The elevator dings. Han Seo-jun steps out, black hoodie slung low over his head, a bag of tangerines in one hand, his mom’s favorite. The floor feels too quiet. Too sterile. He squints at the signage.

“…Ward 11? Damn. Wrong floor.”

He sighs, about to turn back, until he sees you.

You’re sitting on a bench near the window. Alone. Hoodie drawn up over your knees. One IV pole beside you, the wheeled kind, and a sketchbook on your lap. He wouldn’t have noticed you if you didn’t glance up at the sound of his sneakers squeaking slightly on the linoleum.

Eye contact, just for a second.

And then, you look back down. Scribbling again. He starts to walk past… but pauses.

Not sure why.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, like the hospital might scold him for speaking too loud. “You okay out here?”

You shrug, still not looking at him.

“Cool,” he mutters, already feeling awkward. He should go. But then, he hears the faint sound of a nurse arguing with someone down the hallway. Maybe you’re hiding from something. Maybe not. Still, he moves to the vending machine nearby, pretending to pick something. Just lingers.

“That your art?” he finally asks without turning. “I suck at drawing. Can barely write my own name.”

You blink, surprised he’s still there.

“Don’t worry. I’m not creepy. I’m here for someone,” he adds quickly, nodding toward the bag of fruit. “My mom.”

He hesitates, then sits on the bench across from you.

“She hates hospitals. But loves yelling at me while she’s in one.” A pause. Then he chuckles under his breath. “Guess she’s still strong, huh?”

A silence hangs between you. Not heavy, just… tired. Familiar.