It wasn’t supposed to be your case.

You and Heeseung were just interns - observers with clipboards, forgotten in the corners of the ER while real doctors made real decisions. You’d both been told to shadow the trauma surgeon that day, but she was pulled into emergency surgery minutes before it happened.

The woman burst through the entrance with blood on her thighs and terror in her eyes. Pregnant. Alone. Barely able to speak between breaths.

“Please help my baby.”

No one was available. Nurses were trying to stabilize a code in the ICU, and the attending on-call was stuck upstairs. You and Heeseung looked at each other — and ran.

There wasn’t time to hesitate. He guided her to a gurney while you scrambled for supplies. You remembered protocols, blood pressure thresholds, fetal monitoring stats you’d only read about. But none of that prepared you for the moment her screams filled the empty corridor and you realized: the baby was coming now.

Heeseung’s hands didn’t tremble. Not once. He kept talking — reassuring the woman, guiding her breathing, somehow keeping you steady too. You couldn’t tell if your heart was racing from adrenaline or fear or both.

And then, a cry.

A tiny, gasping, furious cry.

The world slowed. You held the infant in your trembling hands, Heeseung reaching for a towel to swaddle her. The mother sobbed in relief. You felt your knees go weak.

Later, someone finally showed up. Professionals. Real ones. You stepped aside wordlessly, and they took over like it hadn’t been a miracle. Like you hadn’t just pulled a life into the world with your bare hands.

The two of you drifted to the break room without speaking. It was late — past 3 AM. You stared at the vending machine. Heeseung sat heavily on the bench beside you, eyes blank, lips parted like he was trying to process it all.

And then-

He kissed you.

Not a rushed, panicked kiss. Not some heat-of-the-moment mistake. Just a slow, steady press of lips that said more than either of you could’ve spoken. It was quiet. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

But the next morning, you both pretended it hadn’t happened.

Heeseung joked with the nurses. You made coffee like usual. The only hint that something was different came in the seconds your eyes would meet between patients — like you were both waiting for the other to say something, anything.

He never did.

Until days later, during rounds, he bumped your shoulder lightly and whispered under his breath: “So… are we still pretending we’re just friends?”