. Jaw relaxed. Breathing even. Asleep. Or pretending to be.

She let herself look—really look—for just a second. This version of him, stripped of sharp lines and distance, was softer. Younger. And heartbreakingly human. A flutter moved through her chest. Unwelcome and warm.

She shifted slightly, trying to untangle herself without waking him—but as soon as she moved, his hand flexed on her waist. Not tight. Just deliberate. And then she heard his voice. Low. Raspy with sleep.

“…You talk in your sleep again.”

Her breath caught. “I wasn’t asleep yet.”

A beat. His eyes opened—just a sliver, just enough to meet hers. There was no smirk. No teasing. Just that quiet, unreadable look she was starting to memorize. “You said my name,” he murmured.

She flushed instantly, words scrambling. “I—I don’t remember—”

“I do.”

The silence that followed stretched thin, warm, alive with something unspoken. Her fingers curled unconsciously against his shirt again.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, he closed his eyes again and said quietly, “Five more minutes. Then you can go back to pretending we don’t like each other.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “Deal.”

And so they stayed like that—still, silent, suspended in the soft gray hour between night and morning. Not quite a confession. Not quite a denial. But something real in between.

⸻

By noon, they were back in their whites. Sunghoon was reviewing scans with his usual unreadable expression, and Y/N was beside him, slightly more relaxed than usual—though her hands still fidgeted with the corner of the tablet as she read vitals over his shoulder. When she reached for a pen at the same time he did, their fingers brushed—brief, but enough to make her flinch half an inch. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he just kept writing, deadpan. “You can’t keep doing that every time we touch.”

“Doing what?” she said, a little too quickly.

“Acting like it didn’t happen,” he murmured without looking up.

She blinked. Her pulse fluttered. And when she stole a glance at him—just a flick of her eyes—his mouth twitched like he’d caught it. Later, in the OR, they worked on a post-op complication together. Fast. Fluid. Almost like they could read each other’s thoughts.

“Clamp,” she said.

He passed it.

“Retract?”

He was already moving. “I’m on it.”

“Pressure’s stable—”

“Keep it there. Good.”

One of the scrub nurses muttered to the anesthesiologist, “They always been this in sync?”

The other nurse shrugged. “Didn’t use to be. Something changed.”

⸻

After surgery, they scrubbed out together in silence—shoulders brushing as they reached for the same towel. Again.

This time, neither of them moved away.

“I’m just saying,” said Dr. Ryu, a junior resident passing by with a smug smile, “if you two want to start finishing each other’s sentences, the rest of us will just assume it’s a married couple thing.” Y/N nearly dropped her towel. Sunghoon didn’t even blink. But then he turned to her, eyes steady, and said dryly, “We’ll have to work on our vows then.”

She stared at him, completely thrown.

He walked away.

She was left blushing by the sinks, heart hammering, while the other resident practically cackled.

⸻

It was nearing the end of their shift when Y/N noticed the blood.Just a faint smear against Sunghoon’s glove, but enough to stop her mid-sentence. She followed the trail with her eyes—to the side of his hand, just beneath the wrist. A shallow but angry-looking gash.

“Hey,” she said sharply. “What happened?”

He barely glanced at it. “Caught it on the edge of the equipment cart earlier. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” she snapped, louder than she intended.

He raised a brow at her. “Y/N—”

“You didn’t even clean it?”

“I didn’t have time.”

She exhaled tightly, already pulling gloves and antiseptic from the drawer beside her. “Sit.”

“I’m not a patient.”

“Well, you’re bleeding like one, so shut up and sit.”

There was something wild in her eyes, not just frustration but worry—sharp and real. He sat.She took his hand gently, pressing a sterile cloth against the cut. He flinched, just barely, and she softened her touch instantly.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “You have to take care of yourself too, you know.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“No,” she said, voice quieter now. “You are. You do this thing—like if you ignore it, it won’t hurt. That’s not how it works. You’re not invincible, Sunghoon.”

His name on her lips made his fingers twitch in hers.

She wrapped the gauze slowly, carefully, her brow furrowed. Her touch was precise, but tender—almost reverent. He watched her, watched the way she handled him like something she couldn’t afford to break.And when she finally looked up, their faces were too close. The air between them pulsed.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Her eyes flicked to his. “For what?”

“For caring. Even when I make it hard.”

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Because her hand was still on his, and he hadn’t pulled away, and something in her chest was fluttering, aching, burning.

He leaned in—slowly, hesitantly—as if giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

Their lips met gently, barely more than a brush at first—but it deepened quickly, quietly, like something inevitable. Like the world narrowed to just this moment. His uninjured hand cupped the side of her neck, pulling her in, anchoring her there. Her fingers gripped his wrist—not his bandaged one, but the other—steady, sure, as if grounding herself.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t impulsive.

It was earned—built from every sleepless shift, every whispered name, every quiet act of care they never spoke about.

When they finally parted, neither of them moved right away. His forehead rested against hers. Their breaths tangled.

“Was that okay?” he asked, low, vulnerable.

She nodded. “More than okay.”

He exhaled, just the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Good.”

⸻

The hospital was as chaotic as ever the next morning—stretchers rolling in, pages echoing through the halls, the clatter of carts and calls for consults. But beneath all of it, something felt… different.

Not between everyone.

Just between them.

Y/N found Sunghoon in the hallway outside the cardiology wing, reviewing a file. He looked up the moment he felt her approach—like he’d already known she was coming.

No words at first. Just a lingering look.

Not the cold kind. Not the unreadable one.

This was the quiet acknowledgment of something shared. Something real.

He handed her the chart without breaking eye contact. “You’re late.”

She took it, unbothered. “You’re always early.”

“Habit.”

“Control freak.”

He smirked. “Still talking in your sleep?”

“Only when someone forgets to give me a blanket.”

He didn’t laugh—but his smile stayed. Barely-there, but constant. And warm. They walked down the hall in sync. She was reading vitals. He was adjusting his watch. Their hands brushed again—this time, neither pulled away.

⸻

In the recovery room, an elderly patient tilted her head at them after her post-op checkup. Mrs. Kang

“You two married?” she asked with a sly grin.

Y/N choked slightly. Sunghoon didn’t even blink.

“Not yet,” he said smoothly, turning the page on her chart.

Y/N turned bright red. “Dr. Park—!”

