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Chapter Text

The hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic and steamed rice from the cafeteria downstairs, a blend that clung to Ayla’s scrubs no matter how often she changed. Her pager buzzed against her hip as she pushed through the double doors of the neurosurgery wing, the weight of another long shift settling into her shoulders. She adjusted the stethoscope looped carelessly around her neck and scanned the board of incoming cases.

A name, half-familiar to the world outside but just another patient file here, blinked under “Observation.”

Han Jisung. Male, 24. Head trauma, minor concussion suspected.

Ayla drew in a steady breath and tugged the chart free. She didn’t have the luxury of hesitating. Patients weren’t names, or faces she might recognize from posters plastered around Seoul. They were symptoms, histories, vitals, until proven otherwise. Still, her pulse ticked faster as she read.

The door to Room 412 creaked as she pushed it open.

Inside, the fluorescent lights caught on a mop of brown hair falling messily across the young man’s forehead. He sat hunched on the edge of the bed, one hand braced against the mattress, the other absently worrying the hem of his hoodie sleeve. A bandage circled his temple, the gauze already a little disheveled as though he’d adjusted it himself.

His eyes lifted when she entered, dark, sharp, and then softened by weariness.

“Mr. Han?” Ayla’s voice stayed even, professional, though her accent rounded certain syllables. She closed the door quietly behind her. “I’m Dr. Damaur. I’ll be examining you today.”

He blinked once, then straightened. “Uh, yeah. Jisung’s fine.” His Korean was easy but edged with the informal rhythm of someone unused to hospitals. He gave a quick nod, as though trying to make the moment less formal than it was.

Ayla pulled on gloves, the snap of latex crisp in the quiet room. “I understand you had a fall backstage after your performance yesterday? Brief loss of balance?” She glanced at his file, not his face, resisting the tug of recognition that brushed the edge of her thoughts.

“Yeah, ” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess I didn’t see the cable. I hit the floor pretty hard. Felt dizzy after.”

She moved closer, the rubber soles of her shoes whispering against the linoleum. The scent of clean laundry and faint cologne clung to him, oddly out of place among the sterile walls.

“I’ll need to check your reflexes and your coordination. Any nausea? Blurred vision?”

“Some nausea earlier. Not now.” He swallowed, eyes flicking briefly to the chart in her hands as though it might reveal something he hadn’t said.

Ayla set the clipboard down, lowering herself to his eye level. She held out a penlight. “Follow the light with your eyes, please.”

The beam cut a small path across his pupils. He obeyed, though his lips pressed together, restless under the scrutiny. She noticed the faint tremor in his fingers as he gripped his sleeve tighter, the kind of nervous habit that betrayed him more than his calm voice did.

“You’re responsive.” she said, jotting a note quickly. “That’s good. I’d still recommend observation for the next 24 hours, given the impact.”

Jisung huffed a short laugh, one corner of his mouth tugging upward. “So… no going back to practice tonight, huh?”

The dryness of his tone drew her gaze. He wasn’t entirely joking.

Ayla folded her arms lightly, stethoscope resting against her wrist. “Not unless you’d like to end up here longer. Your brain needs rest more than your schedule does.”

He blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness, then chuckled under his breath. “Got it. Doctor’s orders.”

Her lips curved, almost a smile, before she caught herself. “Exactly. I’ll check in again later.”

As she reached for the door, his voice stopped her, hesitant, almost too soft to carry. “Thanks. For… taking it seriously.”

She turned her head slightly, green eyes meeting his just long enough to see the sincerity there before she slipped back into the hall, letting the door close behind her. The door latched shut behind her with a muted click, and Ayla exhaled slowly, as if she’d been holding her breath without noticing. She pressed her clipboard to her chest for a moment, feeling the faint indentation of the plastic edge against her collarbone.

On the board outside, four other names were waiting, two post-op check-ins, one new consult, and an elderly man scheduled for an MRI. Her pager was already flashing again. There wasn’t time to dwell on the way Jisung’s tone had shifted when he’d said thank you, or on the faint tremor in his hands that made him look less like someone she’d seen framed on a subway billboard and more like any other twenty-something trying not to unravel.

She pushed her hair back under her cap, squared her shoulders, and moved on. The rest of the afternoon blurred in fragments. 

A woman in her forties recovering from meningioma surgery struggled to remember the day of the week. Ayla knelt beside her bed, coaxing the answer with patience, listening for the cadence of confusion in her voice, then made a careful note in her chart. Two rooms down, an older man dozed as the MRI transport team prepared him. His wife clutched Ayla’s sleeve as she explained the procedure again, slower this time, repeating until the woman’s knuckles loosened around the fabric. In the staff lounge, the bitter smell of over-brewed coffee clung to the counter. Ayla poured half a cup anyway, letting the heat scald her palm through the paper cup before she drained it in three swallows.

“You’re pushing it again.” a voice said from behind. Dr. Yoon, one of the senior residents, leaned against the doorway, his coat unbuttoned, tie loosened. His eyes skimmed the shadows under hers with the practiced sharpness of someone who knew how far exhaustion could be stretched before it snapped.

Ayla capped the cup, tossed it into the bin. “Rounds aren’t finished.”

He sighed, rubbing his temple. “You’ll learn that finishing doesn’t mean killing yourself to do it all at once. Go eat. You’ve been here since dawn.”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically, even though her legs ached and the elastic of her mask had rubbed a raw groove behind her ears.

“Fine.” Yoon’s tone was flat. “Just don’t drop in the middle of the ward.” She nodded, dismissing him with a faint smile that didn’t quite hold, and returned to the board.

By the time she circled back to Room 412, dusk had crept past the tall windows lining the corridor. The ward was quieter now, the rush of daytime visitors thinning into the hushed rhythm of evening. The scent of disinfectant was sharper, more noticeable without the distraction of constant footsteps. She pushed the door open softly, Jisung was still perched on the bed, hoodie now traded for a plain T-shirt. His hair stuck up at odd angles, evidence of a nap he probably hadn’t meant to take. A half-empty water bottle rested on the tray table beside him. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, looking younger, less guarded.

“You’re back­­,” he muttered, voice rough from sleep.

“Observation means observation,” Ayla said, setting the chart down. Her tone was light, almost dry. She checked his vitals, fingers brisk and precise as she adjusted the cuff around his arm. “Any dizziness since earlier?”

He shook his head. “Just bored.”

The corner of her mouth lifted before she could stop it. “Hospitals aren’t designed for entertainment.”

“Could’ve fooled me. The food tray was… memorable.” His lips twisted into a grin, and for a second the fatigue in his posture eased.

Ayla jotted down his blood pressure, steady within range, then glanced up. “If you’re well enough to complain about the food, that’s a good sign.”

“Guess that’s the bar, huh?” He leaned back against the pillow, studying her. “Hope I don’t sound rude with this, but your Korean is really good.”

The comment was casual, but his gaze lingered, curious. Ayla kept her focus on the chart. “You are not. Heard that before, so many time to be honest. I’m from Turkey, originally. Germany for school. Seoul for work.” She clipped the pen back to the folder, leaving it at that.

Jisung hummed, thoughtful, then looked away. “Long way to come. Must be hard.”

Her throat tightened briefly at the implication, though she only said, “It is.” Silence stretched a moment, filled by the faint beep of the monitor and the shuffle of nurses passing in the hall.

Finally, Ayla gathered her things. “You’re stable. I’ll check again before morning, but rest is the best treatment. Try to take it seriously.”

“Doctor’s orders,” he repeated, softer this time, almost amused. She didn’t let herself linger on it. She closed the chart with a snap and slipped back into the hallway, her steps steady, though something in her chest beat faster than before.

By the time Ayla peeled off her gloves for the last time that night, the clock on the ward wall read just past midnight. The halls had gone still in the way hospitals only did after visiting hours: dimmed lights, muted voices, the low hum of machinery filling the space where daytime chaos had been. Her legs felt hollow, each step carrying the weight of twelve hours layered one over the other.

She signed her last chart, returned the clipboard to its slot, and tugged off her cap. Strands of hair slipped loose, clinging to her temple with the faint dampness of sweat. The air outside the ward was cooler, tinged with the sterile tang of cleaning fluid and, faintly, the metallic smell of rain drifting in from the automatic doors at the end of the corridor. Her bag waited in her locker. She slung it over her shoulder, her hand brushing the stethoscope still looped around her neck before she tucked it away. Normally, she didn’t think twice after leaving a patient’s room. The stories, the faces, they blurred; they had to, or the work would swallow her whole.

But as she stepped into the elevator, the image of Room 412 pulled against the rule she lived by.

Jisung hadn’t looked anything like the boy she’d glimpsed in a stray music video on a colleague’s phone, or in the glossy poster tacked above a convenience store. There, he’d been sharp-edged confidence; bright lights, fast words, the choreography of someone built to be seen.

Here, under white hospital lights, he’d seemed almost the opposite. Shoulders drawn in, sleeve clutched between restless fingers, voice threaded with humor that didn’t quite cover the unease underneath. Human in a way she hadn’t expected.

Ayla pressed her lips together and shook her head, as though the motion could dislodge the thought. He was a patient, nothing more. She had a hundred charts to prove where her attention belonged.

The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor. She adjusted her bag, walked through the quiet lobby, and stepped out into the cool breath of night. The rain had passed, leaving the pavement slick, the streetlamps reflected in long smears of orange and white.

She drew in the damp air, let it settle her, and started toward the bus stop. Tomorrow would be another shift. Another list of names. She did not look back at the building behind her.

Chapter Text

The hospital ceiling was too white. Han lay flat on his back, arms folded across his chest, counting the faint lines in the panels overhead as though they might spell something out. They didn’t. The monitor beside him ticked its steady rhythm anyway, a reminder he wasn’t going anywhere for at least another day.

He shifted, rolling onto his side. The sheets crackled, stiff with starch. His phone sat on the tray table within reach, but every time he unlocked it, the unread messages piled higher, manager asking for updates, members spamming him with stickers and jokes, notifications from fans he wasn’t supposed to check but did anyway. All of it made his head throb worse than the actual injury.

“Quiet, huh?” he muttered to himself, tapping the edge of the water bottle against the rail. The sound was dull, unsatisfying. He wished for his guitar, or his laptop, or even just a notepad to scribble something down. Anything but the enforced stillness.

The door opened with the soft scrape of hinges. Dr. Damaur stepped in, her hair pulled back tighter than before, a tablet balanced against her arm. Her green eyes flicked from the monitor to him, quick, precise. She looked exactly as she had earlier, composed, unreadable, but something in the small furrow of her brow suggested she hadn’t had much rest either.

Han pushed himself up, wincing as the bandage tugged at his temple. “Oh, hey. Back for the night shift?”

“Rounds, ” she corrected, voice calm, professional. She set the tablet on the counter and picked up his chart. “How’s your headache?”

“Still there.” He tried for a grin. “But at least it’s not from the fans screaming this time.”

For a second, barely that, her lips quirked before smoothing again. She checked his vitals, her hands steady as she adjusted the cuff on his arm. “You should try to sleep, ” she said, noting the numbers. “Your brain needs the downtime.”

Han huffed. “Easier said than done. Hospitals aren’t exactly… inspiring.” He gestured at the room, the blank walls, the endless hum of machines. “Too clean. Too quiet. No rhythm.”

Her brow lifted. “You need rhythm to sleep?”

“Not to sleep, ” he corrected, shifting against the pillows. “To think. To breathe. To… I don’t know. Make sense of things.” He caught her watching him and shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry. That sounded weird.”

“Not weird, ” Ayla said after a pause, her tone softer. “Just specific.”

He tilted his head. “You play music?”

Her fingers stilled on the chart. “Piano. Violin, sometimes.” She said it simply, as if stating a fact, though her eyes flickered with something unspoken.

Han sat up straighter, the dull ache in his skull momentarily forgotten. “Really? That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“You don’t look like someone who only memorizes numbers.” His words spilled out before he could filter them. “You look like you’d… rearrange them until they sounded right.”

Silence filled the space between them, and Han worried he’d crossed some invisible line. But Ayla didn’t frown, didn’t cut the conversation short. Instead, her expression shifted, just slightly, as though she’d been caught off guard by being seen that way.

“I rearrange them, ” she said finally, her voice low. “But only when no one’s listening.”

Han smiled, faint but genuine. “Best kind of music.”

She set the chart back in its holder, the faintest trace of color on her cheeks. “You should rest.” He nodded, still watching her as she turned toward the door. For the first time since arriving, the hospital didn’t feel quite so empty.

Han didn’t try to sleep after she left. He lay back against the pillow, grinning faintly at the ceiling like someone who’d just discovered a new game. Every so often, he caught himself replaying the sound of her voice, it wasn’t the words so much as the way she’d talk, measured, careful, as though she hadn’t meant to share any detail at all.

He tapped a rhythm on the tray table with his fingertips: four quick beats, a pause, then two slower ones. The sound was thin against the plastic, but it filled the silence enough to keep his mind from drifting back to the accident, to the headache, to the endless schedule waiting just beyond this sterile room.

When the door creaked open again an hour later, Han sat up too quickly, nearly knocking the water bottle onto the floor.

Ayla stepped inside, tablet in hand. “Still awake.”

“Observation, right?” He flashed a grin. “Just doing my part.”

She raised a brow, glancing at the half-empty cup of hospital juice on his table. “Your part is resting. Not inventing percussion on the tray.”

He lifted both hands, caught. “You heard that?”

“The walls aren’t that thick.”

Han chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I should’ve asked for a drum kit instead of an IV.”

Her mouth twitched, but she focused on checking the monitor. “That would complicate recovery.”

“Or speed it up. Music’s good medicine.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching her work. “What about you? Do you ever sneak into rooms here? There’s gotta be a piano somewhere in this building.”

“There is, ” she admitted, eyes still on the screen. “But it’s usually locked.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” His tone was light, teasing. “Bet you’ve tried, though.”

Her glance flicked toward him, quick, sharp, like she wasn’t used to someone prying beneath the surface. Then she returned to her notes. “Once.” A pause. “During residency orientation. It was unlocked then.”

Han’s smile widened. “And?”

“And I played. For exactly five minutes before I was paged.” Her voice was flat, but there was a quiet amusement under it, almost buried.

“Five minutes is better than nothing, ” Han said. “What’d you play?”

She hesitated, then: “Chopin.”

He whistled softly. “Classy. Meanwhile, I was writing rap verses about cafeteria food at your age.”

That drew the smallest laugh from her, barely more than a breath, but unmistakable. She caught herself immediately, gloved fingers tightening around the tablet.

Han’s grin softened, less about victory and more about seeing a crack in the distance she kept between them. “See? Told you music’s medicine.”

She shook her head, but didn’t correct him. Instead, she took his pulse, her touch light, professional. “Your heart rate is steady. Which means you’re stable enough to behave.”

“Stable, sure.” He tilted his head, playful. “Behave… debatable.”

Her eyes flicked to his, and this time she didn’t look away as quickly. For a moment, the only sound was the steady beep of the monitor, their silence filled with something almost comfortable. Then she cleared her throat, stepping back. “I’ll check on you again before morning. Try to rest.”

Han leaned against the pillow, watching as she left. “Night, Doctor, ” he called after her, deliberately cheerful.

The door closed, but the trace of her laugh still echoed in his head. For the first time all evening, the hospital felt less like a cage and more like… possibility.

Ayla’s footsteps echoed softly as she moved down the dim corridor, her tablet balanced against her hip. Most of the ward had settled into the hush of late night, nurses speaking in low tones at the station, the occasional call bell chiming in the distance. She preferred it like this, the calm after the storm of daytime hours. Usually, it steadied her. Tonight, it didn’t. She kept replaying the sound of laughter, her own. The unguarded slip that had broken through when Han had joked about cafeteria food. It had startled her, the way it escaped before she could close it off.

She wasn’t supposed to laugh like that with patients. The boundary was there for a reason. Professionalism, detachment, control, things she’d learned to hold tight, especially in neurosurgery where every decision demanded precision. But with him, the lines had blurred for just a second.

Her pace slowed as she reached the window at the end of the hall. Outside, the city lights shimmered faintly against the black sweep of sky, rain still dripping from the eaves. She exhaled, letting the glass cool her forehead as she leaned close. It wasn’t just his words, she realized, it was the way he said them, quick, warm, layered with a kind of restless creativity that carried its own rhythm. He had a way of pulling things into orbit, of making the sterile walls feel less severe.

She straightened, pulling her shoulders back. He was still a patient. That was all he could be. Tomorrow, he might be discharged. Tomorrow, another name would fill his bed. And yet, as she turned away from the window and resumed her rounds, she carried the trace of that laugh with her, light, unbidden, harder to ignore than she wanted it to be.

Chapter Text

Morning came with the sound of the hospital stirring awake, carts rattling past in the corridor, clipped conversations between nurses, the faint clatter of trays from the breakfast round. Han sat propped against his pillows, staring at the blinking cursor on his phone screen. He’d tried to draft lyrics three times already, and each attempt had fizzled into nonsense. The words wouldn’t come.

He scrolled through the group chat instead. It was already buzzing: Seungmin sending reminders about vocal warm-ups, Hyunjin dropping photos of half-finished choreography sketches, Felix posting encouraging lines. Promotions for their comeback were about to start, recordings, dance practices, interviews stacked one after another. Normally, Han thrived in that chaos. But now the conversation only pressed against the edges of his frustration.

He typed, I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. Then erased it.

The door opened, and with it came the sound of voices he knew better than his own.

“Yo, patient Han.” Lee Know strode in first, his usual dry smirk in place, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. Behind him, Chan followed, offering a tired but steady smile.

“Hyungs, ” Han said, relief flooding his chest. “Finally. I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”

“Forget you?” Lee Know snorted, dropping into the chair beside the bed. “Impossible. The hospital probably wants to forget you, though. Heard you’ve been making beats on the tray table.”

Han raised his hands in mock innocence. “Creative coping mechanism.”

Chan leaned against the wall, arms folded. “How’s the head?”

“Better, ” Han lied quickly, then added more honestly, “Still feels like I lost a round with a drum kit.”

The leader’s expression softened, but worry shadowed his eyes. “You scared us, you know. Schedules are one thing, but your health comes first. Everyone’s on edge until we know you’re cleared.”

As if on cue, the door opened again. Dr. Damaur entered with her tablet, composed as always. Her green eyes swept from the monitor to Han, then to the two visitors. She acknowledged them with a polite nod.

“You must be his bandmates.”

Chan straightened immediately, bowing slightly. “Yes, Bang Chan. Thank you for taking care of him.”

Lee Know echoed the bow, his tone clipped but sincere. “We’re grateful. How’s he doing?”

Ayla checked the chart before answering. “Stable. The CT scans showed no bleeding, and his vitals have remained steady. The headache and dizziness will take a little time to resolve.”

“And discharge?” Chan asked carefully.

“Not today, ” she said. “Possibly tomorrow, depending on his symptoms. He’ll need rest even after leaving here. No strenuous activity until cleared.”

Han groaned. “Define strenuous.”

“Anything beyond walking, ” Ayla replied without hesitation.

Lee Know shot him a look. “Guess you’re not breakdancing at promotions, then.”

“Wasn’t planning to, ” Han muttered, though a part of him ached at the thought of being sidelined.

Chan nodded, his tone firm but kind. “We’ll adjust. The team can handle schedules. Just focus on healing.”

Han leaned back against the pillows, trying to mask the disappointment in his chest. Promotions without him would feel incomplete. Still, as Ayla made another note on her tablet, he found himself watching her with a curiosity that had nothing to do with medical updates. She carried herself with quiet certainty, each word precise, each gesture measured. And yet last night, for a brief moment, she had laughed. The thought lingered like a rhythm he couldn’t shake.

Chan and Lee Know left with careful smiles and a few parting words, promising to return later with updates on schedule’ adjustments. The door clicked softly behind them, leaving Han and Ayla alone once more.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tray table, eyes following her every movement as she updated his chart. “So… Doctor Damaur, ” he began, testing the title on his tongue. “Do you do this for every patient? Come in like a walking spreadsheet?”

Her brow arched, lips twitching in the hint of a smile she tried to suppress. “I do my best. But some patients, ” She paused, eyes flicking up to meet his. “, make it a little easier to remember why we do this work.”

Han tilted his head, intrigued. “Oh? That’s a first. Usually people just grunt and hope I’ll leave them alone.”

She returned to the chart, but her fingers lingered on the screen a moment longer than necessary. “You’re… different. More aware of yourself, I mean. Most patients just follow instructions without questioning them.”

“Awareness is key, ” he said lightly, though the ache behind his eyes betrayed him. “Keeps things from getting boring.”

Her glance lifted again, this time catching the corner of a playful smirk he couldn’t entirely hide. “I see.”

A silence settled between them, punctuated only by the soft hum of the monitor and the distant echo of carts in the corridor. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. Han felt it stretching just enough to invite a continuation, a spark of conversation not dictated by charts or schedules.

“Do you… play for fun?” he asked, leaning back, tilting his head toward her.

Her hands stilled over the tablet. She hesitated, then lowered it. “Sometimes, ” she admitted, voice softer than before. “When I need… space.”

“Space?” Han repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Like a getaway? Or more like hiding from the world?”

“Both, maybe, ” she said, eyes flicking down to the floor for a brief moment before meeting his gaze again. “It’s quiet. Nothing demanding you. Nothing expecting a result. Just… sound.”

Han grinned, resting his chin on his folded arms. “Sounds like exactly what I need right now. Except I can’t really… run to a piano without staff yelling at me.”

Her lips curved slightly. “I imagine it’s hard to get bored with the schedules you keep.”

“Hard, yeah, ” he said, leaning back again. “But this?” He gestured vaguely around the hospital room. “This boredom, this waiting… it’s brutal. Makes me feel useless.”

“Not useless, ” she said, her voice steady but quiet, almost a reassurance to herself as much as him. “Recovering is part of the process. And you’re doing it well. You’re paying attention, following instructions.”

He looked at her, watching the way she measured her words, the careful cadence that made everything she said feel deliberate. “You make it sound easy. I bet nothing is ever easy for you.”

Ayla paused, letting the words settle. “Some things aren’t, ” she admitted. “But… music helps. It keeps me centered when the rest gets overwhelming.”

Han leaned forward again, elbows on the tray, gaze intent. “I’d like to hear you play sometime.”

She blinked, just once, before looking back down at the tablet. “Maybe someday, ” she said, voice low, almost teasing.

Han smiled, satisfied with the tease. Even if it was just a maybe, it was more than he’d hoped. And somehow, that small exchange left him feeling less trapped in the sterile walls, less like a patient waiting, and more like a person connected, if only for a moment, to someone else who understood rhythms beyond charts and schedules.

The hospital room felt quieter than it had all morning, but Han’s mind was anything but. His phone buzzed relentlessly, choreography revisions, vocal reminders, schedule updates for radio interviews and photo shoots. Normally, he would have leapt into the chaos, thriving on the rhythm of deadlines and rehearsals. Now, the simplest beep felt like a hammer against his skull.

He propped himself against the pillows and scrolled through the messages, reading the plans he couldn’t follow. The group had meetings today, live streams, dance run-throughs. Felix had even sent a video, grinning through the screen as he counted beats, practiced gestures, mocked Han’s absence playfully. The message ended with a teasing, Hurry back, you’re slowing us down.

Han tapped the screen, fingers lingering. He wanted to respond with jokes, with assurance, with energy, but the bandage at his temple reminded him that even the smallest movement might make it worse. The weight of waiting, of enforced stillness, pressed on him.

A gentle knock broke through the fog of notifications. Ayla stepped inside, her presence calm but precise, the familiar clipboard in hand. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Like I’m falling behind, ” he admitted, shoulders slumping. “Like everyone’s moving forward and I’m stuck in… here.”

Her eyes softened. She set the tablet down and came closer, careful of his IV line. “You’re recovering. That’s important too. The group can adjust, it has only been a day, you’re not letting anyone down by following instructions.”

“Doesn’t feel like it, ” he muttered, twisting the sheet in his hands. “Everything’s moving and I can’t do anything. I hate it.”

She crouched slightly, lowering her height to meet his gaze. “You’re doing the hardest part right now: listening to your body. That’s harder than any rehearsal.”

Han blinked, struck by the quiet conviction in her words. They weren’t empty encouragement, they carried weight, logic, something he couldn’t argue with. And yet, the ache of missing out lingered.

“I guess… maybe you’re right, ” he said finally, his voice soft. “But I still feel useless.”

“You’re not, ” she said, voice firm. “You’ll be back. And when you are, you’ll be stronger for having respected this time.”

He looked at her, really looked, noting the way her green eyes held steady, the faint curve of her lips, the calm certainty that seemed to radiate even in fluorescent light. He wanted to argue, to push back, but all he could do was nod.

The room fell into quiet again. For a moment, the hospital felt a little less confining, a little less sterile. Han felt the first stirrings of calm since the fall, as if her presence, and her words, had carved a small pocket of space for him amidst the chaos outside.

He leaned back against the pillows, watching her straighten and pick up the clipboard. “Thanks, ” he murmured.

“For?”

“For reminding me that maybe doing nothing isn’t useless.”

Ayla’s lips quirked, a hint of warmth that didn’t fully reach her eyes. “I’ll check on you again later, ” she said, voice measured.

“See you later, Doctor Damaur, ” he replied, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She turned toward the door, pausing just long enough for a flicker of recognition to pass between them, something quiet, something unsettled, something that neither charts nor schedules could fully capture.

As the door clicked behind her, Han sank back against the pillows, the hum of the monitor blending with the distant chaos of the city outside. He couldn’t be in the studio. He couldn’t move the schedules forward. But he could wait, and he would, if it meant seeing her again.

