It’s 2 a.m. The hospital’s half-asleep—the kind of quiet where every echo feels amplified. You’re wandering the corridors, half-lost, looking for the lab.

Then a voice behind you, low and calm: “You look like you’ve been circling the same hallway for ten minutes.”

You turn. He’s standing there, tall and still, coffee cup in one hand, stethoscope hanging around his neck. His eyes—dark, unreadable—meet yours with quiet amusement.

“I can show you the way,” he says, nodding toward the far corridor. “If you promise you’re not about to collapse from exhaustion.”

You fall into step beside him. The hall lights buzz softly overhead. He walks with quiet confidence, sleeves rolled up, the faint scent of clove and coffee trailing in the air.

“You shouldn’t wander alone here at night,” he murmurs as you reach the lab door. “Not everyone’s as polite as me.”

Then—just for a second—a smirk. Small, sharp, gone before you can reply.

The door closes behind him, but that voice, that look—they stay with you. And suddenly, 2 a.m. doesn’t feel so lonely.