He passed her the clipboard like nothing happened, eyes twinkling as he whispered, “Don’t deny fate, Y/N.” She shot him a glare that had no real heat. Just a flustered kind of fondness.

The patient just chuckled to herself and said, “Well, I’ll be alive long enough to see it, I hope.”

Sunghoon, for the first time in front of someone else, let himself smile fully. “Count on it.”

⸻

The day passed in a rhythm. They shared notes without asking. Their silences were no longer tense—just comfortable. He offered her a ride home again, and this time, she didn’t hesitate.

When they reached her building, he didn’t say anything at first. Just reached into the backseat and handed her a little paper bag.

“What’s this?”

“Your favorite snack,” he said like it was obvious.

She stared. “You remembered?”

“Of course I did.”

There was no teasing this time. No sarcasm.

Just honesty.

She softened. “You’re really not that grumpy.”

He glanced at her, mouth tugging into that small, familiar smile again. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”

She laughed—and leaned in. A small kiss to his cheek this time, just as she stepped out. He blinked. Clearly not expecting it.

“See you tomorrow, Dr. Park.”

His voice followed her up the stairs. “Don’t be late, Dr. Y/N.”And for the first time in a long time, the shift in both of them wasn’t looming or confusing.

It just was.

Settled. Steady. Real.

⸻

Their rare day off was quiet, the kind of morning where even the city seemed to hush. Sunghoon didn’t tell her where they were going at first—just that he was picking her up early and to wear something warm.

They drove in companionable silence. The road stretched away from the city and into the hills, lined with budding trees and spring wind. She didn’t ask. She could tell from the way he gripped the wheel—steady, focused—that this wasn’t just a casual drive.

When they arrived, he parked at the edge of a small cemetery. Clean. Peaceful. Tucked behind rows of cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom.

Y/N followed him up the gentle slope until they stopped in front of a simple headstone: Kang Jiwoo. The inscription was brief. The flowers beside it fresh.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, hands in his coat pockets, gaze fixed on the stone. Y/N didn’t speak either. She just waited.

After a moment, he exhaled quietly.

“I come here every year,” he said, almost absently. “More often in the beginning. Now… when it feels right.” She glanced at him. He looked calm, but not distant. Like this wasn’t a weight he carried alone anymore.

“She was a nurse,” he continued. “Bright. Too bright for someone like me, really. She used to call me a robot.”

Y/N smiled softly. “She had a point.”

He huffed, faintly amused.

“She made me less rigid,” he said. “Taught me how to slow down. How to care without calculating the risk.” His voice dipped. “I forgot that after I lost her.” Y/N stepped closer but didn’t touch him—just let her presence be known, steady and quiet. He turned to her then, and for the first time, there was no shadow behind his eyes when he looked at her. Just something open. Braver.

“I wanted you to meet her,” he said. “In a way. Because… I think she would’ve liked you.”

Y/N’s eyes prickled, but she blinked it back. She knelt, brushing a stray leaf from the base of the stone, and whispered under her breath.

“Hi, Jiwoo,” she said softly. “I’m not here to take anything. Just asking for a little blessing.”

She smiled, tilting her head up toward the sky. “I’ve been waiting for someone who could make me feel safe without making me smaller. Who doesn’t need me to be perfect. Just… me.”

Sunghoon’s chest ached in a way he hadn’t expected. “And I think I found him,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper. “So if you’re watching over him… maybe you could watch over me, too?” He crouched beside her then. Not touching. Just being close.

Their shoulders brushed. The wind moved gently through the trees.

“I think,” he said quietly, “she already is.”

⸻

They drove back with lighter hearts. He let her control the playlist this time. She didn’t tease him when he hummed along. And when she reached across the center console to lace her fingers through his, he didn’t hesitate.

Not this time.

Sunghoon didn’t take her home right away.

Instead, he drove them into a quiet town square nearby. It was the kind of place with cobbled sidewalks, sun-washed shop windows, and a single family-run restaurant that smelled like warmth and comfort the moment they stepped in.

The old couple who ran the place greeted Sunghoon like an old friend.

“Aigoo, Doctor Park!” the ahjumma beamed, wiping her hands on her apron. “You finally brought someone!”

Y/N blinked, slightly startled. Sunghoon rubbed the back of his neck, clearly caught off guard. “We’re just—”

But the ahjussi had already waved them in. “Sit, sit! We’ll bring your usual. And something sweet for the lady, hmm?” They sat at the small wooden table by the window, surrounded by cozy mismatched chairs and plants in chipped mugs. Y/N leaned her chin on her palm, amused.

“Finally brought someone?’ You bring girls here often, Dr. Park?”

“Never,” he said, not even blinking. “You’re the first.”

That shut her up.

Lunch came fast—simple, homey dishes. Kimchi jjigae, crispy jeon, and a little plate of tteok for dessert. Midway through the meal, the ahjumma came over to refill their water, squinting at them like she was trying to solve a happy mystery.

“Are you two married already?” she asked brightly. “You look like a couple with a toddler waiting at home.” Y/N nearly choked on her bite. “N-No! We’re not—”

Sunghoon just raised a brow but didn’t correct her. The ahjumma chuckled, clearly not buying it. “He always looked too serious before, but now look—he’s all soft around the edges.” She winked at Y/N. “That’s love, yeobo.”

The word hit Y/N like a jolt of warm electricity.

Sunghoon stood to pay before she could respond, muttering something about “old people being nosy” under his breath. As they walked out, Y/N nudged him, eyes still sparkling.

“You gonna call me yeobo now, too?”

“Do you want me to?” he asked, completely straight-faced. She laughed—full and real. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He opened the car door for her and leaned in just slightly.

“Try me, yeobo.”

She flushed to the tips of her ears and swatted his chest, climbing in with a flustered smile that didn’t leave her face for hours.

⸻

After lunch, they strolled through the small town center, ducking into shops just for the fun of it. She made him try on ridiculous sunglasses. He made her pick a snack from the bakery “for later,” even though she insisted she wasn’t hungry.

They walked shoulder to shoulder, brushing arms, laughing quietly like the world had softened just for them. No pager, no emergencies. Just them. He bought her a tiny ceramic poodle figurine after she giggled at how much it looked like Gaeul. She didn’t say it out loud, but she wrapped her fingers around it carefully like it meant more than just a joke.