And somehow, that thought made being sidelined feel less like failure, and more like anticipation.

Chapter Text

The evening light slanted through the tall hospital windows, painting the ward in streaks of gold and gray. The hum of machines softened as the rush of visiting hours dwindled, leaving a hushed rhythm that felt almost private.

Ayla stepped into Room 412, careful to keep her movements light. Her clipboard was tucked under her arm, but she didn’t immediately pick it up, something in the stillness made her pause. Han was sitting upright now, propped on his pillows, his hoodie folded neatly on the chair beside him. His hair fell in casual, messy waves, eyes tracking the faint shifting shadows across the walls.

“You’re still awake, ” she said softly, not as a reprimand but as an observation.

“Waiting for you, ” he replied without pretense, and there was no teasing in his tone this time. Just… honest. Vulnerable, almost.

Ayla felt the shift immediately, the subtle weight of a young man trusting her with something more than a medical history. She cleared her throat, resisting the pull in her chest, and stepped closer to check the monitor. “Vitals are stable. You rested at all this afternoon?”

“Not really, ” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much noise in my head. Thoughts, schedules… my group… everything.”

She nodded slowly, adjusting the monitor’s settings. “I understand. It’s difficult to stop thinking when your life moves faster than your body can follow.”

Han’s gaze found hers, direct, searching. “And what about you? You think about things like that?”

Her fingers paused on the screen, hovering as if deciding how much to reveal. “All the time, ” she said finally. “Patients, procedures… mistakes I haven’t made yet, outcomes I hope for. It’s not easy to leave it behind when I step out of a room.”

He studied her, noting the flicker of weariness behind her professional composure, the subtle softness in her eyes that no mask could hide. “Sounds like we have something in common, ” he said, almost quietly.

Ayla allowed herself a small nod. “Maybe. But you’re learning patience the hard way. I’ve… practiced it longer.”

Han chuckled, a low, soft sound that didn’t quite mask the tension in his shoulders. “Guess that makes me the rookie.”

She smiled faintly, touched by the simplicity of it; his honesty, the absence of pretense, the way he allowed himself to be human despite the constant weight of expectation outside this room. For a brief moment, the barrier between doctor and patient felt thinner, just enough to notice the kindness in him, the spark of something she couldn’t yet name.

He shifted slightly closer, careful of the IV line, and leaned back against the pillows, his gaze never leaving hers. “You make all this feel… easier, ” he admitted. “Not the hospital, obviously. But… sitting here. Talking with you. I don’t know, like maybe I’m not just a patient.”

Ayla’s chest tightened, just slightly. She returned his gaze, steady but not dismissive. “You’re not. And that’s important to remember, even while you heal.”

The room was quiet again, the only sounds the soft beep of the monitor and the distant shuffle of late-night staff. And in that quiet, something unspoken passed between them, a recognition, a subtle connection that neither words nor charts could define.

Han felt a spark of something unfamiliar and thrilling, a warmth that had nothing to do with the hospital temperature. And Ayla, for the first time that evening, allowed herself to notice it too, the vulnerability, the kindness, the tiny crack in the armor she maintained with every patient. It was dangerous. Professional boundaries loomed like shadows. But it also felt undeniably… alive.

The evening stretched on, quiet but alive with small gestures and subtle rhythms. Han leaned back against his pillows, the ache in his head dulled by the steady cadence of Ayla’s presence. She moved around the room with effortless precision, adjusting monitors, checking charts, and explaining things in soft, careful tones.

“You know, ” Han said after a pause, “I never realized how much detail you notice. Like… everything matters to you.”

Ayla glanced at him briefly, pen poised above her notes. “It has to. One overlooked detail can change outcomes. Everything matters in neurosurgery.”

“Except for small talk, ” he teased lightly, watching her eyes flicker to his.

She allowed herself a small smile. “Small talk is… a skill I’ve yet to master.”

Han grinned, leaning a little forward. “I can help with that. Or at least keep you from being bored while you’re stuck in here with me.”

Her lips curved faintly, but she returned to writing, letting the corner of her mouth twitch like a small acknowledgment. The quiet was broken by a soft knock at the door. “Who’s there?” Han called, leaning slightly to see.

“Félix, ” came the cheerful reply, followed by the scrape of the door as it opened. In his hands was a small paper bag, the faint smell of sugar and butter drifting ahead of him. “I brought cookies.”

Han raised an eyebrow. “Cookies?”

Felix beamed, holding them up proudly. “Baked ‘em myself! Don’t tell anyone that I made. They’re just to cheer up our favorite patient.”

Han laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days. “Guess I’m honored.”

Ayla watched the exchange quietly, noting the warmth in Han’s eyes, the way he relaxed in the presence of someone familiar. Felix leaned casually against the doorframe, nodding toward her. “Oh, hello, Doctor. Taking care of our stubborn rapper here?”

Ayla nodded politely, offering the faintest smile. “Yes. He’s improving.”

Felix’s gaze flicked to Han and then back to her, eyes bright. “He listens to you, right? No sneaking out of bed?”

Han feigned offense. “I do not sneak out of bed.”

“Sure, ” Felix said, smirking. “But you eat cookies in bed?”

Han looked down at the bag in his lap, shrugging. “Maybe I do.”

Ayla chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Cookies aren’t going to speed recovery, ” she said, though her tone carried amusement rather than reprimand.

“Maybe not, ” Han said, biting into one with a grin. “But they make waiting more bearable.”

Felix laughed and stayed only a few minutes, chatting about trivial band news, upcoming schedules, and the ridiculous antics of the other members. When he left, the room felt lighter, the air somehow warmer, and Han leaned back against his pillows with a faint smile.

“You have friends like that?” Ayla asked quietly, settling back near the monitor.

Han tilted his head, considering. “Yeah. The loud, chaotic kind that make life… a little messier but better. They keep me sane.”

Ayla’s eyes softened, and she allowed herself to notice the gentle vulnerability beneath his humor, the way he relied on those bonds, how easily he let people in despite the public persona. “It’s good to have people who care, ” she said, voice low.

“Yeah, ” he agreed. His gaze drifted toward her, sincere but cautious. “And then there’s… you. That’s… different.”

Ayla paused, pen hovering. “Different?”

Han nodded, tracing the edge of the blanket with his fingers. “You make this… this hospital, this waiting, not feel so… lonely. Not just for today, but for the whole… stuck-in-bed thing.”

Her chest tightened, just slightly. She looked down at the clipboard and then back up, meeting his gaze. “I’m glad, ” she said simply, her voice steady but warm. “I, just… want you to heal.”

Han offered a small, grateful smile, not teasing, not joking. Just honest. “Thanks.”

She nodded, straightening the papers. “I’ll check your vitals again before the night shift ends. Try to rest as much as possible until then.”

Han leaned back, eyes tracking her movements. Even in the sterile hospital light, even with the beep of machines and the faint smell of antiseptic, he felt… grounded. Somehow less restless. And somewhere beneath the professionalism, beneath the patient-doctor dynamic, a quiet warmth lingered, one neither of them fully understood yet, but both felt.

The corridor outside Room 412 had grown quiet, most visitors gone, the hum of the hospital settling into its steady nocturnal rhythm. Ayla pushed the door open one last time that evening, clipboard under her arm, steps unhurried. Han was awake, though his eyes were heavy-lidded, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth when he saw her.

“You came back, ” he said, voice low, almost drowsy.

“I said I would, ” she replied gently, checking the monitor, recording the numbers with practiced ease. “And I keep my promises.”

Han watched her work, the efficient precision of her movements, the calm steadiness in her expression. “You make it look easy, ” he murmured.

“None of this is easy, ” Ayla said softly, glancing at him. “It’s just practice. And patience.”

“Then you’ve got both, ” he said, letting his eyes linger a little longer on her face.

For a moment, the silence stretched between them, not empty, but full. The kind of quiet where words weren’t necessary. Ayla adjusted his blanket slightly, her hand brushing his wrist before she drew back. The contact was fleeting, professional by definition, but it carried a subtle charge that neither of them could ignore.

“You should rest now, ” she said, her voice quieter than before.

Han nodded, though his gaze didn’t leave her. “Goodnight, Doctor.”

The sound of her name in his voice made her pulse falter, but she only gave a small nod in return. “Goodnight, Han.”

She turned off the lamp by his bed, leaving only the dim light from the hallway spilling through the cracked door. As she stepped out into the corridor, the weight of the day pressed down on her shoulders. She exhaled slowly, walking toward the staff room, clipboard held close to her chest.

But despite the exhaustion, her thoughts lingered, not on the charts or the endless rounds, but on him. On how different he seemed here compared to the boy she had seen in brief clips, staged interviews, flashes of performance on glowing screens. Vulnerable, disarmed, human. And though she told herself firmly to set the thought aside, the spark of it followed her into the quiet night, threading its way into the spaces she usually guarded so carefully.

Chapter Text

The ward smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee, a combination Ayla had grown accustomed to but never loved. Morning rounds were in full swing, a controlled chaos of monitors beeping, nurses calling out updates, and patients shifting beneath crisp white sheets. She moved from room to room with practiced ease, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp but her mind partially elsewhere.

Room 412 came into view, and she slowed for a moment before entering. Han was already awake, sitting up against his pillows, hair tousled from sleep. His eyes lifted when he heard her step inside, and the corners of his mouth twitched in that familiar half-smile she had come to recognize.

“You’re early, ” he said, voice still tinged with the remnants of sleep.

“I have rounds to finish, ” she replied, her tone light but professional. “And you need monitoring before breakfast.”

Han’s gaze lingered on her as she moved to adjust his IV line. There was a softness in the way he watched her, curious, attentive, almost playful, but tempered by something genuine, patient. Even in the routine of medical checks, he seemed to notice her, in a way no other patient did.

“You always do this so efficiently, ” he said, gesturing toward her hands, precise and sure. “I’d be lost without you in here.”

Ayla paused, her fingers stilling for the briefest moment, heart fluttering despite herself. “You’d manage, ” she said quietly, letting her professionalism anchor the moment. “But it’s my job to make sure you’re comfortable.”

Han leaned back slightly, his grin softening. “Comfortable is… a bit easier with you around.”

She felt a warmth rise in her chest, subtle but undeniable. A patient compliment was part of her daily life, but there was something in the tone, the way he said it without exaggeration, that made it different. Personal. Real.

“I’ll take that as a medical observation, ” she said, eyes scanning his chart again. “Vitals are steady. How did you sleep?”

“Better, ” he admitted, and the small honesty made her pause, just long enough to notice the faint vulnerability beneath his usual humor. “I was… thinking about yesterday. About our conversation.”

Ayla met his gaze, feeling the flutter again, careful to keep her expression neutral. “Good thoughts, I hope.”

“Yeah, ” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You made the hospital feel less… sterile. Less lonely. Weird to say, but, thanks.”

Her fingers adjusted the blanket at his shoulders, a subtle, deliberate touch that grounded them both in the moment. “That’s why I do this, ” she said softly. “Helping people feel… human again. Not just patients.”

Han’s eyes brightened, that half-grin returning, warmer now. “You make it easy to look forward to this part of the day.”

Ayla felt a small, unexpected flutter in her chest. She straightened, clipboard clutched a little tighter, grounding herself in professional composure. But for just a moment, she allowed herself to notice the spark, his genuine appreciation, his warmth, the quiet connection that had begun threading through their interactions. Even amid beeping monitors and the morning rush, that spark lingered, subtle but persistent, like the first light slipping through the blinds, promising more.

Ayla moved on to the next item in his chart, pen scratching neatly across the page. Han watched her like he had nothing else in the world to do, his expression shifting between curiosity and mischief.

“Do you ever get bored of it?” he asked suddenly.

She glanced up, brows arching slightly. “Of what?”

“Rounds. Charts. Needles. The… endless loop.” He gestured vaguely to the machines beside him. “It feels like you’re stuck in a video game level that never ends.”

Her lips curved in the smallest smile before she could stop it. “Some days, yes. But repetition has its purpose. Practice makes better outcomes.”

Han tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if in thought. “Hmm. You’re like the speedrunner of neurosurgery then. Grinding through the same stage until you perfect it.”

That caught her off guard enough to make her laugh, short and quiet, but genuine. She shook her head, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s… one way to put it.”

Encouraged by her reaction, Han leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “So, tell me, Dr. Ayla. Do you have a hidden hobby? Something fun to balance out all this… seriousness?”

She hesitated, tapping her pen against the clipboard. “I don’t really have time for hobbies.”

“C’mon, ” he pressed, his grin widening. “Everyone has something. Singing in the shower? Collecting… weird mugs? Don’t tell me you’re all work and no play.”

Her gaze flicked to his, cautious but amused. “I read. When I can.”

“That’s it?” He feigned shock, hand over his chest. “No secret guitar under your bed? No late-night painting sessions? Just books?”

“Books are enough, ” she said firmly, though her lips betrayed her with another small smile.

Han’s grin softened at the sight, his eyes lingering on her with a warmth that felt disarmingly sincere. “I bet you even read the boring ones, don’t you?”

“I read the useful ones, ” she corrected, sliding his chart back into place. “Which is why you’ll heal properly.”

He smirked, quick to recover his playful edge. “And here I was hoping you’d admit to binging cheesy romance novels.”

Ayla’s cheeks warmed despite herself, and she busied her hands with straightening the blanket at his bedside. “You should focus on your recovery, not my reading list.”

Han chuckled softly, clearly satisfied that he’d gotten under her skin just a little. “Fair enough. But I’m determined to figure you out, Dr. Ayla. Everyone’s got layers.”

She gave him a steady look, reminding herself of the line she couldn’t cross. “Some layers are meant to stay put.”

Han leaned back against the pillows, undeterred. “Maybe. But some are worth discovering.”

Her heart skipped before she forced her attention back to her notes. The beeping monitors and the bustle of the ward were grounding, but his words lingered, gentle, teasing, yet threaded with something real.

For the rest of her rounds, Ayla kept her posture straight and her tone professional. Still, as she moved on to the next patient, she felt his eyes follow her, and the flutter in her chest refused to settle.

The ward had thinned out by late morning, the clatter of carts and chatter of nurses replaced by the low hum of machines and occasional distant footsteps. Ayla straightened her lab coat, clipboard tucked under her arm, and glanced back at Room 412 one last time before moving to the next wing.

Han was propped against his pillows, fingers drumming lightly on the blanket, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he watched her. The morning’s exchange, playful and unguarded, still lingered in the corners of her mind.

“You’re leaving, ” he said softly, not as a question but as an observation.

“Yes, ” she replied, voice measured, professional. “I have other patients to check on. But I’ll be back later.”

He nodded, eyes tracking her every movement, and for a moment, the unspoken hung between them. The spark from yesterday and this morning wasn’t gone, it was quieter now, like embers beneath ash, but it was there, insistently warm.

Ayla felt it too, though she quickly reminded herself to maintain distance. Professional boundaries, she thought firmly. You’re his doctor. That’s all it is.

And yet, the flutter in her chest betrayed her resolve. His curiosity, his warmth, the small ways he had drawn her into conversation, lingered like a shadow she couldn’t ignore. She noticed the subtle tilt of his head when he smiled, the way his eyes softened during moments of honesty, the tiny cracks in the armor he carried everywhere else. As she stepped out into the corridor, the hum of the hospital seemed to swell around her, a familiar rhythm that usually brought focus and control. Today, though, it carried an unfamiliar tension, an awareness that someone had touched a corner of her carefully guarded space without even trying.

Ayla exhaled softly, forcing her steps into the cadence of the shift. She reminded herself she was here to work, to care, to heal. That was enough. Still, even as she straightened her shoulders and continued down the hall, her thoughts betrayed her. He’s different from the videos. From the interviews. From the stage. Different in a way that made her pulse quicken, subtly, inexplicably. And though she told herself firmly to set the thought aside, a quiet awareness lingered, an ember that, she knew, wasn’t going out anytime soon.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light slanted lazily through the tall windows, painting the ward in muted gold. Han shifted in his bed, the stiffness in his back and shoulder a constant reminder of why he couldn’t be anywhere else but here. The monotony of waiting gnawed at him, but he refused to let it win.

And then, like a beacon in fluorescent light, Ayla returned. Clipboard in hand, steps careful but purposeful, hair pulled back into a loose, practical ponytail. Han grinned before she even reached his bedside. “You’re back, ” he said, tilting his head toward her. “Did you miss me?”

Her lips twitched at the corner, just enough to betray a flicker of amusement. “I wouldn’t go that far, ” she said lightly, checking his IV and adjusting the monitor. “But I did want to see how you’re doing.”

“Doing better, ” he replied, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Especially now that my favorite doctor has returned.”

Ayla’s cheeks warmed slightly, though she kept her tone measured. “I’m glad. Still, you need to stay in bed.”

He leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, watching her every movement. “You’re very… persistent, ” he said, almost thoughtfully. “Do you always make sure people follow orders this… closely?”

She glanced at him, expression neutral but her gaze softening. “Depends on the patient. Some need a little more… encouragement than others.”

He grinned, letting the words hang. “Ah, so I’m a special case, then?”

“You’re… unique, ” she said, eyes flicking to his chart before meeting his gaze again.

Han felt a small thrill at her words, not just for the praise but for the subtle recognition behind them. “Unique, huh? That sounds like a compliment. I’ll take it.”

She allowed herself a small smile, adjusting the blanket over his lap. “You can take it as that. But enough teasing. How’s your headache today?”

“Better, ” he admitted, leaning back with a faint laugh. “But my boredom is still critical.”

Ayla chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I don’t think I have a prescription for that.”

Ayla leaned against the side of his bed, clipboard resting forgotten on the chair. “I started learning piano when I was very young. Violin came a few years later. My parents thought it would make me disciplined, ” she said, her voice quieter now, almost confessional.

Han tilted his head, studying her with keen interest. “Discipline, huh? And did it work?”

She smirked faintly. “I suppose so. I’m not chaotic… most of the time.”

“Most of the time, ” he echoed with a teasing glint in his eye, letting her words hang between them. “That means sometimes chaos sneaks in?”

“Maybe, ” she admitted, and there was a softness in her tone, a subtle lifting of her guard. “Music is one of the few things that lets me be… messy. Creative. Human.”

Han leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “I get that. When I write or rap, it’s the only time I feel like I can actually… breathe. Like I’m outside the chaos.”

She studied him, noting the intensity in his gaze, the quiet sincerity behind his usual humor. “So music isn’t just a work for you. It’s… therapy.”

“Exactly, ” he said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “And for you, too, right? Playing piano or violin, it’s the same thing?”

Ayla nodded slowly. “Yes. It helps me think, calm down… even when the world is spinning faster than I can keep up with.”

Han’s eyes softened, and he tilted his head, letting a small smile spread. “I like that. You’re disciplined, calm, and… secretly chaotic.”

Her lips curved into a fuller smile, though she quickly masked it with a polite adjustment of the blanket. “Secretly chaotic doesn’t sound very professional, ” she said lightly, but her eyes twinkled.

“Perfectly balanced then, ” Han said, voice low, leaning back just enough to stay comfortable. “Professional by day, chaotic by night, music in between.”

Ayla felt a flutter in her chest, subtle but unmistakable. The way he observed her, without judgment, without trying to impress, was unlike anyone she’d met. And yet, his energy was infectious. She allowed herself a quiet acknowledgment: he was… intriguing.

Han leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “You know, I think I’d like to see you play sometime. Even just a little. No big performance. Just… you and the piano.”

Ayla paused, swallowing a soft laugh. “That might be possible, ” she said, deliberately vague, letting the moment linger.

“Good, ” he replied, eyes glinting with satisfaction. “I think we’d make a good audience.”

For the rest of the visit, they drifted into smaller exchanges, Han asking playful questions about her favorite composers, Ayla recounting brief anecdotes from her childhood music lessons. Nothing monumental, yet every word wove them closer together, layer by layer.

By the time Ayla finally straightened, checking his vitals and scribbling a final note, the room felt lighter. Han leaned back against the pillows, a satisfied grin plastered across his face, already anticipating the next visit, while she tucked the clipboard under her arm and allowed herself a brief, private smile.

Ayla adjusted her clipboard and took a small step back, straightening her posture. Han’s eyes followed her every movement, faintly amused, still bright with curiosity. She felt the pull of that gaze but reminded herself to stay grounded, professional, composed, detached if necessary.

“You’ll rest now?” she asked, though the words felt lighter than her usual clinical tone.

“I’ll try, ” he said, leaning back against the pillows with a faint grin. “But no promises. You make it too interesting here.” Ayla felt a flutter in her chest at his words, subtle and unfamiliar. She allowed herself a brief, private smile before turning toward the door, walking with measured steps down the corridor.

The hum of the hospital followed her, soft and familiar, but her thoughts trailed back to him: the way he watched her, the little cracks of vulnerability beneath his playful surface, the ease with which he drew her into conversation. He’s not like anyone I’ve met before, she thought, her pace slowing slightly. And yet… I can’t stop noticing.

Her heart tugged gently, almost audibly, as she reminded herself to maintain distance. Professional boundaries existed for a reason. Yet the spark lingered, subtle, persistent, like the last warmth of the sun slipping through the blinds. She exhaled softly, forcing her attention back to the shift ahead. Still, even as she rounded the corner, clipboard held tightly against her chest, she couldn’t shake the quiet awareness growing in her chest, an awareness that Han was more than just a patient, and that she was curiously, unexpectedly drawn to him. And as the corridor stretched ahead, sterile and humming with routine, a tiny ember of anticipation stirred within her, one she couldn’t entirely extinguish.

Chapter Text

The morning air in the ward was cooler than usual, a faint draft curling under the blinds. Han sat propped against his pillows, knees drawn loosely beneath the thin blanket. His notebook, creased from too much handling, lay open on his lap, pen dangling between his fingers. A line of half-formed lyrics bled across the page, jagged and unfinished, before the ink stopped entirely. He stared at it until the letters blurred. The quiet buzz of the hallway filtered through the door: rolling carts, clipped footsteps, muffled voices. He should’ve welcomed it, the sound of movement, of things happening outside these walls. Instead it pressed against him like static, too much, too little all at once. His chest felt tight with something unnamable.

When the door opened, he didn’t lift his head right away. Only when he caught the faint scent of soap and lavender, her, did his grip on the pen tighten.

Ayla stepped in, clipboard balanced against her palm. “Good morning, ” she said softly, like she’d already read the room.

Han forced a crooked smile. “Morning. Guess you’re here to tell me if I’ve been behaving.”

She tilted her head, eyes scanning the monitor, then the half-eaten breakfast tray on the side table. “You ate most of it. That’s a start.”

“Gold star for me, ” he muttered, though his usual lilt was absent. His thumb worried at the spiral of the notebook, restless.

Ayla’s gaze lingered on him before she set the clipboard aside. “Headache?”

He shook his head, then hesitated. “Not really. Just… feels weird. Like I should be glad to leave, but, ” He trailed off, lips pressing together. The words didn’t come easy.

Ayla didn’t push. She drew the chair closer instead, the legs scraping softly against the floor. “But?”

Han exhaled slowly, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “But what if I walk out and I’m… not ready? Everyone’s waiting, the guys, the work, the fans… what if I just screw it all up?”

The vulnerability hung between them, raw and unpolished. He never looked directly at her when he said it, eyes fixed instead on the ceiling as though the sterile panels could absorb his doubt.

Ayla folded her hands in her lap, listening. She didn’t offer the easy comfort he half-expected, no rehearsed assurance. Instead, her voice was steady, measured. “It’s normal to feel that way. Recovery doesn’t end the moment you walk out of here.”

He swallowed, a humorless laugh slipping out. “Doesn’t exactly sound like something I can explain to my manager.”

Her lips curved faintly, not dismissing his words but acknowledging the truth in them. “Maybe not. But you don’t have to explain it to everyone. Just… to yourself.” Silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic beep of the monitor.

Han finally turned his head toward her. The usual brightness in his eyes was dimmed, but there was something sharper there too, a need for her to see him not just as a patient but as… him. “Do you ever feel like that? Like you’re supposed to have it all together, but inside it’s just, ” He flicked his fingers, mimicking static.

Ayla’s breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “Yes, ” she admitted, her voice low, almost reluctant. “More often than I’d like.”

Han’s mouth twitched, a ghost of his usual grin. “Guess I’m in good company, then.”

The quiet admission loosened something in his chest. She hadn’t dismissed his fear. She hadn’t painted over it. She’d just… met him in it. Ayla glanced at his chart one last time before resting it gently on the bedside table. “If things keep improving, you could be discharged later today, ” she said, tone carefully even. The words should’ve lifted him. Instead, his fingers tightened around the pen until his knuckles whitened. Discharged. Out there again. The world rushing back in. She noticed. Of course she noticed. And instead of reminding him of schedules or instructions, she simply said, “Leaving doesn’t have to mean rushing.”

For a moment, neither moved. The sterile white room seemed smaller, closer. Han swallowed and closed his notebook, sliding it onto the table beside her clipboard. “You make it sound like I might actually survive this, ” he said lightly, though the weight beneath it was unmistakable.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes but lingered long enough to steady him. “You will.”

Ayla didn’t move to stand, though her notes were already in order, her shift waiting just beyond this room. Instead, she settled a little deeper into the chair, folding one leg discreetly behind the other. The pause stretched longer than necessary, yet neither seemed in a hurry to break it. Han glanced down at his notebook again, flipping absently through pages of scribbles, lyrics half-born, margins filled with doodles. “I used to write in here when I couldn’t sleep, ” he said. His voice was quiet, almost self-conscious. “But now, it’s like… the words just stop. Like I forgot how to be me.”

