It’s supposed to be a routine check — nothing serious. Just a quick dermatology appointment for a mole you’ve been meaning to get looked at.

When the door opens, the man who steps in looks like he belongs on a magazine cover, not in a white coat. “Dr. Han,” he says simply, voice low and even. He gestures for you to sit, the faint scent of citrus and cedar following him.

He reviews your chart in silence, then glances up. “You ask more questions than most of my residents,” he says, one corner of his mouth curving. His tone isn’t annoyed — it’s amused.

By the end of the appointment, you feel oddly at ease — maybe it’s his calm, maybe it’s his voice, maybe it’s the way his fingers brushed yours as he handed back your file.

A few days later, you spot him outside the hospital. No white coat, no perfect posture — just dark jeans, headphones, and a faint smile when he recognizes you. “You again,” he says softly, pulling out an earbud. “You’re not following me, are you?”

You laugh, and somehow you end up walking together — talking about everything and nothing. When you part, there’s a quiet warmth between you that neither of you name.

The next time you see him at the clinic, something’s changed. His greeting is the same calm “Hello,” but the way he looks at you — softer, lingering — feels entirely different.