Dinner was unplanned. A small grill restaurant, tucked between two boutiques. The kind of place with sizzling meat and clinking plates and the warmth of shared stories over charcoal smoke. Y/N tried to pour him soju, and he dodged it at first—“I’m driving”—but she pouted until he let her at least fill his glass with cider.

“I had a really good day,” she said at one point, poking at her bowl of rice. “Thank you for letting me in.”

He looked at her for a moment longer than he should have. “You’re already in,” he said quietly. “You’ve been in for a while.”

The sky had long gone dark by the time they drove back. The road home was quiet, lined with streetlamps casting warm pools of light on the asphalt.

She fell asleep somewhere along the way, her head tipping toward the window before finally sliding softly to his shoulder. Her breath was slow, steady, warm against his shirt.

Sunghoon didn’t move. He just let her rest.

When they pulled up to her apartment, he cut the engine and sat for a second longer than he needed to. Her eyes fluttered open, a little dazed and blinking at him.

“We’re home,” he murmured.

She nodded slowly, stretching with a yawn. But when he got out and walked her to the door like he always did, she didn’t open it right away. Instead, she turned, leaned against it, and looked up at him.

“You could stay,” she said, softly.

He blinked. “Y/N…”

She pulled her best weapon—those wide eyes, full of mischief and something gentler underneath. “Just to talk. Watch something. You know. Rest. He arched a brow. “This isn’t how resting usually works.” “You haven’t rested all day either.” He hesitated. But then she tugged his sleeve, and he caved like he always did.

Inside, she handed him a blanket and told him to sit while she made tea. He didn’t say anything, just followed her lead, the corners of his mouth twitching into something almost boyish as he looked around her apartment like he was seeing it for the first time. And when she finally flopped down beside him, tea in hand, he whispered without looking at her, “You know this doesn’t feel temporary, right?” She sipped her tea, leaned against him, and whispered back, “It doesn’t have to be.”

⸻

They didn’t pick anything serious to watch. Just a random drama that was trending—one with overly dramatic plot twists, too-pretty doctors, and love triangles that made them both scoff. She sat curled up under one end of the blanket. He sat beside her, long legs stretched out, sipping the tea she made like it wasn’t too sweet for his taste. At one point, she laughed—loud and unfiltered—at a particularly absurd scene. Sunghoon turned toward her with a small, incredulous smile.

“You’re really into this, huh?”

“It’s terrible. But I need to know if the second lead confesses before the wedding.”

He chuckled under his breath and shook his head, but when she leaned into him during the next episode without saying a word, he didn’t shift away. He just pulled the blanket up around her shoulders a little more securely. By the third episode, her eyes started fluttering closed again.

“You’re falling asleep,” he said softly.

She hummed. “’M not.”

He glanced down to find her curled into his side, tea long abandoned on the table. Her breathing deepened. His shoulder had become her pillow again. He didn’t mind.

⸻

When the credits rolled, he muted the TV and let the silence fill the room. A soft hum from the fridge, the occasional car passing outside.She stirred in her sleep but didn’t wake. Sunghoon watched her for a moment—her hair slightly messy from the couch pillow, one hand resting over her stomach like a sleeping child, a small frown between her brows even now. Always so much feeling in her. His fingers hovered above her cheek for a second before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You really are something else,” he murmured, voice so low it got swallowed by the dark. He leaned back, head tilting against the couch, and closed his eyes.

⸻

They woke tangled.

She stirred first—blinking blearily, realizing her hand was on his chest and her legs draped over his.“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Hmm?” he groaned, eyes half-lidded. “You move a lot.”“You’re literally hugging me.” He looked down, then shrugged, completely unapologetic. “You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

She flushed, but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto her lips. “So… you’re staying for breakfast?” He smirked, brushing a thumb against the back of her hand before standing to stretch. “Only if you’re making pancakes.”

“Only if you’re doing the dishes.”

“Deal.”

It was the kind of morning that felt like they’d been doing this for years.

⸻

The scent of butter and warm batter filled the small kitchen, sunlight pouring in through the half-open blinds. Y/N stood by the stove, flipping the pancakes with practiced ease, still wearing her sleep shirt and the flannel pants she’d tossed on earlier. Her hair was a little messy. Her eyes still carried that post-nap haze. But there was a softness in the air, one that hadn’t quite left since they woke up.

She didn’t hear him walk in at first.So when Sunghoon wrapped his arms around her from behind, she let out a startled little squeak, only for him to chuckle and bury his face into the crook of her neck.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

She relaxed into him instinctively, the spatula in her hand hovering over the pan. “You’re clingy,” she said, but there was no bite—only fondness.

“You’re pretty,” he replied, arms tightening a little as he nuzzled behind her ear. “Baby.” She blinked at the pet name, her breath hitching just a little. It came out so effortlessly.

As if he’d always meant to call her that.

“I’m trying to make you breakfast,” she whispered, heart thudding quietly in her chest.

“I know,” he said, smiling into her skin. “But it’s unfair. You’re cooking and looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like the girl I’m… falling for.”

She went still, just for a beat. Not dramatic. Not heavy. Just honest. Soft-spoken and steady, like he wasn’t afraid of the truth anymore. She turned slightly, just enough to see his face. “That so?” Sunghoon kissed her temple, then her cheek. “Mm. I like waking up with you. Like this.”“Even if I burn your pancakes?”

“I’ll eat them anyway.”

She turned fully, wrapping her arms around his waist this time, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his jaw. “Then let me finish, clingy boy.” “Fine.” He smirked. “But I’m still hugging you while you do it.” And he did—standing there behind her, arms around her middle, chin on her shoulder while she made breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

part 2

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife @soona-huh

[channnel]

What if they were friends 🥹

[fandomnerd9602]

Y/N walks in to find Stitch wrecking havoc…

Y/N: Wanda?

Wanda: (nervously) yes love of my life?

Y/N: did you show our boys Lilo & Stitch?

Wanda: it’s a classic

Stitch throws a book…

Stitch: Meega nala kweestra!!

Y/N: (gasps) you naughty little—!

Stitch laughs maniacally…

[presley4president]

Me core:

[clumsypuppy]

(yes I know siffrins cloak grows sleeves when its convenient but I wanna play around with this)

[cheekinpermission]

number 12 for the twst oc asks ?

Not that they can remember the Stitch event, but assuming they could that would be her favorite event!