Ayla tilted her head, studying him. “You haven’t forgotten. You’re just… in between.”

He chuckled, though it lacked its usual sharp edge. “That’s a nice way of saying I’m useless right now.”

Her gaze softened. “It’s not useless to rest. You’re healing. The world outside this room is loud, you need silence before you can face it again.”

He stared at her, blinking, as if the thought had never been given to him before. Then he shook his head, grinning faintly. “You’re too good at this, you know. Saying the right thing.”

“Not always, ” she admitted, her lips quirking. “But I try to be honest.” Something about her tone, steady, unpolished, anchored him. He didn’t realize how tightly his shoulders had been wound until they eased, the tension draining slowly. 

The spell was broken when a knock sounded against the doorframe. A nurse poked her head in. “Dr. Damaur, discharge orders are ready when you are.”

Ayla straightened, standing smoothly. “I’ll be back in a moment, ” she told him.

Han watched her leave, a hollow ache opening quietly in his chest. Discharge meant the end of these steady moments, the soft weight of her presence filling the sterile room. He should’ve been relieved, free, finally, but instead he felt untethered. When she returned, it was with papers in hand and the calm efficiency of routine. “You’ll need follow-up appointments, and someone should keep an eye on you for the next few days, ” she explained, her tone measured as she walked him through medication schedules and restrictions.

Han nodded, half-listening, his mind snagged on the inevitability of goodbye. The door opened again, this time with a familiar voice. “There he is.” Lee Know stepped in, mask tugged below his chin, eyes sweeping over Han critically before softening. “You look less like death. That’s something.”

Han rolled his eyes, though a grin tugged at his mouth. “Good to see you too, hyung.”

Lee Know gave Ayla a polite bow, gratitude clear in his tone. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Ayla inclined her head. “He’s been a cooperative patient, mostly.” Her eyes flickered toward Han briefly, the corner of her mouth almost betraying a smile.

“Mostly, ” Lee Know repeated, dry amusement coloring his voice. “Sounds about right.”

The discharge process moved forward in practiced rhythm: forms signed, IV removed, belongings gathered. Han pulled on his hoodie slowly, each movement deliberate, as though prolonging the inevitable. Lee Know busied himself with the paperwork, giving them a moment’s space without meaning to. Han hesitated, then turned toward Ayla. His heart thumped heavier than it should. “Um… before I go, ” He rubbed the back of his neck, his usual bravado faltering. “Could I… maybe get your number? Just, you know… in case I need advice.” The request hung in the air, tentative, hopeful.

Ayla’s eyes lingered on him, unreadable for a moment. Professional boundaries pressed against the quiet warmth that had built between them. She should’ve refused, reminded him that her role ended here. And yet, the way he looked at her, half-nervous, half-bold, made her hesitate. For a moment, she let herself imagine what it might be like to say yes, what it might mean if she blurred that line. But the weight of her white coat reminded her. Boundaries. Protocol. Professionalism.

Her voice was calm, even, when she finally spoke. “If you have questions about your recovery, the clinic line is available anytime. They’ll make sure you get the answers you need.”

Han’s expression flickered, something close to disappointment, but he caught it quickly, covering it with a crooked smile. “Right. Of course. The clinic line.” His tone teased, but the spark in his eyes dimmed just slightly.

Ayla softened, just enough to meet him halfway. “But I’ll be on rotation there some days. If you come by for follow-up, who knows, we might see each other again.”

That hint, small, cautious, but undeniably there, pulled his grin back into something genuine. “Then I guess I’ll make sure not to miss my checkups.”

Lee Know reappeared at his side, sliding the paperwork into a folder. “Time to go, ” he said firmly, though his sharp eyes flicked between Han and Ayla with quiet curiosity.

Han tugged his hoodie’s hood up, shouldering his bag. He gave Ayla a final glance, one that lingered just long enough to say what words couldn’t. Gratitude. Interest. The spark of something unfinished. “Thanks… for everything, ” he murmured.

Ayla nodded, her expression steady though her chest felt oddly tight. “Take care of yourself.”

And then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor, leaving her standing in the doorway with a clipboard in hand and the faintest echo of possibility trailing after him. For the first time in days, the room felt truly empty.

Chapter Text

The van lurched forward through morning traffic, sunlight glaring off skyscrapers as Seoul rushed awake outside the tinted windows. Inside, Han pressed his forehead to the cool glass, earbuds tucked in, though no music played.

The schedule was already running through his head in sharp bullet points: early radio recording, rehearsal block, stylists waiting with racks of comeback outfits, a music show taping, then late-night practice. It hadn’t even been a week since he left the hospital, but the machine of idol life had swallowed him whole again, relentless and hungry.

His shoulder throbbed faintly with every turn the van made. Ayla had warned him. “Don’t overdo it, give yourself time.” Time was the one thing he didn’t have.

Chan sat across from him, laptop open on his knees, voice low as he talked through arrangements with the manager. Beside him, Felix had dozed off, head tilted back, soft snores barely audible. Everyone looked exhausted, but they knew the drill. They always did.

Han closed his eyes, trying to summon the usual excitement, the rush he was supposed to feel before promotions began. Instead, he found his mind wandering back to the sterile white of hospital walls, the quiet rhythm of machines, and the one presence that had made that world less suffocating, Ayla.

He could still picture the way she’d looked at him, steady, unflinching, not because he was Han Jisung from Stray Kids, but because he was just… him. A boy too restless for his own body, too impatient with his own healing. She had seen straight through the noise.

The manager’s voice cut sharply into his thoughts. “We need you sharp today, Jisung. Don’t push if you can’t keep up, but we can’t reschedule more rehearsals.”

Han forced a nod, sitting up straighter. “I’ll be fine.”

But even as he said it, the echo of Ayla’s voice slipped back in; It’s not useless to rest.

The day stretched long before him, a storm of cameras, choreography, and expectations. Yet beneath it all, he carried a quiet thread of calm, stitched together by a memory of her. And though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, the thought made him want to try just a little harder.

The practice room mirrors stretched wall to wall, reflecting eight bodies moving in unison. The bass pounded through the speakers, rattling the floor with each beat. Sweat already clung to Han’s skin, his hoodie discarded in the corner, his breath uneven as he tried to keep pace.

The choreography was sharp, aggressive, perfect for the comeback concept, but his shoulder burned with every turn, every punch of his arm through the air. He told himself it was fine, that the adrenaline would cover the pain, but his body betrayed him with tiny slips, hesitations in the movements he usually nailed without thought.

“Han, ” Lee Know’s voice cut across the music. The track stopped abruptly as the leader of precision fixed him with a sharp look. “You’re off. Again.”

Han’s jaw tightened. “I’ll get it. Just run it again.”

Chan stepped forward, frowning. “Ji, you’re not fully healed. Don’t push past your limit.”

The words hit a nerve. The limit was the one thing he hated most, walls he couldn’t climb, lines he couldn’t cross. Still, his chest heaved as if admitting the truth through breath alone.

Felix came closer, his tone softer. “Mate, you’re hurting.”

Han didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor, his reflection fractured in the glossy wood. His shoulder screamed in protest, and against the thrum of frustration, another voice threaded through his memory: It’s not useless to rest.

Ayla’s words echoed with startling clarity, as if she were right there in the room with him. Her calm certainty, the way she’d looked at him like it wasn’t weakness to pause, but a kind of strength.

“Take five, ” Chan said firmly, signaling to the sound tech to cut the music for good measure. The other members slumped against the mirrors, reaching for their water bottles.

Han dropped onto the floor, back against the wall, towel hanging loosely around his neck. He pressed his good hand over his shoulder, breathing through the ache. He hated that they were right. He hated even more that a doctor he barely knew, who hadn’t even given him her number, was the one whose words stuck enough to make him hesitate.

But sitting there, watching the others joke quietly in their little break circle, he let himself remember her steady gaze. For a brief moment, the chaos of practice faded, replaced by the stillness of the hospital room where she had reminded him he was more than his performance. And maybe, just maybe, she was right.

The hours blurred together in a haze of camera flashes, stage lights, and half-finished meals eaten between vans and rehearsal rooms. Every time Han thought the day couldn’t stretch further, another obligation appeared, an interview, a soundcheck, a last-minute run-through of choreography.

By the time night fell, his voice was raw from rapping, his body aching in places he hadn’t realized he could bruise. The other members dozed off one by one in the van as they headed back to the dorm, the city lights flickering across their tired faces.

Han leaned against the window, watching neon signs rush past. The pain in his shoulder pulsed steadily, a dull reminder of what he was supposed to protect but kept ignoring. He clenched his jaw, not wanting to admit to anyone, not even to himself, that he was overdoing it. And yet, underneath the exhaustion, there was a thread of calm that refused to unravel.

He thought of Ayla, of the way her voice had steadied him in that too-quiet hospital room, the way her eyes held a mix of compassion and steel that made it impossible to brush her off. She hadn’t treated him like a star or a burden, just… a person who needed to be reminded that rest wasn’t weakness.

The memory lodged itself in his chest, quiet and unshakable. “Don’t overdo it, ” she’d said.

He closed his eyes, letting the hum of the van settle around him. Everyone else slept, the city kept moving, and his world spun too fast. But her voice, her presence, remained like a secret anchor, grounding him when everything else tried to pull him apart.

Tomorrow would be just as full, just as unforgiving. But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel completely lost in it. Because even if he never saw her again, some part of him carried Ayla with him.

Chapter Text

The hospital corridors were quieter at night, but Ayla felt the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders as though the walls themselves carried the hum of every machine, every whispered conversation, every breath that had passed through them.

She signed off on one last chart before slipping into the residents’ lounge, collapsing into the cracked leather chair that had long since lost its cushion. The coffee in her cup was cold, but she drank it anyway, more for habit than taste. Her scrubs carried the faint scent of antiseptic, and her body ached in places she’d stopped noticing.

This was her rhythm, long days, longer nights, patients blurring into one another. But lately, there was one who didn’t blur. Jisung.

She had caught herself thinking of him more than once over the past two days, and the thought unsettled her as much as it lingered. Most patients faded from memory once discharged, faces replaced by new ones, emergencies pushing aside the luxury of reflection. But his stayed. The sound of his laugh, quick and unguarded. The way he had looked at her, sharp curiosity wrapped in a kind of warmth she hadn’t expected.

It wasn’t that he’d crossed boundaries, he hadn’t. If anything, he had been more respectful than most. But there had been a spark, undeniable and inconvenient, that she couldn’t quite shake. Ayla rubbed her eyes, forcing herself back into the moment. “It’s just exhaustion, ” she murmured to herself, the words barely audible. “You’re tired, and he’s… unforgettable. That’s all.”

But even as she said it, her mind replayed the way his expression had softened when she’d steadied him, when she’d told him rest wasn’t useless. There had been something vulnerable in him, something that had made her want to reach past the professional mask she always wore.

She exhaled slowly, setting her coffee aside. Tomorrow would bring new patients, new complications, new hours to survive. And yet, as she finally leaned back and closed her eyes, her thoughts drifted not to the next chart or surgery, but to the boy with restless energy and tired eyes, somewhere out in the chaos of his own world.

For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she wondered if he was pushing himself too hard again. And she hated that she cared.

The morning started before the sun. Ayla tied her hair into a neat bun as she scanned the patient list for her rounds, eyes tracing over diagnoses and updates with mechanical precision. She had learned long ago that the hospital demanded focus from the very first step into the ward.

But even as she moved from room to room, listening to symptoms, adjusting charts, checking vitals, a faint distraction clung to her thoughts.

In one room, a teenager sat propped up in bed, earbuds tucked in, a faint beat leaking from his headphones. Ayla recognized the rhythm instantly, she had heard it once, late at night, when curiosity had led her down the rabbit hole of searching “Han Jisung Stray Kids” on YouTube. She paused just long enough to recognize the track before forcing herself forward, clipboard held tighter than necessary.

Later, while updating notes in the corridor, a nurse wheeled past with a tray, humming under her breath. The melody was unfamiliar at first, until the chorus clicked. It was one of their new songs, the comeback that had been mentioned when the members had visited Jisung in the hospital. Ayla felt her stomach tighten. The hospital had a way of making the outside world feel far away, and yet here it was, brushing against her in snippets of melody.

She shook the thoughts away and moved on.

At noon, she paused by the window of the staff lounge, sipping coffee gone lukewarm. The city stretched beyond the glass, alive in ways she didn’t have time to indulge. Somewhere out there, he was probably caught in that whirlwind again, rehearsals, cameras, the very pace she had seen strain his body. She wondered, unbidden, if he had remembered her words, if he was resting when he could, or if he was pushing until he broke again.

“Long morning?” Dr. Kim, one of the senior residents, dropped into the chair beside her, flashing a tired grin.

Ayla returned a small smile. “When isn’t it?”

They talked briefly about patients and schedules, but her mind wasn’t fully there. She hated the distraction, hated that she could be pulled away from her focus so easily by a memory of one patient among many. Still, when Dr. Kim left, she found herself lingering by the window a little longer, the faintest image of a boy with curious eyes brushing against her thoughts.

She turned back to her charts, reminding herself firmly: boundaries.

But even as she walked the ward, she couldn’t quite silence the echo of music drifting through the halls, reminders of a world that had already reached her through him.

By the time Ayla finished her last round, the corridors had thinned into their evening quiet, the hum of monitors steady and low. Her body carried the familiar heaviness of exhaustion, but her mind, restless, refused to let her drift entirely into the autopilot she relied on at the end of each shift.

She sat at the nurses’ station, finishing the last of her notes. Her pen moved smoothly across the page, her handwriting neat but hurried. She flipped to the next chart without hesitation, until she realized she had written the wrong name in the patient’s line.

“Han, ”

Her breath caught. The ink was faint but undeniable, his name sitting there in her careful script, as though her hand had betrayed what her mind kept circling around.

For a moment she stared at it, then exhaled through her nose, sharp and quiet. With a deliberate line, she crossed the name out, replaced it with the correct one, and pushed the chart aside.

She leaned back, closing her eyes. It was ridiculous. Doctors weren’t supposed to blur patients into their personal lives. She prided herself on boundaries, on discipline, on keeping her emotions firmly locked away where they couldn’t cloud her judgment. And yet here she was, ending her day with the thought of a boy she should have left behind in the discharge papers.

Ayla pressed her lips together, stood, and gathered her things. The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, but the halls were dimmer now, softer. She walked toward the exit, the city lights glowing faintly through the glass doors ahead.

Somewhere beyond those lights, he was already gone from this place, already swallowed back into the life that wasn’t hers to step into.

Still, as she pushed through the doors and into the night air, she couldn’t shake the echo of his laugh in her memory, or the warmth it had left behind. And that, she admitted to herself with a quiet sigh, was exactly the problem.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal room was too bright, too hot, and far too loud. Han’s hoodie clung to his back, sweat dripping down his temple as he fought to keep up with the choreography. The others moved with their usual precision, but his timing slipped once, then again. Chan’s voice cut through the music, calm but pointed: “Take it easy, Ji. Don’t push.”

Han nodded, forcing a grin, but the moment he bent down to catch his breath, a flicker of memory surfaced: the firm steadiness of a doctor’s voice, soft but unwavering. Don’t push your body past its limits. Ayla’s words, spoken in the quiet of a hospital room, rang louder than the bass pounding through the speakers.

He shook his head, straightening again. But by the end of the session, when the ache in his side sharpened with every move, he knew he couldn’t keep ignoring it. The managers noticed too. “Han, let’s get you checked again. Just to be safe.”

He didn’t argue. For once, the thought of returning to the hospital wasn’t a burden, it was something else entirely. His chest tightened, not with dread but with anticipation, a hope he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

The van ride was quiet, the city flashing past in blurred streaks of neon and dusk. Han leaned his head against the window, heart beating faster than he wanted to acknowledge. He told himself it was just about the injury, about being smart for the comeback schedule. But the truth sat heavy in his chest: he wanted to see her again.

The hospital smelled the same as before, clean, sterile, too familiar. The nurse at the desk directed him toward the checkup ward. Han tugged at his mask, adjusting it higher, keeping his head down. His pulse picked up with every step. And then he paused at the corner of the hall, just long enough to catch sight of her.

Ayla, her white coat catching the faint glow of the corridor lights, was speaking with another resident, her posture straight, her expression calm in the way that always seemed to steady the air around her. She hadn’t seen him yet, and for a heartbeat, he simply stood there, caught between relief and nerves, realizing how much he had wanted this without admitting it to himself.

He exhaled, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward. Ayla noticed him as he approached, her gaze flicking up from the chart she held. For a second, something unreadable passed through her eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Mr. Han, ” she greeted evenly, her voice calm, steady. “I wasn’t expecting to see you back so soon.”

Han tugged lightly at the strap of his mask, offering a half-smile that didn’t quite hide his nerves. “Guess I missed this place.” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “Or maybe just the company.”

Her brows arched ever so slightly, though her tone didn’t shift. “Are you having pain?”

He nodded, more serious now. “It’s been… sharper. Especially during rehearsals. I thought I could just push through it, but, ” He lifted a hand, letting it drop. “Didn’t want to take any risks.”

Ayla gave a small nod, motioning him toward an exam room. “You made the right decision.”

Inside, the clinical rhythm took over. She asked him to describe the pain, guided him through a few simple movements, her tone precise, her instructions clear. Han followed obediently, though his gaze often lingered on her rather than the motions. There was something grounding in the way she carried herself, measured, efficient, but never unkind.

When she palpated his side, checking for tenderness, Han winced. Ayla’s hand paused, just for a fraction of a second, then continued with practiced calm.

“It’s not unusual for the area to be sore this soon, ” she said, her voice even, though softer now. “But you do need to ease up. Overexertion could delay healing.”

Han looked at her carefully, trying to read past the professional veneer. “So you’re telling me to slow down?”

Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but the faintest sign of one. “That’s what I’ve been telling you since day one.”

Han let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the table. “You really don’t know how much better it sounds coming from you.”

Ayla met his gaze then, just briefly, before looking back at the notes she was scribbling. “It shouldn’t matter who says it. What matters is that you listen.”

But Han couldn’t help the warmth that spread through him at the thought, that someone cared enough to say it at all, not as a manager or teammate, but as her. “I’ll try, ” he promised, voice low but sincere. “For you.”

She glanced up at that, her expression unreadable once again. For a moment, silence stretched between them, weighted but not uncomfortable. Then Ayla closed the chart with a soft snap.

“I’ll clear you for light activity only, ” she said, returning to her steady professional tone. “But nothing beyond what we discussed. No exceptions.”

Han nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got it. Doctor’s orders.”

And though her face remained calm, Ayla felt a small, unwelcome flutter in her chest as she caught the playful glint in his eyes.

When Han left the exam room, the quiet settled back in like a blanket, thick, sterile, and familiar. Ayla stood for a moment with the chart still in her hands, staring at the notes she’d written. The words blurred slightly, not from fatigue, though she could easily blame it on that.

She exhaled slowly, setting the folder aside. It wasn’t unusual for patients to express gratitude, even affection, after being cared for. Ayla had been trained to accept it with professionalism, to keep the line clear and firm. But there had been something different in the way Han’s eyes had lingered, in the way his words had carried an earnest weight.

For you. The echo of it pressed uncomfortably against her composure, threading warmth through the careful armor she always carried in this place.

A nurse poked her head in, asking about another patient, and Ayla answered swiftly, her voice perfectly steady. She was back in rhythm within seconds, professional, contained, untouchable. But when the door closed again, silence returned, and so did the faintest flicker of that smile, tugging at her lips before she pressed it away.

He was a patient, nothing more. She told herself that as she gathered her papers, as she walked briskly down the hall, as if motion could chase away the thought. And yet, even as she slipped into the hum of the ward, Ayla felt the stubborn flutter return, small, insistent, impossible to ignore.

She pushed it aside. She always did. But this time, it lingered.

Chapter Text

The studio mirrors reflected back the blur of bodies moving in sync, but Han felt half a beat behind. His limbs carried the choreography out of habit, muscle memory doing the heavy lifting while his mind drifted elsewhere, back to the sterile white walls of the hospital, the faint sound of Ayla’s voice as she reminded him, again, to slow down.

“Han, focus, ” Chan’s voice cut across the music, sharp but not unkind. “You’re dragging.”

Han snapped upright, forcing his movements sharper for the last eight counts. The track ended, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing and the squeak of sneakers against the polished floor.

“Sorry, ” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his shirt as if he could hide the heat creeping up his neck.

Lee Know gave him a sideways glance, brow arched. “Your head’s not here.” It wasn’t an accusation, more like an observation. And with Lee Know, observations usually landed uncomfortably close to the truth.

Han forced a grin, reaching for his water bottle. “I’m here. Just… still getting used to moving again.”

But Felix, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his towel draped around his shoulders, tilted his head thoughtfully. “You’re thinking about the doctor again, aren’t you?”

The grin faltered. Han sputtered into his water, coughing as the others looked at him with varying levels of amusement and suspicion. “What, no! I’m not, ” His voice cracked halfway, betraying him.

Lee Know smirked. “That’s a yes.”

Han groaned, burying his face in his towel. The truth was, it was a yes. More than he cared to admit. Every time his side pulled tight with pain, he heard her voice reminding him to take it easy. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the quiet steadiness in her gaze when she’d told him she’d clear him only for light activity. Professional, unwavering, and yet, something about the way she’d said it lingered.

Chan clapped him lightly on the shoulder, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Whatever it is, just don’t let it pull you too far. We need you here, Han.”

Han nodded quickly, but his chest tightened with the weight of it all, the comeback, the expectations, and now this strange, unwelcome flutter that had taken root somewhere deep inside him. He told himself he’d shake it off, that it was nothing. But even as the music started again, his focus slipped, drawn back, again and again, to the memory of Ayla’s voice saying his name.

The break stretched longer than usual, everyone scattered around the studio. Some scrolled on their phones, others stretched silently, lost in their own thoughts. Han sat against the mirrored wall, towel draped around his neck, trying to will his heartbeat back into something steadier.

Felix slid down beside him, close enough that Han felt the brush of his shoulder. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, sipping water. Then, in that low, gentle voice Felix always carried, he said, “You’ve been… different, Ji.”

Han laughed under his breath, shaky. “Different how?”

“Not bad different. Just… distracted. Even when you’re here, you’re somewhere else.” Felix tilted his head, studying him with those open, honest eyes that made lying feel impossible. “Is it because of the hospital?”

Han fiddled with the cap of his bottle, avoiding his gaze. “I mean, getting hurt kind of messes with you. Throws everything off.”

Felix didn’t press right away. He just let the words hang there, patient, like he always did when Han was avoiding something. Finally, he murmured, “It’s not just the injury though, is it?”

Han swallowed, the silence suddenly heavy. He wanted to joke it off, to say something ridiculous and loud enough to throw Felix off the trail. But the words stuck. Because Felix wasn’t wrong. He thought of Ayla’s steady presence, the way her smile had softened the edges of his worst days in that hospital room. How strange it had been to feel so seen, even for a moment.

“Don’t look at me like that, ” Han muttered, tugging the towel over his head to hide.

Felix chuckled softly. “Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

Felix nudged him gently. “I don’t know anything. Just… whoever or whatever it is, if it makes you feel lighter, maybe don’t fight it so hard.”

Han peeked out from under the towel, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You make it sound simple.”

“Doesn’t have to be complicated, ” Felix said, shrugging. Then, with that small, knowing grin of his, he added, “Unless you want it to be.”

Han groaned, shoving at his shoulder. “I hate you sometimes.”

But as the music restarted and they both got to their feet, Han felt something settle, an uneasy truth, maybe, or the slow realization that Felix was right. He was different. And it wasn’t because of the injury, it was because of her.

The bass rattled through the floor as the music picked up again, and the members fell back into formation. Sweat slicked the air, sneakers squeaked against polished wood, and their voices overlapped in laughter and shouts when someone slipped or missed a beat. On the surface, everything was the same. Stray Kids in motion. Eight pieces moving as one.

Han moved with them, sharp where he needed to be, loose when the choreography demanded it. He laughed when Seungmin cracked a joke mid-routine, stumbled when Changbin pulled him into a playful shove, answered without missing a beat when Chan called for focus.

But underneath, he was somewhere else, every tug in his ribs reminded him of her stern voice telling him to slow down. Every quiet beat between songs brought back the echo of her laughter, so rare, but so clear. Even here, in the middle of the chaos that defined his life, she threaded through his thoughts like a soft undercurrent, steady and impossible to shake.

The music ended, and cheers broke out as Chan finally called it for the night. Everyone piled toward the exit, loud and hungry, already arguing about food. Han trailed a step behind, towel slung around his shoulders, his heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with choreography.

It was almost comforting, he thought, to have this secret, this quiet spark that none of the noise could touch. A distraction, maybe. Or maybe something more. And as he followed his members out into the humid night, her name pulsed in the back of his mind, steady as a heartbeat.

Ayla.

Chapter Text

Ayla rarely had time for errands beyond the hospital’s fluorescent walls, but her pantry at home was embarrassingly empty, so, on her first free afternoon in weeks, she ducked into a quiet corner grocery, list in hand, telling herself she’d be in and out within twenty minutes. The store was nearly empty, just the soft hum of refrigerators and the occasional rattle of a cart. She moved quickly down the aisles, scanning shelves, trying to shake off the exhaustion that seemed stitched into her bones. She reached for a carton of soy milk, and just as she pulled it from the shelf, laughter drifted down the aisle, low, warm, familiar. It froze her hand in mid-air.

That voice.

