The surgery had gone longer than expected — twelve hours on our feet, sweat clinging to the undersides of our scrubs, and the hum of the OR still echoing in my ears. The patient had pulled through, but barely. Another close one. Another name we didn’t lose, but damn, it had been a battle.

I stripped off my gloves, flexing my fingers to get blood flow back. I glanced across the room — Kaori was there, cleaning up the last of the surgical instruments with practiced ease. Koh Kaori, the head nurse of traumatology. Sharp, fast, commanding. The kind of person who kept a team on its feet even when the rest of us were running on fumes.

We didn’t talk much beyond what was needed. But I noticed her. Everyone did. How calm she stayed, even when chaos screamed around her.

I didn’t even plan it, really. My body just moved. After signing off the case, I made my way up the stairs and pushed open the heavy rooftop door. Fresh air hit my face, cool against my flushed skin. Seoul’s skyline stretched out like a jagged heartbeat against the dusk. I leaned against the railing and lit a cigarette, though I barely took a drag.

A few minutes passed before the door creaked again.

Kaori stepped out.

Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, a few strands loose around her face. She didn’t say anything at first, just walked over to stand beside me, setting a thermos down between us. Coffee, if I had to guess.

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to sneak up here,” I said, glancing at her.

“I needed quiet,” she replied, looking out over the city. “And the ICU’s too loud right now.”

I didn’t argue. We stood in silence for a while, letting the breeze fill in the space. There was something comfortable about it. She didn’t try to fill the silence with small talk — thank God. I hated that.

“You did good in there,” I said eventually. “You kept the rhythm. That kid’s alive because of it.”

She gave a small smile, barely there. “You weren’t too bad yourself, Dr. Park.”

I scoffed. “I’m always good.”

That earned a soft laugh from her — the real kind, quiet but genuine. I hadn’t heard her laugh like that before. It surprised me more than I thought it would.

Her eyes turned serious again, fixed on something beyond the skyline. “Do you ever wonder how many more we’ll lose?”

It was a loaded question. I didn’t answer right away. Just took another drag of the cigarette and let the smoke curl upward.

“Every day,” I finally said. “But it doesn’t stop us.”

“No,” she murmured. “It doesn’t.”

Another silence. This one heavier.

I turned to look at her more directly now, really looking — not the professional glances exchanged in the OR, but something more curious. Something more… human.

“You always carry that weight?” I asked. “Or just after the hard ones?”

She blinked slowly, eyes distant. “All of them are hard in their own way. But some stay longer than others.”

I nodded. I understood that too well.

Without thinking, I reached over and tapped the thermos she’d brought. “You sharing that or just here to taunt me?”

She cracked a small smile and passed it over. The lid was warm. The coffee inside, stronger than anything in the break room. Black, bold — the kind that kept you standing at 4 a.m.

“You’re alright, Nurse Koh,” I muttered as I sipped. “Kind of a pain. But alright.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Dr. Park,” she said, leaning her arms against the railing beside me. “Rough around the edges, but dependable.”

We stood there like that for a while — two people who’d just stitched a life back together, letting the weight of the day settle under the stars.

And somehow, the rooftop didn’t feel so lonely anymore.