Her role in said event includes:

If we're talking about events she can actually remember, it would be between the masquerade event or bean fest. Masquerade because Rollo was nice to her (which is apparently rare in twst??) and bean fest because she could pelt people with beans without repercussions.

[cometblaster2070]

so i'm going to go fucking insane because for a while this aspect of malenia's character design has been bothering me and making me think I'm seeing things and going fucking crazy.

the aspect in question is malenia's left arm:

when i first saw malenia's arm my first thought was oh okay they're probably just bandages or some sort of wraps.

but then you look a bit closer and like

idk about you (because i might be losing it) but it seems like the mesh of whatever the fuck that is very clearly melded with her skin in a way/it looks like it's going into and then emerging out of her skin (which is HORRIFYING to think of I won't lie).

and once again i thought i was going crazy and seeing things because surely these were just meant to be wraps or bandages like the ones we see in the scene of her fighting radahn right?

and then the thought of the needle came to my mind. along with something malenia says in her cutscene before we fight her.

"my flesh was dull gold"

huh. now isn't that interesting.

this would imply that in order to stall the rot from consuming his sister, miquella made a plan to sew unalloyed gold into malenia's skin using his needle in a last-ditch attempt to save her arm.

(granted it's funnier to imagine he just sticks it in her arm and goes okay great all done! and that's probably the canon way it went but)

the thought of the sheer pain malenia must've gone through during this process, to be honest, and the thought of the guilt miquella must've felt at having to force his sister to endure even more agony just to help her is just sad.

and all of it is done just in an attempt to salvage what they can of her and hope that more can't be taken.

edit: btw when looking at malenia pre-bloom and pre-losing her needle it looks like there's a proper layer/cover/whatever it is around her arm up till her knuckles making it seem like an actual covering or layer on top of her skin and what not, but when we fight her post-bloom and post-losing needle it appears like some of the layers have either flaked or fallen away and that reveals that it's actually meshed with/into her skin.

[respocked]

Early exile years

[tobiosbbyghorl]

IN STITCHES | PSH | PART 2

pairing: grump surgeon! sunghoon x surgeon! reader

WC: 6k

synopsis: A grumpy, emotionally guarded surgeon and a sunshine-hearted resident collide in the high-stakes world of medicine-what begins with spilled coffee and sharp words slowly transforms into stolen glances, quiet care, and a love powerful enough to heal even the deepest wounds.

part 1

The hospital parking lot was already full when they pulled in, the sun just barely lifting over the horizon. She straightened her coat, tucking her hair behind her ears and sneaking a glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

“We can’t walk in together,” she said as she reached for the door.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve got your strictest attending face on and I have ‘I-woke-up-in-my-crush’s-hoodie’ energy. They’ll know.”

Sunghoon leaned back, resting one hand on the wheel as he looked at her. “Then get out first. I’ll follow five minutes after.”

She paused. “You’re not even gonna tease me for being paranoid?”

“I’m being respectful, baby.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“Baby.”

He leaned in just a little, voice dropping into that smooth, amused register that always made her stomach flutter. “Fine. Yeobo.”

She gasped and lightly hit his arm before climbing out of the car, mouthing you’re so annoying before turning to make her escape.

But not before he smirked behind the windshield, eyes fond as they lingered on her retreating figure.

Five minutes later, when he stepped into the hospital looking every bit the composed, cold surgeon again, no one would have guessed he’d just been kissed goodbye in a parked car with a stray piece of pancake syrup still clinging to his collar.

Well—except for the observant nurse at the front desk who raised a brow and said with a smirk:

“You look unusually… rested today, Dr. Park.”

He didn’t respond.

But the faintest smile betrayed him.

Rounds were quiet that morning, but the tension between them buzzed like static in the air.

Y/N stood at the nurse’s station, flipping through patient charts, when she felt it—that prickling sensation of someone watching her. She glanced up to find Sunghoon across the hallway, mid-discussion with another attending, but his eyes were unmistakably on her.

The second their eyes met, he looked away, far too quickly. Like a schoolboy caught staring. Like he hadn’t just kissed her senseless twelve hours ago.

She ducked her head, smiling behind the edge of the chart.

Still, he was back to his usual self—curt, direct, the perfectionist. But now, even in the sharpness of his tone during rounds, there was a gentler rhythm to it when he spoke to her. No one else would notice. But she did.

During lunch break, she found an empty table in the back of the residents’ lounge, picking at her sandwich. He passed by behind her, pausing just long enough to drop something on the table.

Her favorite drink. No words, no glance.

She blinked.

Moments later, a second-year resident plopped down next to her, eyes narrowed in teasing suspicion. “Sooo… when were you gonna tell me you and Dr. Park have a thing?”

She choked on her bite. “We don’t.”

The resident smirked. “You mean you don’t officially.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re glowing. You never glow. You’re like… caffeine and chaos in human form, and today you’re soft.”

Before she could argue, Sunghoon passed the doorway. He paused—just a fraction of a second—and tilted his head toward her with the subtlest smirk.

The resident’s eyes widened. “Okay. Now I see it.”

Y/N groaned and buried her face in her arms.

⸻

Later that day, while reviewing scans together in a dimmed diagnostics room, their fingers brushed on the touch screen. She didn’t pull away this time. Neither did he.

He looked at her, voice quiet. “Lunch was decent?”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “The drink made it better.”

A pause.

Their gazes lingered just a little too long.

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and the spell broke.

But not entirely.

They both turned back to the screen, acting like nothing happened—but their reflections on the glass betrayed a small, shared smile.

It was a rare Friday night where none of them were on call. One of the nurses was celebrating a birthday, so someone booked out the private back room of a cozy gastropub near the hospital. String lights twinkled overhead, laughter echoed, and the sound of cutlery against plates filled the space.

Y/N arrived first, dressed casually but warm, cheeks flushed from the cold. She was sipping something sweet when Sunghoon walked in—slightly late, still in a pressed shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up like usual. The second their eyes met, something softened in him.

He didn’t walk over right away. He nodded to a few people, greeted the birthday nurse, made small talk with the chief resident.

But then, slowly, naturally, he found his way beside her.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just smiled up at him, and he sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world—close enough that their knees brushed under the table.

Their friends exchanged glances.

It was subtle at first—him reaching for her glass to sip it absentmindedly, her nudging his shoulder when he teased her for not finishing her meal. Nothing scandalous. Nothing overt.