Turning slowly, Ayla’s eyes widened before she could stop herself. Just a few feet away, cap pulled low and mask half-covering his face, was Han Jisung. He was crouched by the snack shelf, holding up two different bags of chips as if it were the most important decision in the world; her pulse stumbled, of all the places. He hadn’t noticed her yet, he was speaking to himself in a playful mutter, something about sweet versus salty, and when he finally looked up, eyes crinkling with recognition above his mask, the spark of surprise mirrored her own.

“Ayla?” His voice was muffled, incredulous, but unmistakably warm. 

Caught between professionalism and the strange flutter in her chest, Ayla gave the smallest, cautious smile. “Dr. Damaur outside her natural habitat, ” she murmured, trying to sound lighter than she felt.

Han’s grin widened behind the mask. He stood, holding both bags as if he’d just been caught doing something mischievous. “And here I thought I was the only one sneaking snacks to survive.”

The moment was ordinary, painfully so, bright grocery lights, shelves stacked with cereal and chips, a cart squeaking in the distance. And yet, standing there, Ayla felt it stretch with quiet tension, the same current she thought she’d shaken off.

Han tipped his head toward the soy milk in Ayla’s hand. “So you’re a soy milk person. That explains the glow.”

Ayla blinked, caught off guard by the teasing, then rolled her eyes. “It explains nothing. It’s for coffee. Black coffee is the only reason I’ve survived residency.”

“Ah, ” he nodded sagely, holding the two chip bags up for her judgment. “So… coffee keeps you alive, and I have to choose which one of these keeps me alive tonight. Sweet chili or sour cream?”

She arched a brow. “That’s hardly a life-or-death decision.”

“For you, maybe, ” Han said, dropping his voice theatrically. “But for me? Critical. This could change the course of history.”

A laugh slipped out before Ayla could stop it. It startled her, laughter that wasn’t half-swallowed by exhaustion or clipped by urgency. Han’s eyes lit up at the sound.

She shook her head. “Sweet chili. Definitely.”

“Bold choice, ” he said, tossing the sour cream bag back on the shelf and placing the winner into his basket with mock solemnity. “You’ve just shaped my destiny.”

They walked down the next aisle together, not quite side by side but close enough to blur the line of accident and intention. Han’s basket clinked with soda cans and instant ramen; Ayla’s with spinach, rice, and yogurt.

“You shop like a doctor, ” Han observed, peering into her basket. “Responsible, balanced. Future of the nation on your shoulders.”

“And you shop like a college student who just moved out, ” Ayla countered.

“Hey, ” he said, feigning offense but grinning all the same. “Snacks are essential to creativity. Half my lyrics are powered by instant noodles.”

She paused, curious despite herself. “You write when you’re not…?” She gestured vaguely, as if to encompass the chaos of idol life she’d glimpsed only through headlines.

“Always, ” Han said, tone softening. “Even if it’s just a few lines on my phone. It’s like, if I don’t, I’ll lose pieces of myself.”

Ayla studied him for a beat, the sincerity cutting through his humor. It was the kind of truth people usually only admitted in fleeting, unguarded moments. She found herself replying more honestly than she intended. “That’s… kind of how medicine feels for me. If I stopped, I’d lose myself too.”

Han looked at her then, like her words had peeled back something he hadn’t expected. The silence stretched, not heavy, just… present. Then a cart squeaked past, breaking the spell, and Ayla cleared her throat. “You should add some real food in there. Vegetables won’t kill you.”

“Debatable, ” Han muttered, but obediently grabbed a bell pepper from the display. “Happy?”

She smiled, just barely. “Getting there.”

They ended up at the checkout side by side, baskets lighter than the unspoken weight between them. Ayla placed her neat stack of groceries on the conveyor belt, vegetables lined up like soldiers, coffee tucked securely at the back. Han’s, by contrast, was a battlefield of snacks and soda. The cashier rang them up, and Han leaned against the counter, studying her in that way he had, like he was memorizing details no one else would notice. When the last item beeped through, Ayla reached for her bag, but Han shifted closer, lowering his voice.

“You know, ” he said casually, almost too casually, “you’re not my doctor anymore.”

Her hand stilled on the strap of her tote. “…Meaning?”

“Meaning, ” he said, fiddling with the receipt in his hand, “there’s no… professional boundary stopping me from asking this again.” He glanced up, boyish grin tugging at his mouth, but his eyes carried something steadier. “Can I have your number?”

Ayla froze, in the fluorescent hum of the store, it felt absurdly intimate, this quiet question from a boy who was supposed to be larger than life, reduced to standing in front of her with too many snack bags and a hopeful smile. Her pulse fluttered, every rational bone in her body told her to say no, to sidestep neatly like she always did. But a part of her, traitorous, curious, hesitated.

She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, choosing caution but unable to mask the faint curve of her lips. “You should focus on your work first, Han Jisung.”

He laughed softly at that, not disappointed so much as… amused. Like he heard the unspoken maybe beneath her refusal. “Fair enough, ” he said, holding the door open for her as they stepped into the cool night air. “But I’m not giving up, you know.”

Ayla shook her head, half-exasperated, half… something else entirely. “Goodnight, mister Han.”

“Goodnight, Doctor, ” he replied, voice dipping warm, as though the title had turned into something personal between them.

They parted ways in the parking lot, her heart tugging strangely as his figure disappeared into the streetlights. She told herself it was nothing, just a coincidence, just a patient she’d once treated. But long after she drove away, she could still hear his voice, teasing, hopeful, impossible to ignore.

Chapter Text

The studio smelled of polished wood and sweat, the sharp tang of energy drinks lingering on the floor. Han stretched, rolling his shoulders, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the night before, the grocery store, the aisle, her laugh.

It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about Ayla outside the hospital walls, but this felt different. Seeing her in the mundane, in a world not defined by monitors and charts, made her… real. Human. Even more magnetic. He pushed himself harder through the first warm-up run, feet pounding the wooden floor, but the rhythm was fractured. Every lift, every step, felt tied to the echo of her voice. He caught himself smiling at nothing, imagining her teasing him about his snack choices.

“Han, focus!” Felix barked suddenly, yanking him from the daydream.

Han blinked, shaking off the distraction. “Yeah, yeah, ” he muttered, but the grin lingered longer than it should have.

He tried to dive into choreography, counting beats with sharp precision, but his energy was split: part of him with the group, part of him wandering down those fluorescent-lit aisles again. Her smile, the way she held herself casually but deliberately, it replayed in his mind.

Lee Know sidled up beside him during a break, eyebrow raised. “You’re… off today. Something on your mind?”

Han shrugged, letting the question hover, indecipherable. “Just… tired, I guess. New energy, too, ” he added with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

As they launched back into practice, Han realized he was smiling more than usual, moving a little lighter. The spark of something unspoken, something that had been ignited in that grocery aisle, followed him in every beat, every lyric, every step. He wasn’t sure if it was distraction or inspiration, but either way, he was alive in a way the long hours of promotions hadn’t yet demanded of him. And deep down, he knew it was because of her.

The studio echoed with the stomps and claps of the members, music blasting through the speakers, sweat glinting on every forehead. Han tried to focus, trying to match the energy of Chan and Lee Know as they drilled the choreography, but his mind kept flicking sideways, back to last night, back to the hum of the grocery lights and the way Ayla’s hair had fallen just so over her shoulder.

Felix caught him spacing out mid-step. “You okay, Han? You keep missing the counts.” He nudged him lightly, but Han waved him off, grinning. “I’m fine. Just… soaking in the vibe, you know?”

Lee Know shot him a sharp look. “Vibe, huh? You mean you’re thinking about something else.” He sidled beside Han “Something’s up, ” He looked at him evaluating. “You’ve got that faraway look again. You’re not injured, so what is it?”

Han shrugged, letting the easy, teasing mask slide back on. “Maybe I just like… imagining a grocery duel.” He gestured vaguely at the snack section in his mind.

Felix laughed, shaking his head. “A grocery duel? That’s… oddly specific.”

Han’s chest warmed at the observation, though he deflected with a snort. “Nah, it’s nothing. Just… someone who can challenge me. Keep me on my toes.”

Chan, always perceptive, leaned in slightly, voice low so only Han could hear over the music. “Keep your head in the game, okay? But I get it. You’ve got something, or someone, shaking things up. Just don’t let it shake the rest of you.”

Han nodded, grateful but only partially reassured. He tried to sink fully into the choreography, but every rhythm, every line of lyrics, every turn carried an invisible thread back to her: the way her hands had held her basket, how her laugh had broken through the monotony of his day.

During a short break, he sat on the edge of the stage platform, fingers drumming against his phone. He tucked it back in his pocket and exhaled slowly, telling himself it was enough to just know she existed outside the hospital, in a world he could almost touch.

When the music started again, Han dove back in, but a small grin stayed plastered on his face. The members noticed, exchanging quick looks, sensing the subtle shift. He was present, more energized, more unpredictable, but underneath, there was that quiet tension, that invisible thread he couldn’t, or didn’t want to, cut.

By the time the first round of practice ended, sweat slick and muscles tight, Han leaned back against the mirrored wall, phone buzzing faintly in his pocket. He didn’t check it. Not yet. Instead, he let the memory of her, the grocery aisle, her teasing, the spark in her eyes, roll over him, like a secret melody he could carry into the chaos of the day.

The final beat of the song echoed off the mirrored walls, leaving the studio in a brief, heavy silence. Sweat ran down Han’s temples, soaking the nape of his neck, but he barely noticed. His body ached in the familiar, rewarding way of a hard practice, yet his mind was elsewhere, anchored stubbornly to one fleeting thought.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, watching the others stretch and chat, voices overlapping in easy camaraderie. Jeongin and Seungmin were laughing over some joke about yesterday’s choreography mishap, Changbin was inspecting his sneakers, and Hyunjin was already planning the next run-through. Han smiled faintly at their energy, the warmth of the group grounding him, but only just. Because beneath that grounding, there was a persistent tug. A quiet, insistent pull that wouldn’t let him focus: Ayla.

His fingers itched near his pocket, his phone silent and useless. He still didn’t have her number, still didn’t have any way to reach her outside those sterile walls. But the thought of waiting? Of letting hours, maybe days, pass without seeing her again? That felt unbearable.

With a decisive breath, he pushed off the wall. “I… need a minute, ” he muttered, ignoring the raised eyebrows around him.

He grabbed his bag and slipped out of the studio, the hallway quiet except for the echo of his own boots on the floor. His steps were unsteady, fueled partly by exhaustion, partly by anticipation. Each step carried a mix of hope and recklessness. By the time he reached the car, he’d made up his mind. He would go back. Not for medical reasons, those were long past, but to see her. To catch a glimpse, to hear her voice, even if it was only for a moment.

He sat behind the wheel, hands gripping the steering wheel as if it could give him courage. His pulse thudded in rhythm with the distant hum of Seoul traffic. It’s just a hospital visit, he told himself, though his chest betrayed the lie with every rapid beat.

Han started the engine, a small, determined smile tugging at his lips. The hospital lights would soon come into view. And this time, he wasn’t just going as a patient. He was going as someone who wanted to see her again, someone willing to take the risk, however small, to chase the spark that refused to die.

Chapter Text

The automatic doors slid open with a soft swoosh, and Han stepped into the hospital lobby, the sterile scent of disinfectant and faint antiseptic immediately enveloping him. His jacket was slung casually over one shoulder, and he clutched a small paper bag from a nearby bakery like a secret weapon. He approached the reception desk, trying to appear nonchalant, though the small jolt in his chest betrayed him.

“Hi… I’d like to see Dr. Damaur, please, ” he said, offering a lopsided grin to the nurse on duty. A few minutes later, the sound of light footsteps echoed down the corridor. Ayla appeared, clipboard in hand, hair tucked neatly behind her ears, and eyes brightening slightly at the sight of him. “Han, ” she said, her tone professional but carrying that subtle warmth he had come to anticipate.

“Hey, ” he replied, shifting the bag from one hand to the other.

“Pain back?” she asked instinctively, glancing at his posture, the slight tension in his shoulders.

Han laughed softly, a sound that carried a mix of mischief and relief. “Nope. No pain at all, ” he said, holding up the bakery bag like a trophy. “I actually… just wanted to bring you something.”

Ayla’s eyebrows lifted, a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Something for me?”

He shrugged, stepping closer, the warmth of his smile making the sterile hallway feel a little less cold. “Yeah. Just… thought you might like it. No strings, no secret agendas. Just… some pastries.”

Her gaze softened as she accepted the bag, fingers brushing his briefly, sending a tiny spark up his arm. “You didn’t have to, ” she said, the corners of her lips tilting upward. “But… thank you. That’s thoughtful.”

Han grinned, letting the silence linger for a beat. “Figured you could use a little sugar for all the brains you’re working, ” he teased lightly, gesturing toward the clipboard she still held.

Ayla chuckled, shaking her head. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Jisung.”

He tilted his head, studying her with that easy curiosity that had become so familiar in these hospital walls. “Not flattery, ” he said quietly. “Just… appreciation.”

She met his gaze, and for a fleeting moment, the corridor seemed to shrink around them, the hum of the hospital fading into background white noise. Ayla set the bag of pastries on the counter of the small consultation room, her fingers brushing against the paper once more as she carefully unpacked a few croissants and scones. “You didn’t have to bring these, ” she said again, though the faint warmth in her voice contradicted her professional tone.

“I know, ” Han replied, leaning against the edge of the counter, arms crossed loosely. “But I thought, maybe… it’d make your shift a little sweeter. Literally.”

She smirked, shaking her head, and reached for a scone. “Well… you might just succeed at that.” She took a small bite, the flake of pastry breaking apart gently between her teeth. Han watched her, the quiet observation familiar to them both now, filled with an ease that didn’t exist on the first day.

“So, ” Han said after a pause, scratching the back of his neck, “I’ve been thinking.” His voice carried that hesitant lilt she had learned to recognize, a prelude to one of his playful admissions.

Ayla raised an eyebrow, eyes still on the pastry. “Thinking can be dangerous, ” she said lightly, though a flicker of anticipation danced in her gaze.

“I was thinking…” he began, then hesitated, his usual confidence faltering slightly. “…I don’t get to see you outside the hospital much, and…” He paused again, trying to catch the right balance between casual and sincere. “I was wondering… if maybe… I could get your number?”

Ayla looked up, eyebrows knitting slightly. “Han… we’ve talked about this.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “I can’t just give it out like that.”

He grinned, unflinching, though the sparkle in his eye was softer, more genuine. “I know. But I figured… third time’s the charm?” He leaned a little closer, elbows resting on the counter now, the scent of freshly baked pastry mixing with the faint antiseptic around them. “No pressure. Just… thought I’d ask again. Maybe you’ll change your mind this time.”

Ayla sighed softly, setting the scone down. She ran a hand over her ponytail, tugging slightly at the loose strands. “Han…” she said quietly, and for the first time, her gaze softened completely. “You’re persistent.”

“Persistent?” he echoed, a teasing tilt to his lips. “I prefer… dedicated.”

Her lips twitched upward despite herself, and for a heartbeat, the professional barrier wavered. “Dedicated, huh?” she murmured. Her eyes studied his, searching, measuring, not the celebrity, not the patient, but him. “You do realize this is… unusual, right? I’m not supposed to get drawn into…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“I know, ” he said softly, his usual playful tone replaced by something quieter, something steady. “But neither of us can pretend there’s no… connection. And I’d rather risk it than not try at all.”

Ayla blinked, feeling the pull in her chest. She wanted to be rational, professional, careful, but she also wanted to acknowledge the spark that had been growing for weeks now. She looked down at the bag again, fingers curling around it, and then back up at him. “I… don’t know, ” she admitted, voice low, almost a whisper. “Maybe… maybe someday. But not today.”

Han’s grin softened, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Fair, ” he said, though his eyes held a quiet hope. “I’ll take someday.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the kind that only existed when familiarity and tension coexisted. Han leaned back against the counter, watching her pack up her clipboard again, and Ayla caught herself lingering on his profile, the subtle curl of his smile, the warmth in his eyes. Neither of them spoke for a moment, letting the unsaid linger like a gentle hum between them. Ayla gathered her clipboard and the empty pastry bag, tucking them neatly under her arm. She adjusted her ponytail once more, the movement precise, deliberate, a small shield she always carried. Han watched her, the quiet weight of unspoken words hanging between them.

“I guess… I should get back to rounds, ” she said finally, her voice careful but not without warmth.

“Rounds, duties, saving lives… all that, ” Han said with a half-smile, leaning casually against the counter, though there was a faint edge of disappointment in his tone. “You’ll be back in here tomorrow, right?”

She hesitated, biting her lip ever so slightly, and for a moment, he thought she might say yes. Instead, she allowed herself a small nod. “Maybe, ” she replied, deliberately vague. Her green eyes flicked up to meet his, soft and fleeting, before she turned to leave.

Han pushed off the counter lightly, walking a few steps toward her. “Then I’ll… see you sometime, ” he said, letting the words hang between them. No pressure, no demand, just a quiet hope.

Ayla paused at the door, glancing back over her shoulder. There was that small spark in his eyes again, the one that had made her heart lurch every time they met. “Someday, Jisung, ” she murmured, almost to herself, before disappearing into the hallway, her steps measured but lighter than usual.

Han stayed by the counter a moment longer, the faint smell of pastry lingering in the air, the hum of the hospital around him. He pressed a hand lightly to the edge of the counter, a small smile playing at his lips. Someday, he thought, letting the word settle in his chest. And I’ll be ready when it comes. The door slid closed behind her, leaving the space between them quiet, tinged with the unspoken promise that neither had the courage, or the reason, to act on yet. But the ember was there, small and persistent, and for the first time in days, Han felt a quiet anticipation that had nothing to do with recovery or schedules, and everything to do with her.

Chapter Text

The early spring air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms that had started to bloom along the park’s winding paths. Han jogged lightly along the paved trail, earbuds tucked in, music muted in favor of the gentle rhythm of his steps. It had been nearly three weeks since he’d last seen Ayla, a stretch that felt both endless and absurdly short in memory. He rounded a bend and paused, water bottle in hand, squinting against the sun. And there she was, Ayla, leaning against the railing of the small bridge that arched over the park’s stream, headphones dangling around her neck, sketchbook in hand. She hadn’t noticed him yet. His heart stuttered in a way that had nothing to do with the run. No, it can’t be… But it was. She was real, here, and not in the fluorescent-lit corridors of the hospital.

“Hey, ” he called softly, unsure if he should approach or just let it be.

She looked up, eyes widening for the briefest moment before recognition settled in, slow and warm. “Jisung?” Her voice carried over the trickle of water, calm but carrying that subtle surprise that always made him grin.

“You look like you stepped out of a sketch, ” he said, nodding toward her sketchbook. “And it looks… impressive.”

Ayla held up the book slightly, a faint blush warming her cheeks. “Thanks. Just doodles. Helps me unwind.”

He stepped closer, keeping the distance respectful but not too distant. “Mind if I…?” He waved toward the bench nearby. “Sit?”

She hesitated, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “Sure. If you promise not to critique my terrible sketches.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, ” he replied, sliding onto the bench, the leather of his jacket warm beneath him. “Though I might steal a few ideas for lyrics. Inspiration, you know?”

They laughed together lightly, a sound that carried a weightless ease neither of them had quite allowed before. After a moment, Han reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, a quick glance at the screen. “By the way… I would be very thankful if you add your number here.” He let the words drop casually, but his chest thumped with hope.

Ayla’s fingers lingered on her sketchbook, eyes flicking up briefly to meet his. “You really are persistent, ” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Okay, okay, you win.” She said reaching for his phone.

“Yes! Finally, ” he said, his grin softening. “I told you, I’m dedicated.”

For a while, they didn’t speak much. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of leaves, the trickle of water below the bridge, and the quiet rhythm of their breathing. And then, as if the universe had paused to let them occupy the same space, they started talking, not about hospitals, injuries, or schedules, but music, favorite foods, absurd childhood memories. The conversation flowed with a natural ease, both careful not to cross boundaries too fast, yet slowly shedding the weight of the formal distance that had once defined them. Han noticed the subtle play of sunlight on her hair, the way her green eyes flicked to the sketches she’d drawn, the quiet intensity with which she noticed the little details around her. Ayla found herself laughing more freely than she had in weeks, a fluttering warmth rising each time he made some small, clever observation or teased her gently about her “discipline.” There was something about him here, outside of hospital walls and flashing cameras, a Han that was wholly unguarded, and entirely captivating; and as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in muted oranges and pinks, the quiet, unspoken anticipation between them settled, palpable and thrilling. Neither rushed, neither pushed, yet the spark, small, persistent, undeniable, lingered, promising that this was only the beginning.

They stood from the bench together, falling into an easy rhythm as they walked along the winding path. The sun filtered through pale green leaves, painting dappled patterns across the stone walkway. Han’s hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets, his usual restless energy tempered by the calm of the park, and by Ayla’s quiet presence beside him.

“So… you actually doodle outside the hospital?” he asked, glancing at her sketchbook. “I always thought you’d be all business, all the time.”

Ayla laughed softly, the sound drifting in the crisp air. “Business… mostly. But life isn’t just about operating rooms and charts. Sometimes you need to create something that’s yours, something that can’t be measured by efficiency or deadlines.”

Han tilted his head, eyes narrowing in mock contemplation. “Measured, huh? Sounds like a very… disciplined chaos.”

She smirked, the playful edge creeping back into her voice. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like to trick people into thinking I’m in control.”

“You’re good at it, ” he said, and there was no teasing in his tone this time, just quiet admiration. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Ayla glanced at him, noting the shift, the subtle seriousness that had replaced his usual banter. “You’re observant, ” she said, almost thoughtfully. “And honest, even when it’s inconvenient.”

Han shrugged, a small, self-conscious smile tugging at his lips. “Guess I learned to notice things… helps when you write songs. Every detail matters.”

She looked up at him, sunlight catching the faint curve of his grin, and felt a flutter she quickly tried to ignore. “Songs… yeah, I remember you saying music is like therapy for you.”

“It is, ” he said, voice quiet now, almost intimate. “Like… when the world’s moving too fast, music’s the one thing I can control. And… when it’s shared with someone who gets it, it feels…” He trailed off, shaking his head with a grin that didn’t quite hide the sincerity in his eyes. “It just feels… right.”

Ayla felt a small warmth creep into her chest, the pull of connection undeniable. “I think I understand, ” she admitted softly. “Music’s… similar for me. Piano, violin… sketches, too. Anything that lets me breathe when life gets too heavy.”

They paused at a small pond, the water reflecting the soft glow of the late afternoon. A group of ducks drifted lazily, ripples distorting their mirrored images. Han leaned slightly on the railing, watching her more than the pond. “You ever… play for someone else?” he asked cautiously, like testing a line in a song.

“Sometimes, ” she said, glancing at him. “But only for people I trust. It’s… personal.”

“I’d… like to hear it someday, ” he said, voice low, careful. “Even just a little. No pressure. I just… think it’d be nice.”

Ayla’s lips curved into a soft smile, one that didn’t fade quickly. “Maybe… someday, ” she echoed, the word lingering in the air, a promise, a tease, a thread connecting them that neither wanted to sever.

Han laughed lightly, shaking his head. “Someday, huh? That seems to be our theme lately.”

She tilted her head, meeting his gaze, green eyes bright and direct. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the pace we’re comfortable with. No rushing. No expectations. Just… now.”

He let the words settle, letting the ease of the moment wrap around him. The air was warm, tinged with blossoms and sunlight, and for once, he didn’t need to plan, push, or control. He just walked beside her, letting the quiet intimacy grow, layer by layer.

As they continued down the path, laughter interspersed with comfortable silences, Han felt the tug of something tender and elusive, friendship, attraction, something in between. He didn’t need to define it yet. For now, the pull of her presence, the subtle brush of her hand against his as they adjusted to step over uneven pavement, was enough.

Ayla, for her part, felt a cautious exhilaration. The boundary lines had shifted, blurred slightly, and she didn’t move them back. Not yet. Not while the sunlight lingered on his hair, the soft warmth of his voice, and the way he made her feel seen without trying.

By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting the park in muted golds and pinks, neither had mentioned leaving. And neither wanted to. The quiet, slow-burning tension between them thrummed with possibility, each moment stretching just long enough to make the next inevitable.

The sky had deepened into bruised purples and soft oranges by the time they reached the edge of the park. Streetlamps flickered on, casting pools of warm light along the path, and the evening air was crisp enough to tug at the edges of their jackets.

Han slowed, hands lingering in his pockets, reluctant to let the walk, and the day, end. “So… this is it?” he asked, voice casual but betraying a subtle hesitance.

Ayla glanced up at him, eyes catching the last of the sunset. “For tonight, ” she said softly. “I have rounds early tomorrow. You know… adult responsibilities.”

“Yeah, yeah, ” he said, though the grin he gave her was lopsided and a little wistful. “I get it. Still…” He hesitated, then, with a shrug that seemed both nervous and bold, reached into his jacket. “I, uh… I have your number now, right? Thought maybe I could text you… sometime. Just… see how you’re doing. No hospital, no charts. Just… you and me.” Ayla blinked, caught off guard by the earnestness in his tone. Her chest fluttered as she considered it, her fingers brushing the strap of her bag. She didn’t answer immediately, letting the moment stretch, feeling the weight of possibility settle around them like the evening haze. Han’s eyes held hers, patient but expectant, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No pressure, ” he added quickly, a little laugh slipping through. “Just… thought I’d ask. Can’t hurt to try, right?”

She let a soft exhale escape, her own smile quiet but genuine. “Right, ” she said finally, slipping a small card from her pocket. “There. But only because you asked nicely… and because I trust you won’t overuse it.”

