Requested by Mila.

The trauma center never really slept.

Even at three in the morning, monitors beeped, gurneys rolled, and voices called for charts, blood, and hands. The department was small---only five of you in total, led by Dr. Kang-hyuk---and that meant no one ever truly rested. Everyone carried more than they should.

You and Yang Jae-won worked side by side almost every shift. You handed him instruments, checked vitals, followed his clipped instructions without hesitation. He was precise, quick, and calm even when things went wrong.

But outside of work, you barely spoke.

He nodded to you in hallways. You nodded back. That was it.

Until one night.

The shift had been brutal---two major traumas back to back, a surgery that ran longer than expected, and paperwork that felt endless. When it was finally over, the hospital felt suffocating, so you climbed the stairs to the rooftop, craving air that didn’t smell like antiseptic.

You pushed the door open and stopped.

Jae-won stood near the railing, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, staring at the city lights.

For a second, you considered leaving.

Then he glanced back. “Couldn’t sleep either?” He said quietly.

You shook your head. “Needed air.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense, and turned back to the skyline. Silence settled---not awkward, just tired.

After a while, he spoke again. “Do you ever feel like the noise keeps going even after you leave?” He asked. “Like you still hear the monitors.”

“All the time,” You said.

That was how it started.

You didn’t talk about anything dramatic at first. Just small things---how coffee from the vending machine tasted worse at 4 am, how Dr. Kang-hyuk somehow appeared the moment anyone tried to slack off, how strange it felt to watch the sunrise after being awake all night.

But the conversations grew deeper, slowly, without either of you noticing.

One night, he said, “I used to think I’d get used to losing patients.”

You looked at him. “Did you?”

He shook his head, eyes distant. “No.”

You didn’t try to comfort him with empty words. You just stood beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched.

After that, the rooftop became something unspoken between you.

Sometimes you met by coincidence. Other times, you suspected one of you had gone up hoping the other would follow. You brought coffee once, handing him a cup without a word. Another time, he left half a chocolate bar on the ledge beside you, saying, “You looked like you needed sugar.”

You started to learn him in small ways---how he rubbed the back of his neck when he was exhausted, how his voice softened when he wasn’t in the operating room, how he listened carefully when you spoke, like your words mattered.

One night, rain tapped softly against the rooftop floor, the city blurred by mist. You stood under the small overhang near the door, closer than usual.

“I didn’t think I’d find…” He hesitated, then exhaled quietly. “Comfort here.”

“In the hospital?” You asked.

He shook his head, looking at you instead. “No. Here,” He said softly. “With you.”

Your chest tightened, but not in a painful way.

You looked down at your hands. “Me too,” You admitted.

The rain grew heavier, drumming softly around you. Neither of you moved to leave.

After that, the rooftop wasn’t just a place to breathe.

It was where you and Yang Jae-won laughed quietly at dawn, shared silence after difficult cases, and stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the city wake up while the rest of the world slept.

And somewhere between the long nights, the quiet conversations, and the way he always seemed to look for you first after a shift, you realized something had changed.

The trauma center was still loud, still exhausting, still relentless.

But now, in the middle of it all, you had each other.

Then he said quietly, “Can I ask you something?”

You looked up. “What is it?”

He seemed unusually uncertain, fingers resting lightly on the railing. “Why do you stay?” He asked. “In this department, I mean. It’s exhausting… and you could probably work somewhere easier.”