Until—

“Okay,” the birthday nurse said, raising a toast. “I just want to thank you all for being my favorite group of overworked zombies. I love you all—even the grumpy ones.” Her eyes landed on Sunghoon, pointed.

He raised a brow but didn’t deny it.

Someone from across the table chimed in, “Honestly, I thought someone would’ve mellowed him out by now.”

Y/N was mid-sip when someone added, “Wait, actually… you’ve been way less terrifying lately, Dr. Park. Suspiciously mellow.”

And then came the boldest one: “Don’t tell me it’s because of her?” Eyes flicked toward Y/N.

All eyes turned.

She froze slightly, glancing at Sunghoon in mild panic.

But to everyone’s surprise… he didn’t flinch. Didn’t deflect.

Instead, he reached out under the table, laced their fingers together, and casually lifted their joined hands onto the table in full view.

“I guess the rumors weren’t as subtle as we thought,” he said, tone cool but eyes impossibly soft.

The room went silent—then exploded.

“What—!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“Pay up! I told you they were a thing!”

Laughter erupted. The nurse threw a napkin in the air like confetti. A resident whooped. Someone actually dropped a fork.

Y/N just leaned into the chaos, covering her face in mock embarrassment while Sunghoon—smug as ever—sipped her drink again like it was just another night.

Later, as the group quieted down and conversations splintered into smaller circles, he leaned into her ear and murmured, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She turned to him, glowing. “You planned that, didn’t you?”

He kissed her temple. “Only a little.”

The city buzzed around them, but their world had slowed to a calm hum. The gathering had finally wrapped up, and the streets were painted gold from scattered streetlights and the occasional passing car.

They walked side by side, his jacket now draped over her shoulders because he said she’d catch a cold otherwise. She hadn’t argued. Not this time.

The sidewalk was quiet, their footsteps in sync.

“Still embarrassed?” he asked, voice low, hands tucked into his pockets.

“A little,” she admitted, but she smiled anyway. “You didn’t even blink.”

He chuckled, soft and low. “I figured if we were going to get caught, I’d rather control the moment.”

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “Classic.”

Sunghoon glanced over, taking her in—eyes shining under the streetlights, lips slightly chapped from the wind, his jacket swallowing her frame. “You looked happy tonight.”

“I was,” she said honestly, then hesitated. “I think I’ve been happy a lot lately.”

There was a beat of silence between them before he responded.

“Me too,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

They stopped at a quiet corner, just outside her apartment building. She turned to face him fully, hands still tucked in the sleeves of his jacket.

“I meant it, you know,” she said softly. “Back there. Thank you—for letting me in.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered at her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek gently.

“You were patient,” he murmured. “Even when I wasn’t easy to read. You didn’t push.”

“I didn’t have to,” she whispered. “You found me anyway.”

And he kissed her—slow, steady, like a promise.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers, chuckling faintly. “You still doing that puppy eyes thing?”

She blinked up at him. “Maybe.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll stay over again. But only because I like the way your couch smells like lavender.”

“It’s not the couch you’re staying for and you know it.”

He smirked. “No. It’s definitely you.”

Hand in hand, they climbed the steps up to her door.

The city kept humming—but for now, it felt like just the two of them.

Six Months Later

Spring had settled softly over the city, painting the hospital courtyard in warm gold and gentle breezes. Inside, things were as busy as ever—stretchers rolling, monitors beeping, lives changing. But one thing had definitely shifted.

Dr. Park Sunghoon, the once sharp-edged, no-nonsense surgeon, now paused at a child’s bedside just a beat longer than necessary. He ruffled their hair, smiled when they clutched his finger tight, crouched down to explain procedures in calm, careful tones. His voice had lost none of its clarity—but it carried warmth now. Hope.

He still walked fast, still demanded excellence. But now, he also remembered birthdays. He brought coffee to overworked interns. He laughed, sometimes—low and rare, but real. And every once in a while, he’d hum softly in the hallway when he thought no one was listening.

Y/N was reviewing a patient chart when one of the older nurses sidled up beside her, slipping a piece of chocolate into her pocket like a secret.

“You’ve done something no one else could,” the nurse said, eyes crinkling. “You brought him back.”

Y/N blinked, confused. “Who?”

“Dr. Park,” she smiled knowingly. “He was brilliant before. But now? Now he’s also good. Kind. Human.” Her voice softened. “We thought we lost that part of him forever.”

Y/N’s heart ached a little at that—for what he had to lose to build his walls, and for how carefully they’d been taken down.

She turned slightly, glancing through the glass of the OR observation deck where Sunghoon stood, post-surgery, patiently explaining something to a wide-eyed young patient and their anxious parent. He placed a reassuring hand on the father’s shoulder before stepping back with a nod.

The father shook his hand like it was something sacred.

Y/N smiled to herself.

Later that evening, as they sat in the quiet on-call room with half a sandwich between them, she nudged his knee.

“You’re getting soft, Dr. Park.”

He gave her a look but didn’t deny it. “Only for my favorite people.”

She raised a brow. “Patients?”

He leaned in closer, brushing her nose with his. “You.”

—

It was a rare day off. No white coats. No pagers. Just them and the open sky above.

Sunghoon had told her to dress comfortably—“nothing fancy, just layers”—and drove her out of the city. She didn’t ask questions, just watched him steal glances at her the whole ride, his fingers drumming anxiously on the steering wheel, a small curve tugging at his lips like he was holding back a secret.

They pulled into a quiet town near the mountains, where spring flowers bloomed along the fences and children rode bikes with streamers in their handlebars. It felt like a pocket of time, untouched and slow.

He led her down a quiet dirt path, up a small hill—and there it was.

A tiny, unfinished cabin. Wooden beams, no windows yet, just the skeleton of a home—but she could already picture it in the warm light, filled with laughter and life. Their future.

“It’s not much,” he said beside her, slightly breathless, “but I’ve been working with an architect on and off. It’s not even built yet.”

She turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “Is this…?”

“For us,” he said. “Someday.”

The wind blew gently. She was quiet—processing.

“I know it’s early,” he continued quickly, hands shoved in his pockets. “But when I think about what I want—where I want to rest after long shifts, who I want to build this with, who I want to drink coffee with on the porch before surgeries… it’s always you.”

She blinked, her throat tight.