He took it carefully, like it was a fragile treasure, letting his fingers brush hers for just a moment longer than necessary. “Deal, ” he said, eyes bright, teeth showing in that easy, infuriating grin of his. “I promise. You’ll barely know I exist… except for when I text you.”

Ayla’s laugh was low, almost shy. “We’ll see about that, ” she said, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her amusement, and the flutter she couldn’t quite push away. They lingered for a beat longer, neither moving, savoring the quiet energy between them. The park around them hummed with life slowing down: distant chatter, the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze, the faint honk of a car far off.

Finally, Han tilted his head, reluctant but accepting. “Okay… I guess I’ll see you… later?”

“Yes, ” she replied softly. “Later.”

He stepped back, letting the distance stretch just enough to maintain the tension, but not so much as to break it. She turned toward the street, lifting her bag strap over her shoulder. He watched her go, the card clutched in his hand, a small, private smile tugging at his lips. The slow, simmering pull between them remained, quiet but insistent, like the fading light around them. And as the last colors of the sunset melted into night, Han’s thoughts were already wandering to the next time he’d see her, and the next time the world would slow just enough for them to notice each other again.

Chapter Text

The phone buzzed against Han’s nightstand sometime past midnight, its light spilling a pale glow across his unmade bed. He was sprawled half on top of the blanket, hoodie twisted around his torso, earbuds still dangling from his neck. He blinked awake, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand before reaching for the screen.

Ayla: Didn’t think you’d actually text me first.

A breath caught in his throat, he couldn’t believe that she’d texted first, Han sat up, suddenly wide awake, thumb hovering uncertainly before he typed back.

Ji: Was that… permission to text? Or a trap?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. He could almost picture her pausing, considering, lips pressing together the way they did when she tried not to smile.

Ayla: Depends. What are you planning to say?

He grinned at the screen, thumb moving fast now.

Ji: Something cool. Something clever. Something that won’t make you regret giving me your number.

Ayla: So you’re still thinking.

Han let out a low laugh, falling back onto the mattress. She was teasing him. Actually teasing.

Ji: Okay fine. Wanna grab coffee? Or tea. Or… water? Idk what doctors drink for fun.

His heart thumped in his ears while he waited. The apartment was quiet, Minho was probably sleeping already, the faint hum of the city outside pressing through the walls. When her reply came, it was short, but his grin widened until his cheeks hurt.

Ayla: Coffee. Saturday? There’s a place near the park.

He sat up again, staring at the words until they blurred, just to be sure they were real.

Ji: Saturday. Coffee. Deal.

He added a tiny coffee emoji, then immediately second-guessed it. Too much? Too childish? Before he could overthink further, her read receipt popped up, no reply, just read. He flopped back onto the pillow, phone pressed against his chest, the quiet of the room suddenly too small for the weight of the anticipation curling inside him.

In the next morning, Ayla tugged her coat tighter against the early chill as she walked toward the hospital. Her phone buzzed again, another message.

Ji: Don’t cancel on me. I’ll die.

She stopped on the sidewalk, shaking her head even as a laugh escaped. The absurd drama of it. She typed back quickly, fingers moving before she could second-guess herself.

Ayla: If you die, I’m not resuscitating you.

The three dots blinked.

Ji: Harsh. But fair.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket, the faint smile still tugging at her lips as she entered the hospital’s sliding doors. The building smelled like antiseptic and coffee, just as it always did. But something about this morning felt lighter, stranger. Her steps quickened, though she had no reason to rush.

Saturday crept toward them faster than either expected. Han had thought he’d be cool about it, practice, schedule, sleep, repeat. No big deal. But by Friday night he was pacing his room, trying on hoodies like they were armor. Black? Too safe. Gray? Too tired. The navy one with the frayed cuff? Too much like he didn’t care, when he very much did. Changbin, sprawled on Han’s bed with a bag of chips, watched him with lazy amusement. “Bro. It’s coffee. Not your wedding.”

Han scowled at him in the mirror. “You think this one’s too loud?” He tugged at the hem of the green hoodie. “Like… look at me, I’m desperate loud?”

Changbin crunched a chip, unimpressed. “You are desperate.”

“Hyung!”

Changbin shrugged. “Wear the black. She’s a doctor. She probably doesn’t care.”

That didn’t help. If anything, Han’s nerves only tightened. He wanted her to care. Not about his clothes exactly, but, something, enough to notice, enough to stay.

Ayla wasn’t doing much better. She stood in front of her closet Saturday morning, coffee half-drunk on her nightstand, hair still damp from the shower. Scrubs or coat, that was easy. She’d never had to think about what to wear around Han outside the hospital walls. She pulled on a soft sweater, neutral and safe. Then swapped it for a blouse. Then back to the sweater. She sighed at her reflection. “It’s just coffee, ” she muttered under her breath. Her reflection didn’t look convinced.

The café near the park smelled of roasted beans and warm pastry. Han was already there, fidgeting with a paper sleeve on his cup, ripping it into neat strips he immediately regretted. When Ayla stepped through the door, his head snapped up too quickly. For a second he forgot how to move. She spotted him, offered a small wave, the corners of her mouth lifting in a smile that sent heat crawling up his neck. He shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his cup. “Uh, hey. Hi. You came.”

Her eyebrow arched, amused. “Were you expecting me not to?”

“Yes, no, I mean…” He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Ignore me. I’m broken before coffee.”

Ayla’s smile deepened, the restraint in it softening. She set her bag down and ordered her drink, sliding into the chair across from him. For a moment, they just sat there, the buzz of the café filling the silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it was fragile. Like one wrong word could tip the whole thing into awkwardness.

Han finally blurted, “You look different.”

Her head tilted. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Yes! I mean, you look… good. Like, really good. Not that you didn’t before, but, ” He bit his tongue, staring at the mutilated paper sleeve. “I should stop talking.”

Ayla leaned back, letting out a soft laugh. “Relax, Jisung. I get it.”

Something about the way she said his name, without the formal edge of “Mr. Han, ” without the professional filter, sent a flutter through him he wasn’t ready for. They found their rhythm slowly, clumsy but real. She asked about his schedule, and he pulled faces describing long nights in the practice room. He asked about her patients, and she answered carefully, never betraying anything confidential, but with enough humor that he caught glimpses of her world outside the ward. At one point, he reached for his cup just as she did, their fingers brushing. Too brief to linger, too quick to ignore. Both of them froze, then looked away, hiding behind sips of coffee.

Han’s laugh came out a beat late, shaky. “Wow. Smooth.”

Ayla shook her head, smiling into her cup. The afternoon spilled out golden as they left the café, cups long emptied, sleeves brushing now and then as they fell into step. The park was busy but not loud, children chasing each other across the grass, the occasional bark of a dog, the wind teasing at the branches. Han shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes darting to Ayla every few seconds as though he was trying to memorize how she looked outside the sterile frame of the hospital.

She noticed, of course. “You’re staring.”

He nearly tripped over a crack in the path. “What? No, well, maybe a little. But not, like, creepy staring. More like, ” He winced. “Okay, definitely creepy now.”

Ayla laughed, soft and unguarded, the kind of sound that made him feel like he’d just been let in on a secret. They slowed near a pond, the surface catching the late light. Han picked up a pebble, tossed it half-heartedly, it bounced twice before sinking. “You know, I’m terrible at skipping stones. Felix keeps trying to teach me. Says it’s all in the wrist. I think he just wants an excuse to boss me around.”

Ayla crouched, choosing her own stone. She flicked it clean across the water, three, four skips before it vanished. She glanced up, a grin tugging her mouth. “All in the wrist.”

He clutched his chest, mock wounded. “Okay, rude. And unfairly impressive.”

Their banter carried them around the pond, but under it was something else, slower, heavier. A quiet pulse in the spaces between their words. By the time they reached the park’s edge, the sky was sliding toward dusk. The air carried the chill of evening, and Ayla tugged her sweater closer. Han hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wanted to say something, anything, to anchor the moment, to make sure it didn’t just dissolve into another memory of “almost.”

Instead, he managed, “This was… nice. Really nice.” His voice dropped, almost shy. “I, I don’t get a lot of normal days. You know? Just… walking. Talking. Feels different.”

Ayla’s expression softened, though she looked away quickly, toward the fading light. “I know what you mean.”

For a beat, neither of them moved. The unspoken sat between them, something fragile, not quite ready to be named. Finally, Ayla gave a small nod, her professional composure slipping just enough for warmth to peek through. “We should… do this again sometime.”

Han’s breath caught, but he forced himself to play it cool, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “Yeah. Definitely.”

They lingered in silence a moment longer, like neither wanted to break whatever this was, before Ayla stepped back, offering a little wave.
“Goodnight, Han.”

He echoed it quietly, watching her walk away until she was lost in the crowd. Only then did he let the grin spread across his face, uncontainable, boyish, the kind that carried him all the way home.

Chapter Text

The studio reeked of stale coffee and fried equipment, cords curling across the floor like snakes, monitors glowing against the dim, padded walls. Han had practically lived here the past week, stealing hours between rehearsals and interviews, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin; but today, he bounced into the chair like the space had been waiting for him. His limbs still ached from choreography, his eyes stung from too little sleep, but there was a buzz under his skin he couldn’t shake. Every time he tried, Ayla’s laugh came back to him. The way she’d flicked that stone across the pond, effortless, teasing, and the way she’d said we should do this again sometime. He’d replayed it so many times on the train over that he nearly missed his stop.

“Ji, you good?” Felix leaned over from the soundboard, eyebrow raised. “You look like you just got away with something.”

Han smirked, already spinning his chair toward the keyboard. “Maybe I did.” He pressed a quick run of notes, fingers finding rhythm before thought caught up. The melody had been trailing him since the park, and now it slipped out, a mix of light and restless, like a conversation unfinished.

Felix tilted his head, listening. “That new?”

“Yeah, ” Han said, chewing his lip as he added a counterline. “Just… kinda stuck in my head. Feels like… like catching your breath. Or trying to.”

He didn’t say her name, the music carried it anyway. Hours bled away without notice, layer after layer, beat stitched to melody. Every time fatigue tried to drag him under, he remembered the look in Ayla’s eyes when she’d said I know what you mean, and it pulled him back up. By the time Seungmin poked his head in to complain about the noise, Han’s notebook was already filling with scribbles, half-formed lyrics, lines that leaned dangerously close to confession. He tapped his pen against the page, a grin tugging his mouth. It wasn’t a song yet, but it was something. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted her to hear it someday. Han stared at the page until the words blurred, ink bleeding into nonsense. He leaned back, ran both hands through his hair, and let out a groan loud enough for Felix to snort from the couch.

“You’re overthinking it again, ” Felix said, scrolling lazily through his phone. “Just send it. She’s not gonna bite.”

Han threw a pen cap at him. “Shut up.” But the words stuck anyway.

He glanced at his phone. He’d typed the message twenty minutes ago and never pressed send. Just a voice note icon and a hesitant: Wanna hear something? It felt too small, too obvious, like putting his pulse in her hand. Finally, with a muttered curse, he hit record and let the melody spill out in its roughest form, bare chords, half a hummed line, the beat clumsy where his fingers slipped. He didn’t edit, didn’t polish, just raw. He hit send before he could think better of it. The three dots blinked for what felt like an hour, then her reply came through, soft and low, like she’d found a quiet corner just for him.

Ayla: It’s beautiful. Did you just make this up?

Han grinned at the screen, relief rushing out of him in a laugh.

Ji: Kinda. Started yesterday. But you just made it sound better.

There was a pause, then another message:

Ayla: No, really, Jisung. It feels… honest. Like you’re telling someone a secret, but through music.

His throat tightened. That was exactly it. The thing he never knew how to explain, even to the guys. He switched to a call before he could chicken out. The line clicked, and her voice slipped into his ear, warm and careful. “I didn’t mean to interrupt if you’re working.”

“You’re not.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You, actually, you kind of… unlocked it. Like, the thing I was trying to say but couldn’t write down.”

She laughed softly, a sound he’d swear could tune a room. “That’s funny. Because you just said it.”

Silence hummed between them, not heavy, but charged. He tapped his foot against the floor, restless. “Do you… ever do that? Like, in your work? Feel like you’re saying more than what’s in the chart?”

“All the time, ” she admitted. “Sometimes I think my notes aren’t about blood pressure or pain levels at all. They’re about… the person underneath it.”

Han let that settle. She didn’t have to spell it out. He already heard the echo, how much of himself he buried between beats and lines, hoping someone might catch it.

For the next half-hour, their voices braided through the static of the call: her asking what inspired certain lines, him tossing the questions back, playful, curious. It wasn’t just about the music anymore. It was about finding the rhythm between them. And somewhere in the margins of his notebook, while she spoke about her favorite books and the way she listened to songs while walking home, he scribbled a new line without realizing: She makes the silence sound like a song. The call ended with a soft click, and Han leaned back against the chair, letting out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The quiet of the studio suddenly felt too loud, the hum of the air conditioner and the faint scrape of his pen on paper sharper than before. He stared at the notebook in front of him, the half-finished lyric winking up at him like a secret he couldn’t quite voice aloud: She makes the silence sound like a song.

His fingers hovered over the keys, unsure whether to turn it into a melody tonight or let it sit, waiting for the right moment. Either way, the memory of her voice, the careful cadence, the little laughs, the pause when she was thinking, had taken root in him. It wasn’t just inspiration anymore. It was… her. He tapped the pen lightly against the paper, thinking about the warmth that lingered long after she’d said goodbye. A small smile tugged at his lips. Normally, he thrived on chaos, on noise and deadlines, but tonight, her presence, even through a phone call, left a strange kind of calm.

Han rubbed his eyes, sat up straighter, and muttered to himself, “Gotta finish this… later.”

But even as he turned back to the page, reaching for a new chord, her echo followed him, soft, insistent, impossible to ignore. And somehow, that unfinished song, that fluttering sense of possibility, felt like the beginning of something he didn’t want to rush, but couldn’t wait to see unfold.

Chapter Text

Ayla pressed her forehead lightly against the glass of the small café window, the city’s hum muted behind the pane, her coffee had gone lukewarm ages ago, untouched since she’d scrolled through her phone, replaying the snippets of Han’s voice she’d heard earlier. The melodies clung to her mind, looping in gentle persistence, making her pulse quicken in a way she hadn’t expected. She tried to focus on her own work, patient charts waiting for her notes, research articles open on the tablet beside her, but the words blurred. She couldn’t shake the echo of his laughter, the casual passion he’d exuded over the phone as he described the music he was creating. It wasn’t just talent; it was honesty. Something that peeled back layers she usually kept tightly sealed.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, drafting a reply she hesitated to send. “That melody… it’s beautiful.” It felt insufficient, almost absurd, compared to the raw energy she’d felt just listening. She exhaled, tracing the rim of her coffee cup with her fingertip, and remembered the way he’d tilted his head, eyes bright, when he asked her what music meant to her. Ayla swallowed hard, that question had dug deeper than she’d expected. Music had been her escape for years, a private sanctuary where she could be messy, imperfect, entirely herself; and no one, not colleagues, not friends, not patients, had ever prompted her to articulate it aloud. She tapped her thumb against the table, heart thudding. Could she trust him with that part of herself? The side that felt vulnerable, unstructured, alive in ways that had no place in hospital corridors and surgical scrubs?

Her fingers moved before she could overthink, sending a tentative message: “You make me realize I haven’t really told anyone why I do this… why music matters. It’s… a part of me I don’t often share.”

Almost immediately, her phone buzzed. Han’s reply appeared, and even his words, simple, direct, carried weight. “I want to hear it. Tell me.”

Ayla bit her lip, staring at the screen, letting herself pause in that rare moment of quiet vulnerability. She imagined sitting across from him, speaking without pretense, without the weight of her professional persona. And for the first time in weeks, she felt seen, not as Dr. Damaur, neurosurgery resident, or someone who needed to keep everyone at a distance, but as herself. Her pulse calmed with a soft, cautious excitement. She had no idea how far this connection could go, but for now, letting him in, even a little, felt like stepping onto a bridge she hadn’t realized she wanted to cross.

A soft smile tugged at her lips as she typed back: “Meet me tomorrow? There’s something I want to tell you.”

The message sent, she leaned back, her shoulders finally relaxing. Outside, the world carried on, indifferent and loud; but in that small café, for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to just… be, and she knew, instinctively, that Han would be there to meet her halfway. The next afternoon, Ayla found herself outside the quiet corner of the city park they had agreed on, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat as she scanned the benches. A soft wind tugged at her hair, brushing strands across her face, and she tucked them behind her ear nervously, then she saw him. Han was leaning casually against a lamppost, hoodie half-zipped, earbuds dangling around his neck. The sunlight caught the slight glint in his hair, and for a moment, Ayla’s chest tightened, not from nerves, exactly, but from that familiar, unpredictable pull he always seemed to generate.

“Hey, ” he said softly, stepping toward her, a tentative smile tugging at his lips. “You came.”

“I did, ” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. She tucked her hair behind her ear again, a small gesture of habit, and gestured toward the bench. “Sit?”

He nodded, and they took seats across from one another, the distance between them measured yet strangely intimate. For a beat, neither spoke, just the faint rustle of leaves overhead and the distant hum of the city. Finally, Han broke the silence. “So… this thing you wanted to tell me?” His tone was casual, but his eyes were attentive, patient, waiting.

Ayla hesitated, tracing her thumb along the edge of the bench, feeling the texture of the wood. “It’s… it’s personal, ” she began softly. “I don’t usually… open up like this.”

“I know, ” he said, leaning back slightly, voice low. “You don’t have to. But I want you to.” His words were simple, unpressured, and it made the lump in her throat loosen just a little.

She drew a deep breath. “Music. It’s… it’s always been my escape. My way of thinking through things. When the hospital gets overwhelming, or when I feel trapped in schedules, I play. I play, and it’s like… I can breathe again. I’m not Dr. Damaur, I’m not anyone’s expectations, I’m just… me.”

Han’s gaze softened, his lips curving slightly as he absorbed her words. “I get that, ” he said, almost reverently. “When I write or rap, it’s the same for me. It’s the one place where I can be honest without… I don’t know… filters. Where it’s just raw, just me.”

Ayla looked up, meeting his eyes, noticing the subtle intensity there, the vulnerability he didn’t often show in the studio or on stage. “I didn’t expect you to understand, ” she admitted quietly.

He shrugged, a small, lopsided smile. “I’m not sure anyone does, completely. But I can see it in you. The way you talk about it… it matters. It matters to you.”

She felt a small swell of emotion, a warmth that wasn’t entirely comfortable but wasn’t unpleasant either. “It does, ” she whispered. “And… I’ve never really let anyone hear about it like this before.”

Han leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, voice gentle. “I’m glad you’re letting me.” His sincerity carried weight, and for the first time in a long while, Ayla felt that she could just… exist without defense.

For a moment, the world contracted to the space between them, the faint scent of autumn leaves, the warmth of sunlight on her face, the subtle tension of shared breaths. Words came slower now, not rushing, allowing silences to settle comfortably.

“You know, ” Han said after a pause, “there’s something brave about letting someone see that part of you. I think… I think it makes everything else worth it.”

Ayla felt the words land like a soft touch. “Brave, ” she repeated, almost to herself. “Maybe I needed to hear that.”

They sat like that for several minutes, exchanging small smiles, fleeting glances, the kind of connection that didn’t require dramatics or declarations, just presence. And in that presence, the slow-burn between them thickened, tangible in the way their eyes lingered, in the quiet leaning toward one another, in the unspoken understanding that this was more than friendship, though neither had yet named it aloud.

Han finally exhaled, leaning back and scratching the back of his neck. “I’m glad we did this, ” he said softly. “Even if it’s… a little nerve-wracking.”

Ayla’s lips curved in a genuine, small smile. “Me too, ” she said, her voice warm, carrying the weight of trust and curiosity, and as she tucked her hair behind her ear again, she realized that this moment, the subtle intimacy, the shared vulnerability, was just the beginning. The sunlight had shifted, the golden glow softening into a cooler afternoon hue, when Ayla finally stood, brushing imaginary dust from her coat. She lingered a moment, unsure how to navigate the sudden quiet that had fallen between them. Han’s gaze followed her every move, steady but gentle, the way he always seemed to anchor her without trying.

“I should go, ” she said softly, her voice deliberate but carrying the slightest tremor of reluctance.

Han’s lips curved in a small, teasing smirk, though his eyes betrayed the same quiet hesitation she felt. “Yeah… I guess we should.” He shifted, leaning casually against the lamppost, the faint tension in his shoulders belying the ease of his stance. “But… I don’t really want this to end.”

Ayla swallowed, feeling the flutter she’d been pushing away all afternoon. “It doesn’t have to, ” she said, careful, measured. “We… we’ll see each other again. Soon.”

He tilted his head, a small, playful glint in his eyes, masking the genuine warmth underneath. “Soon, huh? That’s… reassuring.” His voice dropped slightly, quieter, more intimate, as though testing the boundaries between them. “I mean, I don’t usually get this nervous around people I like.”

Ayla caught her breath, her pulse picking up. “And you don’t usually meet people who…” She paused, realizing how close she was to admitting something she wasn’t ready to voice. “…who matter.” She left the words unsaid, letting the silence speak.

For a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other, eyes locking, unspoken understanding bridging the distance, the air between them charged with a delicate tension neither wanted to fully name yet.

Han finally exhaled, a low, soft sound, and offered a small nod. “Alright… I’ll let you go, for now. But don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily.”

Ayla allowed herself a fleeting smile, her chest warm despite the chill in the air. “I’ll hold you to that, ” she said, her tone light, teasing, but her eyes lingered on him a second longer than necessary.

She turned, walking toward the park’s exit, feeling the pull of his presence with every step. Han stayed for a moment longer, watching her retreating figure, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, mind racing with possibilities he didn’t yet dare voice. As she reached the edge of the path, Ayla glanced back once. Han was still there, quiet, grounded, and somehow impossibly familiar in his unpredictability. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, long enough to make her heart skip, short enough to leave the future dangling between them, and in that shared glance, both felt it: the spark wasn’t extinguished. It was smoldering, patient, waiting for the next moment when chance, or choice, would let it ignite.

Ayla pushed the thought aside, letting her steps carry her forward, but her mind lingered stubbornly, and even as she disappeared from view, Han’s quiet smile remained, a secret promise of the moments yet to come.

Chapter Text

The airport hummed with a relentless energy that matched Han’s racing thoughts. Rolling suitcases clattered against polished floors, announcements echoed over loudspeakers, and fans swirled in clusters beyond security checkpoints, their chants like a distant tide he couldn’t quite tune out. He maneuvered through it all with practiced ease, yet even amidst the chaos of luggage, check-ins, and photo flashes, his mind kept drifting to her. The memory of her smile lingered at the edge of every interaction, the curve of her lips, the tilt of her head when she listened, the quiet steadiness she brought into his world. The fleeting moments they’d shared outside the hospital had left him wired in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t just attraction, it was… grounding, like she’d quietly threaded herself into the rhythm of his thoughts.

“Jisung! Hey, earth to Han, ” Felix’s voice broke through, snapping him out of the haze.

Han blinked, forcing a grin. “Sorry… just thinking.”

“Again?” Felix nudged him gently, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve got rehearsals tomorrow, a press conference, and then two flights in a row. You thinking about the doctor again?”

Han’s shoulders tightened, and he let out a low laugh, a little embarrassed. “Maybe. But it’s… not a bad thing.”

Felix smirked knowingly but didn’t press further. “Just… make sure she doesn’t show up on your Instagram live or something. Can’t have fans knowing about this ‘secret anchor’ of yours.”

Han chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, she wouldn’t want that.”

The group gathered at the gate, boarding passes in hand. Chan was already double-checking schedules on his phone, Seungmin and Lee Know trading a few last-minute jokes, Hyunjin fussing with his backpack like he’d forgotten something important. Han moved with them, part of the machine of Stray Kids’ nonstop schedule, yet a part of him remained tethered to quiet park walks, coffee cups, and the soft spark in Ayla’s eyes. As they lined up to board the flight to Japan, the subtle hum of anticipation mixed with exhaustion, and Han exhaled, letting the noise of the crowd wash over him. He could feel the distance growing between the world of schedules, promotions, and cameras, and the moments he’d carved out with her. It was frustrating, bittersweet, but it was real; and somewhere between announcements for boarding and the shuffle of passengers, Han smiled to himself, fingers tightening slightly on the strap of his bag. No matter how hectic, how relentless the schedule, there was a tether he refused to let go of. It wasn’t just a thought anymore. It was a pull. A quiet, insistent pull he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ignore.

The studio lights were harsh, the polished floors gleaming like glass, and Han moved through the choreography with the precision that had become second nature. Each beat of the music synchronized with his body, each movement drilled and rehearsed a hundred times over. Yet, even as he executed spins and leaps flawlessly, his thumb itched against the screen of his phone, a short message, a quick check. He slid his phone from his pocket during a brief break between takes and typed, then deleted, then typed again.

“Coffee still your thing, or has that been replaced by chaos in hospital corridors?”

He stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send. It was playful, teasing, but beneath it lay everything he wasn’t saying aloud: he wanted to see her, to hear her laugh, to steal just a few minutes of the calm she seemed to carry effortlessly. Minutes later, a small ping lit up his screen.

“Chaos hasn’t changed. Coffee remains sacred. Don’t get lost in your own chaos, Han.”

