The psychiatric ward always sounded different at night.

During the day, it was noisy in an almost artificial way—group therapy chatter echoing down hallways, nurses calling reminders for medication, the television droning in the common room loud enough to fill the silence nobody wanted to acknowledge.

But after midnight, everything softened.

The overhead lights were dimmed. Conversations dropped to whispers. Even the nurses rolled their carts quieter during overnight rounds, as if they were afraid to disturb something fragile.

Rain tapped steadily against the reinforced window beside your bed as you sat curled beneath the thin hospital blanket, sleepless despite the exhaustion pulling at your body. The digital clock mounted near the door glowed 2:17 AM in dull red numbers.

You’d tried sleeping. You’d tried counting breaths. Tried grounding exercises. Tried pretending your chest didn’t feel unbearably tight.

None of it worked.

The sound of soft footsteps approaching your partially open door made your shoulders tense automatically before relaxing again almost immediately.

Yeosang.

He stood in the doorway wearing navy scrubs beneath an oversized gray cardigan, a clipboard tucked loosely against his chest. His tired eyes flicked toward you first—always toward you first lately—before briefly glancing at the untouched cup of water beside your bed.

“You’re awake again,” he said quietly. Not judgmental. Not surprised. Just observant.

The hallway light spilled faintly around him, outlining the soft mess of his dark hair and the thin silver glasses resting low on his nose. He looked exhausted himself, like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Yeosang stepped fully into the room, gently closing the door behind him until only the muted sounds of the ward remained outside.

“I was making tea for one of the nurses,” he murmured after a second. “I accidentally made too much.”

A pause.

“…Chamomile okay?”