He stepped closer, pulling a small, velvet box from his coat. Not flashy. Simple. Honest.

“I don’t need to wait to know,” he murmured. “Will you marry me, Y/N?”

For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Then her hands flew to her mouth, eyes brimming. “Sunghoon…”

“I’m not asking for a wedding tomorrow,” he added gently. “Just for a promise. That you’ll build this life with me. That when the time’s right—we’ll already know it started here.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. You’re already home.”

He slipped the ring on her finger, pulling her into his arms as the sky turned gold behind them. He held her close—tight like a man who’d found his anchor—and kissed her like a vow.

Back at the hospital, the week rolled on like always—cases, charts, rounds. But there was a quiet buzz around them now. Something in the way Y/N hummed while updating files, in the way Sunghoon let his hand linger a second longer on her back when they passed in the hall. Something different.

And of course, Mrs. Kang noticed.

The elderly patient had been in and out of the general ward for months now, recovering from a stubborn heart condition and endlessly entertained by the unfolding drama of her favorite real-life hospital romance.

So when both Sunghoon and Y/N walked in for her morning rounds—Sunghoon holding her chart, Y/N holding coffee, both trying (and failing) not to look giddy—Mrs. Kang narrowed her eyes immediately.

“Well, well,” she said, voice raspy but smug. “There’s a glow in this room that’s not from the IV drip.”

Y/N laughed, ducking her head. Sunghoon rolled his eyes, but the edge of his mouth twitched upward.

Mrs. Kang squinted harder, then pointed at Y/N’s hand. “Hold on. Is that what I think it is?”

Y/N tried to play coy, lifting her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. But the ring shimmered under the fluorescent lights.

“Hmm?” she said, voice teasing. “Oh, this?”

Mrs. Kang gasped, loud enough to make the nurse across the hallway peek in.

“You sneaky little lovebirds!”

Sunghoon chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “We were going to tell you.”

“Oh, I knew it,” she said proudly, eyes twinkling. “From the way he brought you soup that one night to how you glared at him like a kicked puppy the next morning—I knew it.”

Sunghoon cleared his throat. “She glared at me like that for months.”

“And you loved every second,” Y/N muttered with a grin.

Mrs. Kang reached out, taking Y/N’s hand in both of hers. “You take good care of each other, alright? It’s rare—finding someone who sees all your rough edges and chooses to stay anyway.”

“I will,” Y/N promised, eyes soft. “We will.”

Sunghoon didn’t say anything—but when Mrs. Kang winked at him, he smiled. For real. No restraint. No hesitation.

Just warmth.

And for the rest of her stay, Mrs. Kang insisted on referring to them exclusively as “the engaged power couple” whenever nurses came by.

It happened during lunch break the next day.

Y/N had stepped into Mrs. Kang’s room with her usual tea and a short visit before afternoon rounds, Sunghoon trailing in with a fresh update on her test results. It was supposed to be a quick check-in.

But Mrs. Kang had other plans.

As the nurse came by to check vitals, and a couple of residents lingered just outside the door with charts in hand, Mrs. Kang looked over her glasses at the small crowd, her voice deceptively casual.

“Well, since we’ve got an audience,” she began, tapping her spoon on the side of her tray like a gavel, “I think it’s time everyone knew that my favorite doctors are engaged.”

The room paused.

A silence fell so sharp you could hear the ECG beep.

Y/N blinked, halfway through handing her tea. Sunghoon stared for a beat. The door swung open wider as curious heads peeked in.

The nurse dropped her pen. “Wait, what?”

“They’ve been all smiles and shared glances lately,” Mrs. Kang declared proudly, pointing at Y/N’s hand again. “Look at the ring! You think I’d miss that kind of sparkle?”

Y/N turned a brilliant shade of pink, subtly slipping her hand behind her back. Sunghoon just… sighed. Then shrugged.

“It’s true,” he said calmly, slipping his hand into Y/N’s with the smoothness of someone who no longer had anything to hide.

Cue the chaos.

Gasps. Cheers. One resident screamed. Someone clapped. The pediatric fellow across the hall yelled, “I knew it!” while the neurosurgery guy slumped against the wall like he’d lost a bet.

Even Chief Min passed by, arched a brow, and muttered, “About time,” before walking off with her coffee.

Y/N covered her face with her hand, laughing through her embarrassment. Sunghoon just stood there, smug and soft all at once, thumb brushing across the back of her knuckles.

Mrs. Kang leaned back against her pillows, smugger than ever.

“Told you,” she whispered to the nurse. “I’ve still got the eye.”

The hospital was quieter than usual by the time they slipped away, the afternoon rush of patients and staff finally beginning to taper off. Sunghoon and Y/N found themselves in the small, secluded corner of the hospital rooftop, a spot they often retreated to when they needed to escape the chaos. The skyline stretched out in front of them, the city slowly fading into the orange hues of the setting sun.

Y/N leaned back against the railing, feeling the cool breeze tug at her hair, her heart still fluttering from the unexpected reveal in Mrs. Kang’s room. She glanced at Sunghoon, who had his hands tucked into his pockets, a rare calmness in his demeanor.

He was quieter than usual, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked out at the city. After everything—the teasing, the surprise, the reactions from everyone—it felt like the world had shifted just a little bit. And for the first time in a long while, it was a shift that felt… right.

“Mrs. Kang really knows how to make an entrance,” Y/N said, breaking the silence with a soft laugh. She glanced at him. “I didn’t think she’d tell the whole hospital like that.”

Sunghoon chuckled, a low sound that seemed to warm the air between them. “She’s impossible to keep a secret from,” he said with a playful shrug. “But I’m glad she did.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying him for a moment. The calmness in his eyes, the softness in the way he stood beside her—he wasn’t the same Sunghoon who had first walked into her life months ago. She’d seen more than just the gruff exterior. She’d seen the quiet tenderness, the rare smile that made her heart skip a beat.

“I think… I think I’m still a little shocked,” she confessed softly. “It’s not exactly how I imagined telling everyone.”

Sunghoon turned to face her, the corners of his lips curling up slightly as he caught her gaze. “Yeah, well, you’ve got Mrs. Kang to thank for that. But… I’m okay with it,” he said, his voice steady but full of a warmth that made her pulse quicken.

There was something different in the way he looked at her now. The walls he’d so carefully built around himself, the ones he’d been reluctant to let anyone past—those walls were crumbling, piece by piece, and it felt like she was the one holding the sledgehammer.