A grin spread across his face. Her words were gentle, yet sharp in the way that reminded him she could cut through the noise of his life with just a few syllables. He tucked the phone back into his pocket and returned to practice, the corners of his lips still lifted, the rhythm of her presence threading itself invisibly through every movement. Between interviews, autograph sessions, and quick photo calls, his mind wandered to the little things, her laugh, the way she adjusted the blanket over him in the hospital, the faint scent of her perfume he thought he could still remember. Each moment, however fleeting, felt like a tether to another world, a softer one, removed from cameras and screaming fans.

Even Jeongin noticed, nudging him subtly between takes. “You’ve got that look again, ” he murmured, just loud enough for Han to hear. “The one where you’re somewhere else.”

Han chuckled, a little embarrassed, shrugging. “Just… thinking.”

“About work?” Innie teased.

Han shook his head, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips. “Nope. Not work.”

As rehearsals continued, the adrenaline from the performance mingled with the quiet, persistent pull of her presence. In the quiet moments between stages, he stole glances at his phone, rereading her message, imagining what she might be doing right now, wondering if she thought of him in the same small, persistent way he thought of her. By the time the day’s final press conference wrapped, Han felt exhausted in a way that was physical and emotional. The applause, the cameras, the rehearsed smiles, all of it blurred into a haze. Yet underneath that fatigue was a warmth that refused to dissipate: the memory of Ayla’s words, her laugh, the subtle way she had begun to occupy a space in his private thoughts, a small quiet in the middle of chaos; and as he slid into the van with the rest of the members, heading toward the hotel for another sleepless night of schedules and rehearsals, he couldn’t help but glance at his phone one more time. A quiet hope flickered, maybe tomorrow, he’d get another message. Maybe tomorrow, he’d find a way to carve out a moment for her again. In the whirlwind of Stray Kids’ world, the chaos of cameras and deadlines, that tiny tether to Ayla was a lifeline he clung to, invisible to everyone else but intensely, stubbornly real to him.

By the time the final lights dimmed in the hotel room, Han sank onto the edge of the bed, muscles protesting and voice hoarse from a day of non-stop interviews, rehearsals, and performances. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and lingering air conditioning, a stark contrast to the chaos of the stage and streets below. He let out a long, slow exhale, shoulders sagging, eyes fixed on the phone lying on the nightstand. The screen glowed softly, a message from Ayla, brief and familiar: “Don’t forget to breathe and take care of yourself, Ji. Even in chaos.”

He smiled, almost foolishly, fingers brushing over the words as if he could trace her presence through the tiny device. The exhaustion that pressed down on him physically seemed lighter somehow, softened by the thought of her, by the quiet care embedded in her message. His thoughts wandered to her laughter, the way she tilted her head when she questioned him, the subtle firmness beneath her gentleness. Even now, halfway across the world, her voice echoed in his mind, grounding him in a way nothing else could. He let himself linger in that warmth, letting it settle over the tension coiling in his chest.

Han’s hand hovered over the phone, tempted to reply immediately, but he resisted, letting the anticipation stretch just a little longer. He typed a few words, erased them, typed again, then finally set the phone aside. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow he would find a way to carve out a moment for her, between promotions, between rehearsals, between everything else. He leaned back against the pillows, eyes tracing the ceiling, and let the quiet settle around him. The city hummed faintly outside, distant and alive, but inside this small room, in the stillness of exhaustion, Han held onto a secret tether, a presence that was hers, and yet entirely his own.

Sleep hovered at the edges, beckoning, and he let it inch closer, the weight of the day softening under the thought of her. In the endless churn of schedules and cameras, her quiet insistence lingered like a lifeline, steady, subtle, and impossibly magnetic. Even when he finally closed his eyes, Ayla’s presence was there, anchoring him, calling him back to something softer, something real. And in that quiet, exhausted moment, Han realized that no matter how chaotic the world outside became, that tether would follow him, persistent, delicate, and utterly unshakable.

Chapter Text

The hum of the plane engines pressed against Han’s chest, a low, steady vibration that felt almost comforting amidst the chaos of travel. Japan had been a whirlwind, interviews, rehearsals, fan events, but now America awaited, a fresh stretch of time zones, flashing cameras, and unrelenting schedules. Han sank into the narrow aisle seat, tray table up, earbuds in, trying to carve a small pocket of focus out of the storm. The city lights below blurred into streaks as the plane ascended, a reminder of just how far he was from home, or, more accurately, from the small anchor he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about. Ayla’s messages had been brief, careful, teasing in that understated way she had perfected. He’d replied when he could, but with the twelve-hour time difference, the pauses between texts stretched longer than usual, leaving him restless and unusually aware of her absence.

Minho slid into the seat across from him, eyes sharp, noticing immediately the distraction etched in Han’s posture. “You’ve been… off, ” Minho said, voice low, careful. “Even in Japan, you weren’t yourself. And now, you’re all… spacey.”

Han smirked faintly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Jet lag, ” he said quickly. “Interviews. You know the usual chaos.”

Minho didn’t look convinced. He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing with that familiar, piercing concern. “It’s not just that, Ji. I know you. I’ve seen how you get when something, or someone, gets under your skin. Don’t even try to hide it from me.”

Han let out a short laugh, nervous and unconvincing. “You sound like you’re reading my mind, Minho.”

Minho’s gaze softened, a rare vulnerability shining through the usual sharpness. “Maybe I am, ” he said quietly, leaning forward. “Because I know you, jagi. I know how you carry things, how you hold back, how you linger on stuff. I can tell when it’s messing with you. And right now, I know you’re thinking about her.”

Han froze, earbuds slipping from his ears. “How, ” he started, but Minho cut him off gently, holding up a hand.

“I’ve seen it, ” Minho said, voice low, earnest. “You’re distracted. Your energy’s… different. There’s someone who matters to you, and you’re letting it seep into everything else.”

Han’s throat tightened, a mix of embarrassment and something softer pressing in. “It’s… complicated, ” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying to balance everything, the group, the schedule… and her. I don’t even know how to fit her into all of it.”

Minho leaned back, sighing, the edges of a rare smile curling on his lips. “Ji, you don’t have to figure it all out alone. But you also can’t ignore it. I know you better than anyone, and if she’s important… you’re going to make mistakes, you’re going to stumble, but you’ll never forget her. And that’s okay.”

Han stared out the window at the clouds racing past, the city lights fading beneath them. Minho’s words echoed in his head, the soft certainty of a soulmate’s understanding wrapping around him. “I just…” he started again, then shook his head, letting the rest remain unspoken.

Minho’s hand landed briefly on his shoulder, grounding. “I get it, ” he said. “Just… don’t lose yourself in the chaos. Remember who you are, and who you care about.”

Han nodded slowly, the weight of the schedule ahead pressing down, but also something lighter, steadier settling in his chest. He could carry the chaos, the jet lag, the constant whirlwind, but Minho’s words reminded him of the anchor he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let go of. Outside the plane window, the horizon stretched endlessly. Han closed his eyes for a moment, feeling both the pull of the miles between him and Ayla, and the quiet tether that bound him to her across time zones, interviews, and hotel rooms.

The streets of New York blurred past the tinted windows of the van, a dizzying patchwork of lights, honking taxis, and pedestrians weaving around one another like currents in a river. Han’s hands tapped idly against his thigh, the phone in his palm a fragile lifeline to something that wasn’t chaos, something that wasn’t a schedule shoved into hours of rehearsals, interviews, and photo shoots.

He stole a few moments between stops to glance at the messages from Ayla. A simple question: “How’s New York?” but even that small thread made his chest tighten, made him grin despite the exhaustion pressing at his bones. He thumbed a quick reply: “Crazy. Crowds, lights, noise. Missing something calmer… like coffee with you.”

A soft vibration signaled her response almost immediately: “You think you’re funny. Don’t let them overwork you.”

Han smirked, leaning back against the seat. That one sentence, clinical and warm at once, lingered in his mind far longer than it should have. He typed a reply, paused, deleted, started again: “I’ll try. Promise. But I’m… distracted. You might be to blame.”

The phone went silent before he sent it, he didn’t want to seem too eager, didn’t want to break the careful balance he’d been holding all day. Yet even unsent, the words hummed in his chest, a quiet pulse amid the relentless noise of his life as an idol.

Practice in the studio was relentless. The mirrors reflected exhaustion back at him in angles he wasn’t ready to face: sweat streaking his hairline, muscles screaming from repeated choreography, but his mind was elsewhere, tracing the curve of her smile, the soft tilt of her head when she’d laugh at one of his jokes, the way she had listened to him talk about music like she really heard him.

Hyunjin caught his distracted expressions mid-spin. “Hey, Han, ” he called over the blaring music. “You okay? You’re zoning out more than usual.”

“I’m fine, ” Han said quickly, a little too sharp. He adjusted his cap, pretending to focus on the mirrored reflections, on the steps, on the beat, anything but the flutter of anticipation he felt every time a message from Ayla pinged into his phone.

During a short water break, he crouched against the studio wall, phone pressed against his thigh as he read her reply: “Careful. Don’t make me scold you through text.”

He chuckled softly, low enough for only himself to hear. That tone, careful, teasing, grounded, was a tether to something tangible, something that reminded him he existed outside the whirlwind of tour schedules and flashing cameras. A spark he hadn’t realized had been smoldering all week flared quietly in his chest.

In between takes, he drafted a longer message: “I know I shouldn’t distract myself, but… I keep thinking about the last coffee. The park. You.” He paused, pressed the send button, and immediately felt the familiar, stomach-tight nervousness. Will she reply? Did I sound too bold?

Minutes crawled by as he continued rehearsing, the choreography blurring with the pulse of anticipation from his phone. And then a small vibration: her reply: “Bold. But I’m listening.”

Han’s grin was automatic, a rare flare of relief and delight, even as the music boomed and the room moved around him. A flicker of warmth anchored him amidst the chaos, reminding him that somewhere beyond interviews and promotions, someone was quietly aware of him, waiting, and perhaps, caring.

Later, in a quieter corner of the studio, he scrawled out lyric notes, pausing mid-line to type another message: “Even here, it’s… you. I don’t know how to explain it, but…” His thumb hovered over send, and then he laughed softly, muttering to himself, “…maybe I don’t need to.”

And in the rhythm of the studio, between mirrored reflections, rehearsed smiles, and repeated steps, Ayla’s presence lingered like a steady pulse, soft, insistent, grounding him in a way the city lights, the cameras, and the schedules never could.

The city outside the hotel window had quieted, the usual hum of horns and chatter replaced by the occasional wail of a distant siren. Han leaned back against the headboard, muscles still aching from the day, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool air of the room. His phone rested on the nightstand, screen dark, but the memory of her messages lingered in the corner of his mind, soft and unyielding. He stretched, shoulders stiff, and let out a long breath, the kind that carries both exhaustion and a faint, unnameable satisfaction. The hotel room smelled faintly of stale coffee and air conditioning, yet somehow it felt more grounded than any backstage, any city street, any mirrored studio he’d been trapped in today. It wasn’t the quiet itself, he was rarely alone, but the sense that somewhere, someone knew him. Not just the idol on stage, not the boy in the studio rehearsing, but Han, with his mess and his chaos and his lingering stubbornness.

Her words from earlier flickered in his mind again, teasing, grounding, careful yet intimate: “Bold. But I’m listening.” He smiled despite himself, feeling a small warmth creep through the fatigue pressing at his chest. She wasn’t here, but she had a presence that somehow outshone the glaring lights, the endless promotions, the exhaustion of another packed schedule.

He rolled onto his side, phone still at arm’s reach, thumb hovering over the screen, debating whether to send another half-formed thought. Instead, he let it sit. Let the quiet linger. Let the spark grow slowly, without forcing it, without rushing the tether that was forming between them. Outside, the city slept, unaware of the little anchor that kept a boy in New York steadier than any schedule, any performance, any expectation. Han’s eyes closed, the exhaustion finally overtaking him, but beneath it, the pulse of anticipation hummed quietly. Tomorrow, more interviews, more promotions, more chaos. But tonight… tonight, there was Ayla. And that was enough to carry him forward.

Chapter Text

The plane touched down in Incheon just as dawn bled into the sky, pale streaks of orange and gray smearing across the horizon. Han rubbed at his eyes, the dry sting of recycled cabin air clinging to him, his head heavy from the kind of sleep that never really rested. The other members shuffled around him in various states of half-consciousness; Felix with his hood up and headphones on, Chan already scrolling through the next day’s notes, Minho leaning back with a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the morning. Han should’ve felt relief at being home, even if only briefly before the next leg of promotions. Instead, he carried an ache that wasn’t only from jet lag. A hollow tug, subtle but persistent, like a question he hadn’t figured out how to answer.

The terminal smelled faintly of coffee and floor polish, the usual murmur of travelers blending with the occasional camera shutter. Sunglasses shielded most of his face, but he kept his head low anyway, following the group out into the familiar rhythm of managers, cars, schedules. Back in the van, pressed against the window, Han let the city slide by in blurs of neon fading into morning haze. His phone buzzed once, nothing urgent, just a calendar reminder, but it was enough to make him unlock the screen. For a beat, his thumb hovered over Ayla’s name in their message thread. He hadn’t sent her anything since New York last night. A tiny hesitation pooled in his chest, but the need to hear from her pressed harder than the exhaustion.

He typed quickly: Back in Seoul. Running on zero sleep but thought you should know, didn’t get lost in America after all.

He stared at the words longer than he should have, lips quirking faintly before hitting send. The van jostled over a bump in the road, pulling him back into the noise of the day ahead. There was rehearsal, a live broadcast, a meeting about the comeback stages, all lined up neatly, each one demanding more than he had left to give. Yet, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the weight of expectation, there was that thread, the quiet certainty that somewhere, on the other side of the city, she might read his message and smile. That thought, fragile and unspoken, steadied him more than coffee ever could. 

The dance practice was brutal in its honesty, bright fluorescent lights, mirrored walls that reflected every flaw, every stumble, every slip of timing. Han’s shirt clung damply to his back, his legs heavy with travel fatigue, but the music didn’t care. The beat thundered through the speakers, merciless in its pace.

“Again, ” Chan called, clapping his hands together, voice sharp with focus.

Han exhaled hard and reset his stance, ignoring the ache in his shoulder where the old injury still whispered. His body moved on muscle memory, but his mind strayed. Somewhere between the first chorus and the bridge, he caught himself picturing the park where he and Ayla had walked weeks ago, the tilt of her head when she’d listened more than spoken. He faltered half a beat late, nearly colliding with Seungmin.

“Hyung, ” Seungmin muttered, eyebrows pinched. “You’re behind.”

“Yeah, I know, ” Han puffed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He forced a grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

They reset again. Han powered through the next run, sharper this time, though each stomp of his sneakers on the polished floor sent a jolt up his tired calves. By the time the music cut, he was bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

“You good?” Felix asked softly, crouching beside him with a water bottle extended. His voice carried no judgment, just concern.

“Yeah.” Han gulped the water, throat raw, forcing a smile. “Just… body’s still on American time.”

Felix hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t press. When Chan called for a break, Han sank into the corner of the room, back against the cool mirror. He unlocked his phone, screen glowing too brightly against the sweat-slick dimness of rehearsal. No new messages. His lips pursed, then softened into a private smirk as he typed quickly, thumbs stumbling with urgency:

Long day already. Don’t suppose you’d want to rescue me later? Coffee? Food? Even five minutes of not being in this building?

He hesitated before sending, thumb hovering, then hit the button and shoved the phone face-down on his thigh like it might burn him. The room buzzed with idle chatter, Changbin pacing, mumbling new lyric drafts under his breath; Hyunjin stretching in impossible angles, headphones on. Han’s chest rose and fell, slower now, though his heart beat a little faster for reasons no one else in the room would guess. Han checked his phone three times during break, four more while running choreography again, each vibration of a group chat or staff reminder a letdown. By the time Chan finally dismissed them for the night, Han’s legs were trembling from overuse and his mood had sunk somewhere in his chest. He pulled his hoodie over damp hair and slung his bag over his shoulder, resigned to going back to an empty dorm bed. Then the buzz came. He froze in the hallway, members brushing past him toward the van. His hand hovered before flipping the phone over.

Ayla: Five minutes. Outside the café by the hospital. I can’t stay long.

His mouth tugged into an involuntary grin so wide Minho glanced at him sideways. “What?”

“Nothing, ” Han said too fast, ducking his head. “See you back at the dorm.”

Before anyone could question, he peeled off in the opposite direction, heart hammering with a kind of nervous energy practice never gave him.

The café lights were low, most chairs stacked for closing. Ayla stood by the window, hair tucked behind her ear, a cardigan wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She looked tired, shadows under her eyes, her posture half-slouched, but when she spotted him jogging across the street, something like amusement softened her face.

“You look like you just sprinted a marathon, ” she said as he skidded to a stop, breath fogging in the cool night air.

“Kind of did, ” he admitted, cheeks flushed more from nerves than the run. “Didn’t want to waste the five minutes.”

She shook her head, lips twitching. “You’re ridiculous.”

They stood there, neither quite reaching for the door, the hum of traffic filling the silence. Han shoved his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight, then nodded toward the bench a few steps down. She followed without a word. The city moved around them, neon signs buzzing, a bus braking with a hiss, but the bench carved out a pocket of quiet. He tilted his head back, exhaling.

“I thought you wouldn’t reply, ” he said, voice low.

“I almost didn’t.” Ayla’s fingers traced the seam of her sleeve. “Long shift. My brain’s mush.” A pause. “But I guess… I wanted to see you too.” The words hung there, more than he expected, less than he wanted, enough to make his pulse stumble. He turned slightly, searching her face, but she was already glancing at her watch. “I really should go, ” she murmured, rising before he could answer.

Han stood too, caught between disappointment and gratitude. He managed a small smile, lifting a hand in a half-wave. “Thanks for coming, even for a minute.”

She gave him a look, soft, fleeting, dangerous in its warmth, and then she was gone, cardigan catching in the night breeze as she crossed back toward the hospital. Han stayed rooted on the bench a moment longer, breath slow, chest heavy with the mix of exhaustion and something sharper, something that had nothing to do with practice. He finally sat again, pulling out his phone, and typed a single unsent draft: Five minutes were enough.

He stared at it, backspaced, and shoved the phone away. The night was loud, but inside him, her presence lingered quiet and sure.

Chapter Text

The night air clung cool and sharp against Ayla’s skin as she crossed the street back toward the hospital. She tugged her cardigan tighter, not because of the breeze but because of the knot in her chest. Five minutes. That was all she’d promised herself, five minutes stolen from her exhaustion, from the mess of charts and alarms and too-bright hallways. And yet those five minutes had stretched inside her longer than her entire twelve-hour shift. Han’s grin when he appeared, hoodie crooked, hair damp, chest heaving like he’d sprinted across half the city, was lodged in her mind. Ridiculous, she’d called him, but the truth was, his ridiculousness made her smile even as she walked away. Made her stomach twist now, in a way she wasn’t used to.

Inside the hospital lobby, the fluorescent lights seemed harsher than usual. A pair of nurses waved at her as she passed, one of them joking about how Ayla never really left the building. She forced a small laugh, but her thoughts had already slipped outside again, to the bench, the streetlight flickering above, the way his voice had gone quiet when he said he thought she wouldn’t reply. Ayla reached the staff lounge, tossed her bag onto the couch, and sat heavily beside it. She should be charting her notes, closing the day clean, preparing for the next round of patients. Instead, her hands hovered uselessly, her body drained while her mind replayed his words, his awkward shifting, the way his gratitude had sounded raw, almost boyish. She pressed her palms to her eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Patients were patients, even when they weren’t anymore. Even when they showed up outside the café with a bag of energy bigger than their frame. Still, beneath the fatigue, a thought flickered: maybe five minutes weren’t nearly enough.

The ward felt heavier than usual that night. Every monitor beep seemed sharper, every call light a little more insistent. Ayla moved between patients on autopilot, her chart clipped against her arm, her voice practiced and calm. Yet under it all, her pulse carried that restless staccato from earlier, the echo of Han’s crooked grin, his almost-apology for intruding on her evening. Halfway through rounds, she caught herself writing his name where a patient’s belonged. The J in Jisung curved across the page before she realized and quickly scratched it out, heat blooming across her cheeks even though no one had seen. She set the chart aside harder than necessary and forced herself back into rhythm: vitals, notes, next room. But rhythm refused to hold. Every time her phone buzzed in her pocket, she imagined it was him, even though she knew he wouldn’t risk sending something while she was on shift. Still, that tiny possibility tugged at her.

By the time the lounge clock ticked past midnight, she slipped away for a stolen break. The hallway outside was quiet, the hum of machines fading into a low background drone. She leaned against the wall, finally pulling out her phone. One message blinked at the top of the screen. Thanks for not ignoring me tonight. Even if it was only five minutes, it helped more than I can explain.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She should let it sit, should tuck it away with the rest of the blurred lines she never crossed. And yet, the memory of his expression, the mix of relief and nerves, rose unbidden. She typed: You should be resting, not running around at night. But… I’m glad too.

The moment she pressed send, a strange warmth settled low in her stomach. Dangerous warmth, but undeniable all the same. The break clock buzzed, and she slid her phone back into her pocket, shoulders squaring before she stepped out again. She had patients waiting. She had boundaries to maintain. But inside, something had shifted, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to shift back.

By the time dawn started leaking pale light through the narrow lounge windows, Ayla’s body moved more from memory than intention. The tail end of night shift always felt like walking through water, heavy and slow, each step pulled by gravity twice over.

Dr. Park intercepted her outside the ICU, flipping through a chart with bleary eyes.
“You look worse than me, ” he muttered, half-yawning.
“That’s not possible, ” Ayla answered, her tone dry but not unkind. She steadied the papers in his hand when they tilted sideways.
“You ever sleep?” he asked, squinting at her.
“When I can, ” she replied, letting the corner of her mouth twitch before stepping around him.

Further down, one of the nurses, Soojin, always sharp despite the hour, fell into step beside her.
“Your head’s somewhere else tonight, ” Soojin said lightly, not looking at her, just flipping her pen cap on and off.
“Too much caffeine, ” Ayla deflected, though she knew the smile she gave didn’t quite sell it.

Rounds blurred into final checks, into notes dictated on autopilot. At shift’s end, Ayla changed quickly, pulling her coat tighter against the faint chill of morning. The hospital doors whooshed open, and cool air hit her lungs, bracing. For a moment, she just stood there, letting the city’s early sounds wrap around her, the rattle of a bus engine, the scrape of a broom on concrete, a vendor calling half-heartedly to no one yet awake. Only then did she check her phone. One notification.
Rested a little. Dreamed a lot. Mostly about talking to you again.

Ayla stared at the words longer than she meant to. The street moved around her, nurses hurrying home, a taxi slowing to the curb, but it all felt faint, muted against the quiet thread running between her and him. She typed nothing back. Not yet. Instead, she slid the phone into her pocket, tucked her chin against the rising sun, and walked toward the subway. The message burned warm against her leg the whole way.

Chapter Text

The restaurant wasn’t fancy, Han had insisted on that. Somewhere quiet, tucked away, where the lighting was warm enough to feel hidden but not so dim that he’d trip over himself. Still, sitting across from Ayla now, menu clutched between his hands like a lifeline, he couldn’t stop the jitter in his leg under the table. It had been nearly a week since her last message, the one she’d answered late after her shift. A week where his schedule blurred into rehearsals, interviews, and a body that threatened to give out if he pushed harder. But tonight, miraculously, they’d both had hours free.

“Uh, so, ” He cleared his throat, catching himself rambling already. “The kimchi pancakes here are good. Like, really good. Not… okay-good, but like… comfort-food-after-a-long-day good. And the stew, too. Well, I mean, everything’s good, but the pancakes, ” Ayla’s lips curved in that almost-smile that always made his chest tighten. She rested her elbow against the table, chin balanced in her hand, and let him talk. “I’m not saying you have to order them, ” Han added quickly, voice tumbling over itself. “But if you don’t order them, I might order double, so… then you’d have to try them anyway.”

He stopped, heat creeping up the back of his neck. Why was he filling the air like this? Every word came out too fast, like he was trying to outrun the silence between them. His fingers tightened on the laminated menu. The waiter passed behind them with a tray, and Han used the distraction to inhale, forcing his leg still under the table. When he glanced back, Ayla was still watching him, steady, amused, but not unkind. The kind of look that made him feel both ridiculous and strangely… seen.

“You’re nervous, ” she said softly, not quite teasing.

Han barked a laugh that came out sharper than intended. “What? Me? No, I’m, uh, just hungry.” His stomach growled on cue, which help his case.

The plates arrived in a small parade, pancakes sizzling at the edges, a bubbling pot of jjigae set between them, side dishes filling the table until it looked almost celebratory. Han lit up immediately, chopsticks in hand before the waiter even finished setting down the last dish. “See? Look at them, ” he said, holding up a golden-edged pancake like it was proof of his earlier speech. “Tell me this doesn’t look like heaven.”

Ayla shook her head, laughing under her breath. “You’re really passionate about pancakes.”

“About these pancakes, ” he corrected, leaning forward as if it mattered. “They got me through trainee days. Like, three hours of sleep, six hours of practice, legs about to give out, then bam. Pancakes. Saved my life, no exaggeration.”

“Mm.” Ayla broke a piece, chewing thoughtfully. “Not bad.”

Han put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Not bad? That’s it? Do you realize what you’re eating?”

She gave him a look, steady, amused. “Food.”

“Blasphemy, ” he muttered, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away. For the first time that evening, his voice slowed, his shoulders losing the tight edge they’d carried in. The food anchored him, gave him something to gesture at, to laugh over. And with each bite, Ayla relaxed too, her posture easing, her eyes softening in the dim light.

“So, ” she said after a while, pushing her soup aside, “do you always talk this much when you’re nervous, or am I special?”

Han froze, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. The stew dripped back into the bowl. “I, uh, okay, yeah, maybe you’re special.” He forced the words out, then ducked his head, ears burning. “But don’t tell anyone. I’ve got an image to protect.”

Ayla’s laugh was quiet but genuine, enough to make his chest feel too tight. They drifted into easier conversation then, stories about his members’ quirks, anecdotes from her residency that she told carefully, stripped of names but colored with exhaustion and wry humor. Han listened with his chin propped on his hand, eyes bright, asking questions that made her pause because he actually cared about the answers. At some point, he realized he hadn’t looked at his phone in over an hour. And he didn’t miss it.

They left the restaurant to the smell of grilled meat wafting from nearby stalls and the hiss of buses pulling away from the curb. The night air was cooler than before, the city softened under streetlamps and neon signs. Ayla tucked her hands into her coat pockets; Han shoved his into his hoodie, shoulders hunched but not from the cold.

“Thanks for… you know, coming out, ” he said, eyes fixed on the sidewalk as they walked. “I know your schedule’s crazy, and mine’s… well, chaos. So yeah. Just… thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me for dinner, ” Ayla replied. “It’s nice to do something that isn’t hospital walls or twelve-hour shifts.”

“Or practice rooms, ” Han added with a lopsided smile. “Guess we both live in boxes most of the time.”

They reached a crosswalk. The red light blinked, leaving them standing shoulder to shoulder. Han bounced lightly on his heels, then stopped himself, chewing at his lip. His silence felt almost louder than when he’d been rambling earlier.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden, ” Ayla said.

“Am I?” He scratched the back of his neck, gaze darting to the street then back to her. “I just, uh, ” The light changed, and he shoved forward with the crowd, his words swallowed by the shuffle of feet.

On the other side, he slowed again. “It’s dumb, ” he muttered, almost to himself.

“What is?”

He shook his head quickly, as if to brush it off, but the nervous energy in his body betrayed him, the way he kept adjusting his hoodie zipper, the restless movement of his hands. They turned down a quieter street lined with small shops already shuttered for the night. Their footsteps echoed. Han shoved both hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was holding something back.

“You ever, ” He stopped, exhaled sharply, then tried again. “You ever feel like if you say something out loud, it’ll… I don’t know. Change everything?”

Ayla studied him in the dim light, her own pace slowing. “Sometimes, ” she said simply.

Han nodded, eyes flicking toward her then away. His mouth opened, closed again. Whatever he was wrestling with stayed there, caught between his ribs and his throat. By the time they reached the subway entrance, he hadn’t found the words. He scratched at his wrist, gaze darting to her one last time. “So… I’ll text you?”

Ayla gave him a small smile. “Yeah. Text me.”

The stairs carried her down, her figure disappearing into the glow of the underground. Han stayed rooted at the top, hands jammed in his pockets, the words he hadn’t managed to say pressing against the back of his teeth. Han lingered at the subway entrance long after Ayla disappeared into the wash of fluorescent light. Commuters streamed around him, brushing past with bags and muffled conversations, but his body refused to move. His pulse still thudded uneven, the ghost of her smile etched into him like it had been burned there.

He dragged a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “Idiot.”

Because the whole walk, every sidestep of silence, every half-started sentence, he’d been circling around the same thought: what it would feel like to close the distance, to press his mouth to hers. The urge had risen sharp and certain when she’d looked up at him just before the stairs, the kind of look that made his chest hollow out. He’d wanted to lean in. Just once. Just to know. Instead, he’d swallowed it, too afraid of saying the wrong thing, of breaking whatever fragile thread held them together. So now he stood here, hands shoved deep in his pockets, replaying the moment until it twisted in his gut.

A bus roared by, shaking the sidewalk. Han finally forced himself to move, tugging his hood up as he started the walk back. The city blurred around him, neon bleeding into shadows, but his thoughts stayed fixed on Ayla, on how close her laugh had felt, on how much he already wanted to see her again. And beneath it all, the unshakable truth pulsed steady: he’d wanted to kiss her more than he’d wanted air.

Chapter Text

The studio mirrors caught every flaw. Every misstep, every fraction of a second he lagged behind, every wobble when his body refused to snap as cleanly as the beat demanded. Sweat dripped into his collar, stinging his skin, but Han couldn’t stop wiping at his mouth like he’d forgotten something there, like he’d left something unsaid on Ayla’s lips.

“Ji, you’re late again, ” Chan called from across the floor, hands on his hips. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady, leader steady, but Han still flinched.

“Sorry, ” Han muttered, dragging himself back into formation. He’d stayed awake half the night, headphones useless because no song could drown out the replay. Ayla’s eyes before she turned away, the way her shoulders lifted like she was waiting for him to speak. His chest had ached with it, still did now, the ache sharper than the stitch in his side.

The track restarted, bass rattling the floor. Han forced his arms through the motions, muscles already sore from overwork. His voice in his head wouldn’t shut up. You should’ve kissed her. You shouldn’t have wanted to. You’re an idiot.

The contrast tore at him, the bright lights, the cameras waiting, the exhaustion of idol life against the quiet pull of one person who wasn’t supposed to matter this much.

Chan clapped once, halting the music. “Break. Ten minutes.”

Han collapsed against the mirrored wall, water bottle pressed to his forehead. His reflection looked worse than he felt, hair plastered down, jaw tight, dark circles blooming under his eyes. He barely recognized the guy staring back. He thought about texting her. Just one line. Had fun last night. But even in his head, it sounded flimsy, weak compared to the pounding weight of what he really wanted to say. And yet his thumb hovered over his phone anyway. Han had barely taken a sip when Changbin slid down beside him, stealing the bottle from his hands like it was his own.

“You’re moving like a zombie today, ” Changbin said, twisting the cap and drinking deep. “And not even a cool zombie. Like… low-budget drama zombie.”

Han shot him a flat look, snatching the bottle back. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

Hyunjin flopped onto the floor in front of them, long limbs sprawled like he owned every inch of studio space. He propped his chin on his palm, watching Han with sharp, catlike eyes. “He’s not wrong. You keep tripping over yourself, Ji. You’re usually clumsy, but this is another level.”

Han groaned, dragging the towel over his face. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit, ” Changbin said immediately. “We’re all tired. You’re… distracted.. Is it, about, you know, that thing yesterday?.” That word landed heavier than Han expected. He froze, towel still over his head, like hiding his face could hide the truth.

Hyunjin leaned forward, smirk curling. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re replaying something in your head over and over.” His voice dropped, playful but pointed. “A girl?”

Han yanked the towel down, sputtering, “What, no, ”

“Oh my god, it is a girl.” Hyunjin slapped the floor with glee. “Changbin, did you see his face? Wait, what do you know that I don't?”

Changbin grinned, folding his arms. “Nothing, nothing, don't worry about it Hyunjin, and yes, you are right, he didn’t even deny it properly. That’s rookie mistake level, Jisung.”

Heat rushed up Han’s neck, too fast to control. He shoved himself upright, muttering, “You guys are so annoying, ” but his voice cracked with embarrassment.

Hyunjin sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. “Who is she? Do we know her? Why does Changbin know about this and not me?”

“No one, ” Han said too quickly. He adjusted his hoodie, pulling the strings tighter like he could disappear into the fabric. “Seriously, mind your business.”

Minho, who was sitting next to them but hadn't talked at all about the topic, finally nudged Han with a knee, not unkindly. “We’re your business, idiot. You can’t expect us not to notice when you’re spacing out every five minutes.” His tone softened, teasing less, brotherly more. “Just… don’t let it mess with your health. Or practice.”

Han swallowed, throat dry. He wanted to tell them, just a fragment, maybe, that there was someone outside this world of mirrors and choreography who made the chaos quiet for a while. But the thought of putting Ayla’s name into the air, into their jokes, into the group dynamic… it felt too fragile, too private. So he just said, “Yeah. I know, ” and tried to laugh it off.

Hyunjin arched a brow, clearly unconvinced, but let it go. “Fine. But if you come back tomorrow still dancing like a fridge, I’m telling Chan you need a brain scan.”

“Wow, supportive, ” Han muttered, but his lips curved despite himself.

By the time Chan finally called practice, Han’s hoodie was damp, and his lungs burned from pushing through repetitions he’d barely registered. He packed his bag in silence, listening to the shuffle of sneakers, Felix humming some off-key melody, Jeongin arguing with Seungmin about whether ramen counted as a real dinner. The ordinary noise of his members usually grounded him. Tonight, it only made the hollow in his chest louder.

The van ride blurred. Neon lights smeared against the window, his reflection faint and restless staring back. He tugged his hood low, earbuds in but no music playing. His thumbs hovered over his phone, screen glowing, Ayla’s name right on top of it, the thread of their last conversation was there, just one swipe away, he didn’t open it, couldn’t, the others were too close, and even the idea of seeing her words made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

By the time he reached the apartment, the night pressed down heavy, city sounds muffled beneath the weight of fatigue. Han lingered in the doorway while Lee Know scattered inside bouncing down the hall, lights clicking on. He slipped into his room quietly, dropping his bag onto the floor with a thud. The silence wrapped around him. He sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over his face, and exhaled hard. She’s still there, he thought. No matter how many stages, how many cameras, how much noise, Ayla threaded her way back in. The way she listened. The way she steadied him without asking for anything in return. His phone buzzed against his chest, only a notification from the group chat. He ignored it, rolling onto his side. For a moment, he let himself imagine typing her name, asking if she was awake, if she’d want to see him. The thought lit him up, restless and dangerous. He didn’t, but the want lingered, sharp and insistent, thrumming under his skin as he closed his eyes. Sleep never came easy when she was the one he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Chapter Text

Ayla almost missed her stop, the bus lurched as the doors hissed open, and she jolted out of the haze she’d been drifting in. She gathered her bag against her chest, muttering a soft apology to the woman she brushed past, and stepped down onto the pavement. The night air clung damp against her skin, sticky with late summer humidity, streetlamps buzzing faintly above the quiet stretch of road. She should have been tired, twelve hours at the hospital, paperwork stacked higher than her dinner plans, but her body thrummed with an energy that didn’t match her exhaustion. She blamed her phone. More specifically, the thread of messages waiting there.

Han had sent another one before her shift ended. Nothing big. Just: Did you eat? Two words, a small question, but it sat in her chest like a weight and a tether all at once. She hadn’t answered yet, not because she didn’t want to. Because she didn’t trust herself to say something that didn’t sound like more than it should. 

Her sneakers scuffed against the sidewalk as she cut through the narrow street toward her apartment. The corner convenience store hummed with its too-bright lights, the kind that made even the fruit bins look sterile. She paused, hand tightening around the strap of her bag, the thought pressing in again: call him back, text him, something. She sighed and pushed the door open instead, the bell overhead giving a tired jingle. Meanwhile, Han wasn’t eating either, he was sitting on the studio couch, one leg bouncing, laptop open but untouched. The others had already left, their laughter trailing out the hallway, the sound of Seungmin’s sharp “goodnight” and Felix’s softer echo fading with the slam of the door. Silence settled heavy in their wake, only broken by the faint hum of electronics and Han’s restless exhale. He stared at his phone screen again. Ayla’s name, no reply yet. He should have been working, there were lines to polish, melodies to chase, but his fingers tapped against his knee instead, words tumbling in his head that had nothing to do with music.

He thought about the way she had listened that night at the park, about how her eyes had narrowed with focus when he rambled too fast, about the small crease that always formed between her brows when she pretended not to smile at his dumb jokes. He wanted to hear her voice, he wanted… he didn’t even know what he wanted, and that was the problem. Han scrubbed a hand over his face, the laptop screen glaring too bright. The song file blinked at him, waiting. His phone buzzed against his thigh instead.

Ayla’s thumb hovered above her screen. She sat on the edge of her bed, shoes still on, the convenience store bag forgotten at her feet. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional car rushing past outside. She typed three words, I just got home, then erased them. Typed again: Long day. Deleted. Her chest tightened with every backspace.

Finally, she sent the simplest thing: Still awake?

The dots appeared almost instantly.

Jisung: Yeah. Been waiting.

Her breath caught. She hated the way it did that, as if two words could trip her pulse into running. She dropped her phone onto the blanket, rubbed at her eyes, but the vibration buzzed again.

Jisung: Can I call?

Her heart stumbled. Logic told her to say no, she needed sleep, boundaries, distance. But her thumb betrayed her before her head could win. Okay.

The phone rang less than a second later.

“Hey.” His voice was softer than she expected, hushed like he’d tucked himself into a corner where no one could hear.

“Hey, ” she echoed, pulling her knees up to her chest. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

There was a pause. Not heavy, but charged. She could almost hear him trying to find the words, the faint shuffle of fabric as he shifted, the buzz of studio equipment in the background. “You sound tired, ” he said finally.

“I am. Long shift.” She hesitated, then added, “You sound worse.”

A laugh crackled through the line, rough around the edges. “Busted. I’m at the studio. I should be working, but…” He trailed off.

“But?”

“I kept thinking about you.”

Her breath hitched, and she was glad he couldn’t see her face. Heat crawled up her neck, the kind that came with both embarrassment and something she didn’t want to name. “You mean… my professional advice, right?” she tried, voice dry, hoping humor might shield her.

Another laugh, lighter this time. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

She pressed her forehead to her knees, hiding the smile she refused to let slip into her voice. “Jisung…” she started, then stopped. The name felt too personal, like a secret she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep.

“Mhm?”

Her throat worked around the question she didn’t ask. Instead, she said, “You should rest. Your schedule sounds insane.”

“Rest feels impossible lately.” His tone shifted, quieter, more honest. “But talking to you… it’s the closest I get.”

Her chest ached. The words settled between them, heavy, impossible to ignore. She swallowed. “That’s dangerous, Han. I’m not, ”

“You’re not what?” he cut in, not harsh but insistent, as if he couldn’t let the thought go.

She fumbled. “I’m not… part of that world. I can’t keep up with you.” Silence. Just his breathing in her ear, uneven, like her words had knocked something loose.

Finally, he said, “Maybe I don’t need you to keep up. Maybe I just need…” His voice cracked, then steadied. “I don’t know. You.”

Her grip on the phone tightened. The room felt smaller, the air warmer, the line between them thinner than it had ever been. Ayla should have ended the call. She knew it. She should have laughed, said goodnight, let silence swallow the reckless thing he’d just confessed. Instead, she whispered, “Han…” a warning, a plea, both too soft to mean either.

“I’m close, ” he said suddenly, urgency threading through his voice. “The dorm’s not far. Ten minutes, maybe less.”

Her pulse spiked. “What, no. It’s late, you shouldn’t, ” But the line went dead. She stared at the dark screen, heartbeat thrumming in her ears, every reason to stop this unraveling one by one: neighbors, her reputation, his, the thousand invisible rules she lived by. And still she couldn’t bring herself to move, couldn’t tear her eyes from the clock as the minutes ticked forward.

The knock came fast, sharp enough to jolt her. She opened the door before she had the sense to change her mind. Han stood in the hall, hoodie pulled low, cap shadowing his eyes. His chest rose and fell like he’d run the whole way. For a beat, neither spoke.

“You’re insane, ” she whispered.

“Probably, ” he said, voice rough with exhaustion and something more dangerous. He stepped inside before she could tell him not to, the scent of cool night air and sweat clinging to him. She backed up automatically, until her calves brushed the edge of the couch. His eyes caught hers, bright despite the dark circles, searching, raw.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it, ” he said.

“About what?” Her voice trembled, betraying her.

His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling as if he didn’t trust them. “About you telling me to rest. About me wanting to, but only if, ” He broke off, shook his head, and took one step closer. “Forget it. I’m not making sense.”

Her chest tightened. “Han, you should, ”

But the rest dissolved when he kissed her. It wasn’t careful, it wasn’t planned. His mouth found hers in one reckless, unstudied press, as if he’d leapt before he could measure the distance. His cap brushed her forehead; his hand hovered near her arm but didn’t grab. The kiss was brief, clumsy, over almost before she could register the heat of it. He pulled back first, eyes wide, chest heaving, as if realizing too late what he’d done. Ayla stood frozen, lips tingling, breath caught somewhere between refusal and the dangerous urge to pull him back in. Silence stretched, fragile and taut.

“I shouldn’t have, ” he started, but the crack in his voice betrayed him.

Her pulse hammered in her throat. She could stop this now. She should stop this now. Instead, she whispered, “Han…” again, no warning this time, just his name heavy with everything she hadn’t said.

Chapter Text

The instant her whisper slipped out, he wanted to kiss her again. To lean in, to close the impossible space between them before she could say anything that might break the moment. But her eyes held him there, wide, unreadable, searching. 

Han’s chest squeezed so tight it hurt. Reality snapped back like a rubber band against skin, sharp and stinging. “I, fuck, I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out rough, cracked, not nearly fast enough. He stumbled back a step, bumping into the edge of her coffee table, nearly knocking over the abandoned mug of tea she hadn’t touched. His pulse drummed in his ears, too loud, drowning out reason. Ayla didn’t move, didn’t say a word. That silence pressed harder than anything she could’ve shouted.

“I shouldn’t have done that, ” he rushed on, voice low and frantic. “I wasn’t thinking. It’s late, and I’m, ” He dragged a hand down his face, the brim of his cap digging into his forehead. “God, I’m so fucking dumb.” Her lips parted like she might speak, but nothing came. The quiet between them filled with the sound of his own unsteady breathing. “I’ll go, ” he said, already edging toward the door. He didn’t trust himself to stay, not with the ghost of her mouth still burning against his. “I’ll just, yeah. Forget this. Pretend it didn’t, ” His voice cracked, and he bit it off, shaking his head hard.

He pulled the door open too quickly, cold air rushing in like punishment. For one suspended second, he looked back. She stood in the middle of her apartment, arms folded tight across her chest like she was holding herself together. She hadn’t stopped him. She hadn’t called him back. The fragile thread of hope twisted in his gut anyway, cruel and stupid. Then he shut the door, footsteps heavy as he fled down the hall.

By the time he hit the street, the night air had gone sharp, biting through his hoodie. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked fast, too fast, like he could outrun the weight pressing down inside his ribs. Dumb. Reckless. A single kiss, and now he’d ruined everything; and yet, when he closed his eyes, he could still feel her breath against his, the way she’d whispered his name like it mattered. That was worse than the regret. The hope.

The practice room smelled like sweat and old wood polish. Han sat cross-legged on the floor, water bottle pressed against his cheek, trying to cool the burn in his skin. The others were still moving, Hyunjin spinning lazy arcs with his arms as if the song hadn’t drained him, Felix humming off-beat under his breath, Chan muttering counts in time with the music.

Han couldn’t make his body catch the rhythm. His legs felt like cement, his chest like it belonged somewhere else entirely.

“Ji, ” Changbin said suddenly, dropping down beside him, wiping sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “You good? You spaced through the whole chorus.”

“I’m fine.” Too fast, too flat. Han twisted the cap off his bottle, gulped down water, let it spill down his chin just so he had something to do with his hands.

Changbin raised a brow. “Fine, huh? That why you looked like you saw a ghost when Chan called your part?”

Han shrugged, eyes on the scuffed floorboards. A bit of black tape was peeling at the seam between planks, curling like it was trying to escape. He wished he could do the same.

Hyunjin flopped down on his other side, hair sticking to his neck, grinning like he’d been waiting to pounce. “You’re worse at lying than Seungmin is at aegyo.”

“Shut up, ” Han muttered, voice cracking on the edges.

But they were right, he was slipping. Every beat reminded him of her, every lyric he spit out felt too close to last night. Ayla’s silence stretched louder than the bass pounding through the speakers. Chan clapped his hands, calling everyone back to positions. Han forced himself upright, knees creaking, hoodie clinging uncomfortably to his damp skin. The mirror caught his reflection, pale and distracted, eyes shadowed in a way makeup couldn’t cover. He pushed harder, tripping over moves he’d done a thousand times, breath ragged before the song was halfway through.

“You’re gonna collapse if you keep half-assing it like that, ” Seungmin called flatly, not even looking up from where he was tying his shoe. The others laughed, but it lodged in Han’s chest like a splinter. He wanted to yell that he wasn’t half-assing anything, that he was burning himself out just to keep his head from spinning with the feel of her lips, the way she’d stood so still after. Instead, he swallowed the words and kept moving, every step heavier than the last.

By the time practice ended, Han’s shirt clung to his back like a second skin, his throat raw from rapping and from swallowing every word that wasn’t meant for his members’ ears. The dorm was silence as always, Minho announcing he’d cook ramyeon, Han just agreed and then he slipped into his room before anyone could pin him down, shut the door, and leaned against it. The quiet pressed in, heavy and immediate. His bag slumped where he dropped it. He didn’t bother with the shower, just pulled the damp hoodie over his head and let it fall to the floor. His chest still ached, not from dancing but from the memory lodged there like a bruise that wouldn’t fade. He dragged himself onto the bed, curling sideways, phone clutched loosely in one hand. The screen glowed, lighting his face in the dark. No new messages. No missed calls.

He scrolled anyway, past group chats, past fan notifications, until her thread appeared. Blank. No reply to his mess of apologies from earlier, nothing to tell him she hadn’t written him off completely. Han pressed the phone to his forehead, eyes squeezing shut. “Stupid, ” he muttered under his breath. His voice broke on the word. But the kiss wouldn’t leave him. The heat of it. The way she hadn’t pulled back right away, hadn’t shoved him off. The way she’d whispered his name like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop him or not. That single second kept replaying, cruel and sweet. His chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe. He curled the blanket around himself like armor, like maybe he could block out the ache with cotton and silence.

For the first time in a long time, music didn’t come to him. Words wouldn’t line up. Only her face stayed, unrelenting. He hated himself for it. He wanted more for it. Both truths tangled until sleep finally dragged him under. And even in sleep, her name followed.

Chapter Text

Ayla didn’t leave her bedroom light on that night. She couldn’t stand the glare. The hospital shift had wrung her out, but it wasn’t the long hours that kept her awake. It was him, the way his breath had hitched against her mouth, the way his hands had hovered like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to touch her; and then, gone, just gone. She sat on the edge of her bed, scrub pants still clinging to her, hair tied too tight at the back of her head. Her phone lay facedown on the quilt, as though turning it over could erase the string of messages he’d sent after bolting. Apologies, rushed and uneven, half-typed confessions. One that just said her name.

She hadn’t replied, not because she didn’t want to, but because every word she thought of felt like a trap. If she forgave him too easily, it would sound like she wanted this. If she snapped at him, it would sound like she didn’t. Her body remembered it anyway, the heat, the soft press of lips against lips, clumsy and urgent and so very human. She pressed her palms to her eyes until stars bloomed behind them. “Damn it, ” she whispered into the dark.

The worst part wasn’t that he kissed her. The worst part was how a tiny part of her had kissed him back. Reflex, instinct, whatever name she gave it, she knew the truth. She hadn’t pulled away fast enough, her chest pulled tight as though caught between two ropes: professional duty on one end, the boy who wouldn’t leave her head on the other. Ayla reached for her phone, thumb hovering over the screen. She didn’t open the messages, she couldn’t. Instead, she locked the screen again and set it aside. The silence of her apartment pressed in, broken only by the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the soft rush of cars outside. She lay back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

She told herself boundaries mattered. She told herself she was strong enough to hold them. She told herself she wouldn’t dream about the taste of his apology tangled in that kiss; and still, her heart betrayed her, beating hard, steady, as though it had already decided.

The fluorescent lights of the ward felt harsher than usual. Ayla moved through the hallways on autopilot, clipboard clutched so tightly her knuckles ached. She noticed every beep of a monitor, every shuffle of nurses’ shoes, every muffled conversation, but none of it really registered. She ducked into the staff lounge for a brief break, trying to anchor herself with coffee. The steam warmed her hands, the bitter aroma grounding her in the present.

“Rough night?” A familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts. It was Nurse Minji, leaning against the counter with a sympathetic half-smile.

Ayla hesitated, fingers tightening around her mug. She wasn’t used to sharing personal stuff, especially not about someone who wasn’t even a patient anymore. But Minji had a way of reading the room, reading people, and Ayla realized she couldn’t untangle her thoughts alone. “Yeah… you could say that, ” Ayla admitted carefully, keeping her tone professional, even as her mind replayed every inch of the kiss, the words he hadn’t said, the weight of his sudden absence.

Minji nodded, thoughtful. “Someone on your mind, huh?”

Ayla froze, startled at how direct the question felt, she searched for a neutral response, something vague, but the truth pressed too strongly under her ribs. “I… it’s complicated, ” she said finally, voice quieter than intended. “I didn’t expect… well, anything like that to happen.”

Minji’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to explain. But, Ayla… you know, it’s okay to feel things. You’re human. Doesn’t make you unprofessional.”

Ayla let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, shoulders loosening just slightly. “I know. It’s just, he’s… reckless. And me… I shouldn’t let it get to me.”

Minji tilted her head, curious. “Reckless how?”

Ayla sipped her coffee, buying a moment to choose words carefully. “He… kissed me. Out of nowhere. And I… I didn’t stop him fast enough.”

Minji blinked, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Sounds like someone’s caught you off guard. Can’t say I blame you, though.”

Ayla’s cheeks warmed, and she laughed softly, embarrassed, shaking her head. “I’m trying to keep boundaries. I really am.”

“Boundaries are important, ” Minji agreed, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. “But sometimes, letting yourself feel… it’s not the same as losing control. Just, don’t ignore it, okay? Don’t shove it down and pretend it isn’t there. You’ll regret that more than anything.”