“You know, I never expected to find someone like you,” Sunghoon murmured, his eyes softening, the playful smirk slipping from his face. “Someone who doesn’t just… fit into my world. Someone who changes it.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, and her chest tightened with an emotion she couldn’t quite name. “I never expected to fall for someone like you either,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I guess we’ve been doing a lot of unexpected things together, haven’t we?”

Sunghoon nodded slowly, taking a small step closer, his fingers brushing lightly against hers. The contact was brief but electric, the warmth of his touch sending a spark through her entire body.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, the words coming out like a secret shared between just the two of them. “A lot of unexpected things.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the distant hum of the city below. Their hands were so close now, just a whisper of space between them.

And then, without thinking, Y/N closed the distance, slipping her hand into his, the contact familiar but still full of that soft magic that always seemed to linger when they were together.

Sunghoon squeezed her hand gently, his thumb grazing over her knuckles in the same quiet, reassuring rhythm that had become so familiar.

“I’m glad you’re with me,” he said quietly, his voice low but certain.

Y/N smiled, feeling the weight of his words settle in her chest, comforting and soft. “I’m glad too,” she said, her voice full of a tenderness she hadn’t known she was capable of before.

For a moment, there were no hospital corridors to rush through, no patients waiting for answers. Just the two of them on the rooftop, the evening light casting a warm glow over their quiet, shared space. No walls. No barriers.

Just the two of them, letting the world spin around them while they took a breath and simply existed, together.

Sunghoon chuckled softly, the sound rich with fondness. “You know,” he began, a playful glint in his eye, “you never mentioned how memorable our first meeting was.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile spreading across her face. “Oh, I don’t know if it was memorable for you,” she teased, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “But I do recall that you were the one getting drenched in coffee.”

Sunghoon’s lips twitched, as if he were holding back a smile. “You spilled an entire cup on me. I was pretty sure you were the clumsiest person I’d ever met.”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and carefree. “And yet, here we are,” she said with a shrug, her eyes sparkling. “Guess that coffee spill wasn’t such a bad thing after all.”

The quiet rooftop moment was suddenly filled with the warmth of their shared memories. Sunghoon glanced down at their intertwined hands, his thumb absently tracing circles on her skin. “You’ve had a way of getting under my skin from the very beginning,” he said, his tone lighter now but still tinged with affection.

Y/N grinned, leaning in just slightly, her voice dropping to a more playful tone. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. I’d say you’ve gotten pretty used to me spilling coffee on you by now.”

He let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that moment.” There was a beat, and then he added, almost as if it was a secret shared just between them, “But I’m not complaining.”

Y/N leaned back against the railing again, her hand still nestled in his. “Yeah, me neither,” she said softly, looking out at the horizon, a smile still tugging at her lips. “Funny how life works. We start with coffee stains and end up here.”

Sunghoon watched her, his expression softening. “Yeah… funny how life works.”

And for a long moment, neither of them spoke, both of them content in the quiet understanding that had grown between them, the kind of intimacy that wasn’t built in grand gestures but in the little, unexpected moments. Like spilled coffee, and the way their hands fit together so perfectly now.

Three Years Later

The hospital lights hadn’t changed, but time had softened the sharp edges. The corridors still hummed with urgency, the air still smelled faintly of antiseptic, but there was a different kind of energy now—one that came with stability, with growth.

Y/N walked slowly down the hallway, a chart tucked under her arm and her other hand resting lightly over her growing bump. She wore compression socks under her loose scrubs, a quiet rebellion against the swelling in her ankles. At seven months along, she was still stubborn about helping with the lighter patient loads—case reviews, check-ins, post-ops—but everyone knew better than to let her near anything remotely chaotic.

A few nurses passed her with knowing smiles.

“Doc Y/N, you’re glowing more than the fluorescent lights,” one teased.

She laughed, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “It’s probably just the ten layers of cocoa butter I slathered on this morning.”

She turned the corner into the staff lounge just as her pager buzzed. It was a short message.

ER - Code Yellow. Dr. Park in.

Her heart jumped—not in worry, just instinct. Even after all this time, Sunghoon being called to emergency meant high stakes. She knew he could handle it. He always could. But she also knew that he pushed himself harder than anyone else, always calm, always focused… except these days, his first glance was always to see where she was, or if she was resting.

She sank gently into a chair, setting down the chart. She absentmindedly rubbed her belly, murmuring, “Daddy’s probably elbow-deep in something serious, little bean.”

As if on cue, the door burst open. Sunghoon stepped in, hair tousled, gloves hanging out of his pocket, his expression still carrying the storm of the ER. But the moment his eyes landed on her, it was like a wave breaking.

“You’re supposed to be sitting down,” he said, not unkindly, just soft and breathless from the adrenaline still coursing through him.

“I am sitting down,” she replied with a grin.

He came over, crouching in front of her without hesitation. His hand went to her belly like a reflex, thumb brushing over the side as if grounding himself. “How are you feeling? You were up early.”

“Tired,” she admitted. “But good. Kicked me during rounds again.”

Sunghoon smirked. “That’s my kid.”

She combed her fingers gently through his hair, pushing a strand off his forehead. “Rough case?”

“Teenager. Motorcycle. Lucky to be alive.” He rested his head lightly on her lap for a second. “I hate that I get used to this.”

She held his cheek in her palm. “You don’t get used to it. You just grow around it.”

He closed his eyes, quiet for a beat. Then, “Come home with me after this?”

She tilted her head. “I wasn’t planning on doing a double shift, Park.”

He cracked a smile. “I mean it. Let’s just… disappear for the rest of the day. I’ll bring your favorite dumplings. Foot rub included.”

Y/N laughed, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Deal. Only because our kid might inherit your grumpiness and needs balance.”

“You say that like I’m not the softest person in this room.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Sunghoon stood and helped her up gently, his hand protectively bracing her back. They walked out of the lounge slowly, fingers linked, like the world had shifted around them and they were just walking through the new rhythm—one heartbeat at a time.

Bonus Scene: The Day Park Sungjae Was Born

The pain was something else. Y/N had always known childbirth was intense—she’d walked patients through it, held hands, whispered calm—but nothing quite prepared her for being on the other side of the curtain.

The hospital room was warm, bathed in that oddly sterile comfort only a maternity ward could offer. It smelled like peppermint oil and something floral that someone must have spritzed earlier in hopes of calming her. But all she could focus on now was the squeeze in her lower back and the warm, steady hand that hadn’t left hers since the contractions started.

Sunghoon.

He was by her side, masked up, hair messy, scrubs wrinkled from hours of pacing and worry.

His eyes never once left hers.

“You’re doing so well, baby. Almost there. Just one more push, okay?” he whispered, voice tight but gentle, as if every fiber in him was holding on for both of them.

She gritted her teeth and pushed—hard.

And then—

A cry pierced the room.

A loud, raw, beautiful sound that shattered the tension like glass.

Y/N collapsed back against the pillows, tears already gathering in her lashes as the doctor lifted their son and placed him on her chest. Tiny. Warm. Real.

Sunghoon froze.

His hand trembled as he reached out, fingers barely brushing over the baby’s soft hair. His chest rose sharply, and he let out a breath that caught halfway through. Y/N turned to look at him.

And that was when she saw it—the crack, the shift.

Sunghoon cried.

Not in silence this time. Not behind closed doors. He cried openly, eyes wet and red, voice gone hoarse as he whispered, “He’s so small… he’s

here.”

She reached up, cupping his cheek. “He’s perfect.”

He bent down slowly and kissed her forehead. “Park Sungjae,” he said softly, almost reverently. “You did it. You both did.”

Y/N smiled, exhausted but full. “You’re crying again, Dr. Park.”

“That’s the third time,” he admitted, laughing through his tears. “Wedding, pregnancy, and now this.”

“Wanna aim for four?” she joked weakly, a tease in her voice.

He chuckled, still brushing his knuckle gently across Sungjae’s cheek. “Let me survive this one first.”

Then the baby let out another tiny cry and instinctively grasped Sunghoon’s finger.

His breath hitched again. “Hi, little guy,” he whispered, eyes soft and overflowing. “I’m your dad. And I promise—whatever this world throws at you… I’ll be right here.”

And for a moment, in that room filled with quiet awe and lingering tears, everything stood still—like time had paused just to let them feel every second of their brand-new beginning.

First Night Home

The soft whimpering of newborn cries echoed gently through the apartment, but there was no panic, no urgency. Just soft footsteps, a lullaby hum, and the warm glow of the nursery light casting golden halos on the walls.

Sunghoon gently rocked Park Sungjae in his arms, the tiny bundle swaddled in mint green, resting against his chest like he belonged there all along.

“Shhh, baby. You’re home now,” he whispered, voice low, warm, and endlessly soft. He walked slowly in circles, bare feet padding against the wooden floor. Y/N watched from the doorway, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips as she leaned against the frame.

“You’ve been doing that for thirty minutes,” she murmured.

“I know,” he whispered, not stopping. “He likes it. He stopped crying.”

“You’re wrapped around his finger already.”

Sunghoon turned his head and smiled, tired but glowing. “It’s not even funny how fast it happened.”

Y/N stepped inside, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his arm. They stood there like that for a while, the three of them in the soft hum of domestic peace.

Later, when Sungjae was finally fast asleep in his crib, they curled up on the couch with Y/N tucked against Sunghoon’s chest, a blanket draped over them, the soft sound of rain tapping against the windows.

“You’re a natural,” she whispered.

“So are you,” he murmured back. “But I think we made an overachiever.”

She laughed. “He gets it from his dad.”

Sunghoon pressed a kiss to her temple, his hand rubbing soothing circles into her back. “This… all of this… I never thought I’d get here. With you. With him.”

“You’re here now,” she said, tracing his knuckles. “And you’re not alone anymore.”

Time Skip: Sungjae, Age 2½

The hospital lobby was a little livelier than usual.

A giggle rang out across the nurse’s station as Park Sungjae toddled along the hallway with his tiny backpack bouncing and his little fists full of stickers. He was chasing after a nurse, determined to show off the drawing he made of a dinosaur—complete with messy crayon scribbles and hearts.

“He said it’s you,” Y/N called out to Sunghoon, who emerged from the elevator with a file in hand and a helpless smile spreading across his face.

Sungjae stopped in his tracks. “Appa!”

Sunghoon crouched instinctively, opening his arms. “Come here, little man.”

Sungjae ran and crashed into his father’s chest, giggling uncontrollably as Sunghoon picked him up and kissed his chubby cheek.

One of the nurses leaned over to Y/N with a smirk. “Dr. Park’s turned into a giant softie since Sungjae was born. You should see the way he talks to the kids now. You fixed him.”

Y/N smiled. “He was never broken. Just waiting.”

Just then, Mrs. Kang, who had been eavesdropping from her wheelchair nearby, pointed to their hands—matching silver bands glinting in the light.

“Told you they were endgame,” she declared proudly to the other patients. “Now look at them—ringed up, loved up, and with a mini-me who runs this place.”

Sunghoon heard her, glanced at his wife, and smirked. He lifted Sungjae’s little hand and flexed both their rings subtly toward Mrs. Kang.

She winked. “Show off.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing. Sunghoon pressed a kiss to her cheek in front of everyone, uncaring now of being seen, of being known like this.

Together. Strong. Soft. Home.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

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[reksink]

[nitemurr]

My C!Tommy design through the dsmp‼️ this poor traumatised teen is so fun to draw being miserable

[gojoest]

rika holding onto yuuta’s original body while he was in satoru’s and blasting RCT to maintain it is so 😭 true love 😭

also, where is shoko . . . is she preparing satoru’s body for..the funeral, or is she patching him up.. giving it a last try, idiot come back already this prank lasted for too long 😔

[jesuis-assez]

↠ Tim & Lucy ↳ 4x05 👻A.C.H

[ganondoodle]

should surprise absolutely no one that i much much much prefer radahn when hes older (and not mindless! or mindcontrolled!)

(doesnt look amused about what malenia just did in that ol trailer- and possibly even moreso about what she said)

that (and base game) version of him is the only one to meeeeeeeee

[warpfactor9]

hey. can anyone hear me. did anyone else reach part 2 chapter 2 of A Stitch in Time and get gut-punched by Garak receiving a crumb of support and affection from his distant father (a gardener who has dedicated his life to lovingly raising flora in harsh areas where it struggles to survive) and saying that, in that moment, he felt like one of his plants. is anyone out there. oh my god.