Ayla swallowed, the warmth from Minji’s words spreading through her chest. She nodded, not trusting her voice. Somehow, hearing it spoken aloud, validated, made the tangled mess inside her feel a little less suffocating. A page on the intercom buzzed, and Ayla stiffened, straightening her posture, reality called. The ward demanded attention. “Thanks, Minji, ” she said, voice steadying. “I… needed that.”

“You got it, ” Minji said with a grin. “Now go save some lives before you start overthinking again.” Ayla forced a small smile, standing and tucking her coffee mug under one arm. Her mind, though, drifted immediately back to him, the reckless boy who had kissed her, the one who had no idea how much he had unsettled her. And somewhere beneath the professional poise, her heart raced at the thought of seeing him again.

The ward hummed around her, bright and sterile, but the quiet pull of that night, of Han, of the kiss, lingered like a soft echo, impossible to ignore. The corridors were quiet now, the night shift in full swing, the distant hum of monitors and occasional squeak of wheels the only soundtrack to her thoughts. Ayla walked with deliberate pace, each step measured as if the polished floors themselves might betray her lingering unease. The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic, a sharp contrast to the warmth and chaos that had tangled itself in her chest that evening. Her coat hung loosely over her shoulders, sleeves brushing her fingers as she walked past empty patient rooms. Normally, leaving the hospital brought relief, today, it brought a heavy mix of adrenaline and uncertainty. She kept replaying the kiss, his startled eyes afterward, the unspoken apologies, and the reckless hope she could feel radiating from him even from a distance.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, making her pause. A message, brief and simple: “Walk?”

Ayla’s breath caught, she knew instantly who it was. Her fingers hovered, hovering over the keyboard, her thumb trembling just slightly before she locked the screen and tucked the phone back into her coat, not yet; she needed space, needed control. Still, as she reached the hospital doors, the cool night air brushing her cheeks, her pulse refused to settle. The city felt alive in contrast to the sterile halls behind her, distant traffic, faint music from passing cars, the crisp bite of autumn air. It made her heart race in ways the hospital never could.

Ayla’s steps slowed as she looked up at the streetlights, their golden glow reflecting in puddles on the pavement. She knew he would be waiting, or at least hoping she would reply. And the thought, that he might be just a few blocks away, watching, waiting, daring to imagine, sent a thrill and a pang at once. She forced herself to breathe. She would not run toward him, not yet. But she also could not ignore the pull he had on her, the reckless warmth of him that lingered like a ghost in the spaces she tried to keep orderly. Her coat tightened around her shoulders as she finally picked up her pace, walking past the hospital entrance into the quiet streets. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of his voice, or maybe just the memory of it, seemed to reach her.

Ayla didn’t respond to the message yet, she didn’t turn back, but she didn’t stop thinking about him either. Not for a single second; and somewhere, deep in her chest, she knew that the next encounter would not wait long. The night stretched ahead, a soft tension lingering in the air, carrying the unspoken promise: what had started with a reckless kiss would need to be faced. And soon.

Chapter Text

The city hummed quietly beneath his apartment window, a muted pulse of traffic and distant sirens that failed to keep pace with the rapid beat in his chest. Han’s hands were clenched on his knees, elbows digging into his thighs, and he could feel the tension of days, no, weeks, of hesitation coiling tight in his shoulders. He’d replayed the moment with Ayla more times than he could count: the way her brow furrowed when he kissed her, the way she’d stepped back, hesitant but not angry. The memory was a spark he couldn’t ignore, a spark he’d been running from far too long. He exhaled, slow, deliberate, trying to steady the storm inside him, the storm that whispered, She’s it. You can’t stop now. His phone sat on the coffee table, dark, silent, an unassuming rectangle that had become the gatekeeper to a life he desperately wanted. He had typed and deleted, typed and deleted again, messages that never felt enough, words that could never capture the way he felt when she smiled, when she laughed, when she just was.

Finally, he rose from the couch, bare feet scuffing against the hardwood floor. He paced, each step sharp, deliberate, like drums marking a rhythm only he could hear. He imagined her sitting at a hospital desk, hair loose or tied back depending on the day, pen tapping against her clipboard as she checked vitals. He imagined her sigh, the subtle roll of her eyes at his antics, and something inside him ached with longing, a mixture of fear and desire he couldn’t name.

“Enough, ” he muttered, voice low, gravelly from sleepless nights and rehearsals. “You’re done running.” The decision was simple in theory but terrifying in execution. He couldn’t imagine a future without her, the thought was unbearable. And so he had to try. He had to see what this could be. Even if it scared him, even if it meant risking the fragile balance they’d built. He grabbed his jacket, running a hand through his hair, and let himself imagine her reaction: the pause, the subtle catch of her breath, that faint heat in her cheeks he had memorized. He forced his feet into shoes, grabbed his keys, and stepped out into the crisp night air, letting it slap his face awake, letting it remind him that this was real.

The streets were quiet, nearly deserted at this hour. Neon signs glowed faintly in the distance, reflecting on wet asphalt from an earlier rain. The world felt suspended, a secret stage set just for him, and the thought of her waiting, somewhere, was enough to steady the knot of panic and anticipation in his chest. By the time he reached her apartment building, Han’s hands were slick with sweat, fingers trembling as they pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed in the quiet hallway, and his heart slammed against his ribs like a drum. He pressed the button again, as if the sound alone could summon her. Footsteps, light, hesitant, unmistakable; and then she was there, Ayla, framed in the doorway, coat still on, hair pulled back loosely, eyes wide in surprise. The faint sheen of hospital exhaustion lingered in the shadows under her eyes, but even that didn’t dim the quiet radiance he’d come to crave.

“Jisung…” Her voice was a question, a warning, and something more, all at once. He could see the hesitation in her stance, the way she clutched the strap of her bag as if it anchored her to reality.

“I, I had to see you, ” he said quickly, words tumbling over themselves. “I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about you, Ayla. About us. About, ” He stopped, mouth suddenly dry, panic blooming as he realized he was standing too close, confessing too much. He tried again. “I can’t imagine a life without you in it. I’m done pretending I can.”

Her lips parted, a small intake of breath that made his chest tighten. The quiet air between them throbbed with tension, the faint hum of the city below a muted backdrop to the sound of his own heartbeat. “You, you shouldn’t be here, ” she said finally, voice low but steady, a tremor betraying the careful control she maintained. “This isn’t… I mean, I’m not, ”

“I don’t care, ” he interrupted softly, gently, stepping closer despite every warning bell in his mind. “I know it’s complicated. I know it’s… everything. But I can’t stop myself. I have to see where this goes, even if it’s hard, even if we have to hide it for now. I just, ” His hand hovered, unsure, then brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, careful, reverent. “I just need to know if… if you feel it too.”

Her eyes flickered, hesitation and something softer, something he’d been waiting for, coiling and uncoiling in that glance. She didn’t move away, didn’t pull back, though her breath caught. The city outside, the world beyond this hallway, didn’t exist. There was just him and her, the quiet weight of everything they hadn’t said, the reckless bravery that had finally pushed him across the line. And in that suspended moment, everything changed. Ayla’s eyes searched his face, wide and sharp, trying to read his intent. The hallway’s dim light painted delicate shadows across her features, highlighting the tension in her jaw, the small crease between her brows. Every step he took closer made her stomach twist, a mix of anticipation and caution. “Han…” she breathed again, quieter this time, the single word almost a plea. 

He stopped, just a heartbeat away. “I know I’ve been reckless, ” he said, voice low, barely above a whisper, but it held a weight she couldn’t ignore. “I’m… I’m stupid, Ayla. I know that. But I’m done pretending I don’t feel it. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Her hand rose instinctively, clutching the strap of her bag like a lifeline, though she didn’t step back. “Han, you… we, this is complicated, ” she said, and she faltered, the careful composure she held at the hospital cracking ever so slightly.

He tilted his head, searching her eyes. “I know it’s complicated. I know it’s… everything. But do you feel it too?”

Her breath hitched, and she bit her lip, hesitant, almost trembling. The words stuck somewhere between her chest and her tongue. “I… I don’t know what I should feel, ” she admitted, the admission startling her even as it left her lips.

Han’s hand brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear again, more confidently this time, fingers warm, deliberate. “Then forget what you should feel for a second, ” he said softly. “Just… tell me what you feel. Be honest with me. Please.”

Her gaze dropped for a heartbeat, eyes tracing the floor as if it might give her courage. “I feel…” she began, then paused, swallowed, and finally met his gaze. “…I feel like I’m supposed to stop this before it goes too far. And yet…” She swallowed hard again, voice low and tremulous. “…I want to see where this goes too.”

The admission hit him like a wave, and he let out a shaky laugh, relief and disbelief mingling. “Ayla, ” he whispered, stepping closer, careful not to overwhelm her. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear that.” Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, silence wrapped them in fragile intimacy. The world beyond the hallway disappeared, the distant hum of the city, the flickering fluorescent signs, the echo of his own heartbeat. All that remained was this delicate, electric closeness between them. He reached out, taking her hand gently in his. The touch was soft but charged, a bridge between the restraint she’d kept and the reckless honesty he’d embraced. “I’ve been so afraid of messing this up, ” he admitted quietly. “Afraid that one wrong move… one moment of weakness, and it’d all be gone.”

Her thumb brushed against his knuckles, almost unconsciously, a grounding, quiet reassurance. “You’re not messing this up, ” she said, voice steadying, though her chest rose and fell quickly. “You’re… you’re just being honest. That’s… important.”

They paused, letting the words linger. His heart raced, every beat loud in his ears, and he wanted more, wanted to close the distance entirely, to let her feel how much he’d been holding back. But he could sense her boundaries, the careful line she was drawing between desire and caution. And he respected it… mostly. “So, ” he murmured, leaning slightly closer, “does this mean we… try? I mean, us, together. Even if it’s messy, complicated, slow?”

Her lips quirked in the faintest, hesitant smile. “Messy… yes. Complicated… definitely. Slow, maybe we have to be.” She glanced down at their joined hands. “But I… I think I want to try. With you.”

Han’s chest lifted, a mixture of relief, hope, and something electric that made the room feel alive. He pressed his forehead gently to hers, careful not to overstep, letting the closeness speak the words he didn’t yet dare voice. “Then… we’ll figure it out. Together, ” he whispered.

Her breath hitched at the pressure, the sincerity, the unspoken promise in the touch. She let her head rest lightly against his, the first real surrender to the intimacy that had been simmering for weeks. “Together, ” she echoed, and it was soft, deliberate, grounding them both.

He pulled back slightly, enough to look into her eyes fully, memorizing the way the light caught the flecks of color, the vulnerability and warmth mingled in her gaze. “I can’t promise it’ll be easy, ” he said, voice low, earnest. “I can’t promise it’ll always be perfect. But I promise… I won’t let this fade.”

Her lips parted, almost shyly. “I… I don’t expect perfect, ” she admitted. “I just… I want honest. That’s enough.” For a heartbeat, they stood like that, hands intertwined, foreheads nearly touching, the air between them trembling with possibility. Then, instinctively, Han leaned down, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to her temple, soft, careful, a touch that said more than words could convey. Her eyes closed at the contact, a shiver of emotion threading through her spine, and she exhaled, a soft sound that was part relief, part surrender. “Ji…” she murmured, almost a question, almost a plea.

He smiled softly, brushing his lips against her hair once more, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume mingled with the subtle warmth of her skin. “I’m not going anywhere, ” he said quietly. “Not now, not ever.” And in that quiet, suspended moment, they both felt the fragile beginnings of a new chapter, one neither could predict, but one they were willing to navigate together, slowly, carefully, with all the messy, complicated honesty that had brought them here.

The hallway felt impossibly quiet after their exchange, every footstep, every faint hum of the city outside the window amplified in the space between them. Han let go of her hand reluctantly, his fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary, tracing warmth that already felt like a promise. “I… should probably go, ” Ayla said, her voice measured but soft, carrying a subtle tremor. She gripped the strap of her bag again, but her eyes didn’t leave his. “I have rounds tomorrow, and, well, you know.”

“I know, ” Han said, voice low, nearly a whisper. “I just… I didn’t want to let you leave without knowing.”

She swallowed, the heat of his gaze holding her in place for a moment longer. “Knowing what, exactly?”

“That I’m going to try, ” he said, his tone earnest, almost unsteady with vulnerability. “I can’t imagine a future without you in it. And I… I don’t care if it’s complicated. Or messy. Or… slow. I just… I want to see where we go.”

Ayla’s breath hitched, and she looked away for a heartbeat, scanning the hallway as if the sterile walls could give her courage. When she looked back, her eyes softened, and there was a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Han…” she said, voice barely audible, “you’re… reckless, you know that?”

“I know, ” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “I’ve been reckless since the beginning. But sometimes… sometimes it’s worth it.” His chest rose and fell rapidly; his heart was racing with that mixture of fear and hope that always accompanied moments like this.

Ayla took a tentative step closer, then paused. “This doesn’t mean it’s easy, ” she said, words careful, deliberate. “We’re… not stepping into a fairy tale. You’re… you’re an idol with a schedule that barely leaves you breathing. I’m… I’m trying to survive my residency. I can’t promise I won’t be… overwhelmed, or distracted, or…” Her voice faltered, and she took a shallow breath, steadying herself. “…or scared. But I… I want to try too. With you.”

Relief and something warmer bloomed in his chest, the kind of feeling that made him feel like he might actually float off the ground. He stepped closer, closing the distance so they were nearly touching again, careful not to overwhelm. “Then we try, ” he whispered, letting the simplicity of it anchor them both. “One step at a time. Messy, complicated, slow… everything you said. I’ll take it all.”

She exhaled softly, her hand brushing against his sleeve, a delicate, grounding touch, and nodded. “One step at a time, ” she repeated.

For a long moment, neither moved. The world beyond the hallway had faded entirely; there were no hospital lights, no distant sirens, no responsibilities. Just them, the quiet tension in the air, the subtle warmth of shared vulnerability. Then Han leaned forward, tentative, not wanting to overstep, yet unable to resist the pull of the moment. He pressed his forehead lightly against hers, letting her feel his steady heartbeat. “I don’t want to hide from this, ” he murmured. “Not anymore. You… you mean too much.”

Ayla’s eyes fluttered closed at the proximity, the confession sinking in. She leaned into him just slightly, just enough to let him know that the connection was mutual, that the boundary they’d both guarded so fiercely could bend without breaking. “I know, ” she whispered. “I feel it too.”

A tiny smile curved his lips, almost mischievous, though it carried all the tenderness of the moment. “Good, ” he said softly. “Because I don’t plan on letting go.”

Her hand finally slipped into his, fingers interlacing naturally, unspoken trust and tentative commitment flowing through that simple gesture. “We’ll figure this out, ” she said, voice steadying now. “Together.”

“Together, ” he echoed, squeezing her hand just slightly, careful not to scare her away, but firm enough to show determination.

They lingered for a heartbeat longer, neither wanting to be the first to break the fragile spell. Then Ayla exhaled, straightened, and adjusted her bag strap with a practiced air of composure. “I should get going, ” she said softly.

“I’ll walk you out, ” Han offered, voice gentle, and she nodded, stepping beside him. The hallway felt smaller with them together, the world outside still distant and irrelevant.

As they reached the exit, Han paused, the crisp night air brushing against his face. “So… see you soon?” he asked, a hint of uncertainty threading through his words, though his hand still held hers.

Ayla’s gaze met his, soft but sure. “Soon, ” she said, letting the word hang with a quiet promise. And then, just before parting, she added, almost teasingly, “But remember, slow. One step at a time.”

Han laughed softly, the tension easing but the longing still humming beneath it. “Slow, ” he agreed. “But I’m not letting you slip away.”

She smiled, a mix of warmth and restraint, before finally letting go of his hand, just long enough to disappear into the night. He watched her go, every step etched in his memory, feeling simultaneously reckless and grounded, terrified and hopeful. Alone now, Han exhaled deeply, letting the night air fill his lungs. His chest still throbbed with adrenaline, his thoughts a whirlpool of relief and desire. He had stepped off the edge, crossed the line, and for the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to retreat. He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over her contact name. His thumb lingered for a moment before typing a quick message: “One step at a time. Together.”

Ayla’s reply came seconds later, simple, deliberate: “Together.” And in that single word, Han felt the fragile, thrilling beginning of a relationship neither of them could fully define yet, but both were willing to explore. He pocketed his phone, a soft smile tugging at his lips, and finally allowed himself to lean back against the wall, eyes closed. The weight of doubt, the tension of hesitation, the fear of missteps, all of it had softened just enough to let hope in.

For the first time in weeks, Han Jisung felt like he could breathe, and somewhere, in the distance, Ayla was doing the same, holding the memory of his presence, the warmth of his hand, and the quiet promise of what was to come.

Chapter Text

The faint scent of brewing coffee lingered in the kitchen as Han leaned against the doorway, his gaze fixed on Ayla moving between the counter and the window. The soft hum of the city outside pressed against the glass, a subtle reminder that life didn’t pause for them, but in this moment, Han could pretend it did. “You always make coffee this strong?” he asked, a teasing edge in his voice, though the nervousness in his chest made his words stumble slightly.

Ayla glanced over her shoulder, lips quirking in a small, restrained smile. “Only for guests who might stay too long, ” she replied lightly, though her tone carried a hidden warmth. She set a cup on the counter and leaned slightly against it, hands brushing together in a subtle display of composure.

Han stepped closer, closing the gap between them without breaking the quiet rhythm of the room. “Good, ” he said softly. “Because I might stay forever if you let me.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away, adjusting the sleeve of her sweater as if to anchor herself in the moment. “Forever is a long time, ” she murmured.

“Not long enough, ” Han countered, voice low, eyes flicking to hers with a careful intensity. He let the words linger, giving her time to digest the weight behind them.

They moved to the living room, settling across from each other on the sofa. The ambient hum of the apartment, the soft tick of a wall clock, the distant street noise, wrapped around them like a cocoon. Han studied her carefully, noting the way her hands flexed lightly against her knees, the slight hesitation in her posture. “I still… I still don’t know if I can do this, ” Ayla admitted quietly, finally breaking the taut silence. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed the swirl of uncertainty beneath. “Being with you… I mean, everything outside this apartment, it’s… it’s complicated. You’re famous. I’m… me. I can’t be part of your world, not publicly. And I… I don’t want to ruin what we have before it even starts.”

Han reached out, gently covering her hand with his, letting the warmth of his touch bridge the distance without forcing anything. “I don’t care about the outside, ” he said earnestly. “I care about right now. About you and me. If it has to be secret, fine. If it has to be slow, fine. I’ll take it all. I just… don’t want to lose what’s here.”

Ayla’s gaze softened, the tight tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “You’re… determined, ” she said softly, a trace of awe in her tone. “And reckless. And stubborn.”

Han grinned faintly, his thumb brushing over hers in a slow, deliberate gesture. “You love it, ” he teased, though his eyes never left hers, the underlying sincerity grounding every word.

“I… I don’t know, ” she whispered, uncertainty flickering in her expression. But when Han leaned just a fraction closer, the air between them thick with unspoken possibility, she didn’t pull away.

Han’s heart raced, but he slowed his movements, letting intention guide him instead of impulse. He lifted a hand to gently cup her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw as he studied her face. “Ayla, ” he murmured, voice almost reverent, “I want this. I want us. I’ll be patient. I’ll be careful. But I can’t hide how I feel anymore.”

Her breath hitched, the vulnerability in her eyes reflecting the mixture of desire and caution warring inside her. She placed her hand over his, letting his warmth anchor her hesitation. “Then… we try, ” she said softly, the words carrying both a promise and a question.

Slowly, deliberately, Han closed the remaining space between them. Their lips met in a kiss unlike any before, measured, unhurried, full of intention. It wasn’t the playful, impulsive brush from weeks ago. This was a kiss that spoke of longing restrained, of hearts carefully negotiating trust, of a connection that had been building, simmering, waiting for this moment. Ayla’s hands rose to rest lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against her palms. The world outside ceased to exist, the faint hum of traffic, the distant sirens, even the clock ticking on the wall, all vanished beneath the weight of the moment.

Han pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers, letting their breaths mingle. “You’re… incredible, ” he whispered, voice low, filled with awe and desire.

“You’re reckless, ” she countered, a smile curving her lips, though her eyes glistened with the intensity of what she felt. “But… I think I can… handle it.”

He grinned softly, pressing another kiss to her temple before resting his cheek against hers, savoring the warmth. “Good, ” he murmured. “Because I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

They stayed like that for a long while, hands intertwined, breathing in sync, letting the intimacy of their first true moment as a couple anchor them. Words weren’t needed; the connection spoke louder than any conversation ever could. Finally, Ayla exhaled, pulling back just slightly, her eyes still locked on his. “We’ll figure this out, ” she said softly. “Together. But… one day at a time.”

Han nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “One day at a time, ” he echoed. “And I’ll take every single one with you.”

The night wrapped around them gently, a quiet witness to the start of something neither of them fully understood, but both were willing to explore, slow, careful, messy, and perfect all at once. The kitchen clock ticked softly, a gentle metronome to the quiet hum of their shared space. Han and Ayla had lingered after the kiss, both acutely aware of the world outside, but equally unwilling to let go of the cocoon they’d created together. Han sat on the sofa, hands clasped loosely around his knees, stealing glances at her as she tidied the remnants of their dinner. “So… we do this, ” he said finally, voice low, careful, “and we’re… careful?”

Ayla paused, wiping a plate with deliberate slowness. She turned to him, eyes steady but thoughtful. “We are, ” she said softly. “We know what’s at stake. There’s a lot we can’t control, but we can control how we treat each other. How we start this.”

Han nodded, his usual playful energy tempered by sincerity. “I get it, private, slow and safe.” He hesitated, then laughed nervously. “Though I admit… slow is going to be harder than it sounds.”

Ayla allowed herself a small smile, setting the plate down carefully. “I know, ” she said, moving closer and perching lightly on the arm of the sofa beside him. “But you’ve been worth waiting for.” Her words were quiet, almost confessional, and Han felt a warmth creep into his chest that had nothing to do with the ambient heat of the room.

He reached for her hand, intertwining fingers as naturally as breathing. “And you’ve been… everything I didn’t know I was missing, ” he admitted, voice low and earnest. The confession hung in the air, heavy with vulnerability.

Ayla’s gaze softened. “Then… we do this, ” she murmured, “carefully, but we do it together.”

They spent the next hour talking, quietly and deliberately, about what their relationship would look like outside the safety of their own apartments. Schedules, boundaries, public appearances, and private moments, all mapped and navigated with cautious optimism. “I won’t be able to see you every day, ” Han said, frowning slightly. “Promotions, rehearsals, trips… it’s going to be chaotic.”

Ayla nodded, squeezing his hand gently. “I know. And I have residency hours, shifts, on-call nights. But we can make the time we do have… meaningful.” Her thumb brushed his hand, grounding both of them.

“And no one can know, ” Han added, a shadow of seriousness passing over his features. “Not yet. Not until we’re ready. You trust me?”

She met his gaze, unwavering, though her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “I trust you, ” she said finally, the words steady, deliberate. “But that means… honesty. Always. Even when it’s hard.”

“I can do that, ” he replied instantly, leaning closer so their shoulders touched. “I want to do that.” They stayed like that for a while, basking in the quiet intensity of being together, of negotiating this fragile new world as a team. Han traced idle patterns on her hand with his thumb, and Ayla let herself relax against him, aware of the weight and warmth of his presence. At some point, Han broke the silence, a soft chuckle escaping him. “I never thought… I’d get to sit in your living room like this, with you. It feels unreal.”

“You’ve been… thinking about me a lot, ” she teased gently, a playful lilt in her voice that belied the seriousness of their conversation. “Even when you were halfway across the world, performing on stage.”

“I can’t help it, ” he admitted with a shy grin. “You’re… impossible to forget.”

Ayla rolled her eyes, though the warmth in her gaze betrayed her amusement. “Fine. But remember, real life outside this apartment is complicated. We need rules. Boundaries.”

Han leaned back, stretching slightly but keeping their hands linked. “Rules, boundaries… yeah, yeah. But… can there be exceptions for small things?”

Her gaze softened again. “Only for you, ” she said quietly.

Eventually, the night began to stretch thin. Han glanced at the clock, realizing the hour had slipped by unnoticed. “I should go… you have an early day tomorrow, ” he said reluctantly, though neither moved immediately.

Ayla nodded, squeezing his hand one last time. “We’ll see each other soon. And we’ll make the most of the time we do have, ” she said, her voice tender.

Han rose reluctantly, careful not to break the fragile intimacy of the moment. Before leaving, he leaned down, brushing a quick, careful kiss to her temple. “One day at a time, ” he murmured.

“One day at a time, ” she echoed, her eyes lingering on his retreating form as he stepped toward the door.

As he left, closing the door softly behind him, Ayla exhaled, leaning against the door frame, a fluttering mixture of hope, caution, and desire twisting in her chest. Han walked down the steps, shoulders slightly hunched, a grin tugging at his lips, carrying the quiet certainty that, no matter how chaotic their worlds, they’d found a way to meet in the middle. The night air was crisp against his face, a reminder of the outside world and all the rules they had to follow, but for the first time, the chaos felt manageable. For the first time, he wasn’t just thinking about surviving the day; he was thinking about her, about them, and how they’d navigate this slow, messy, perfect beginning together.

Chapter Text

The city outside was still rubbing its eyes awake, a faint haze of morning traffic humming against the windows of Han’s van. He sat slouched in the backseat, hood pulled low, mask tugged up, fingers restless against his thigh. His phone lit up in his palm, one message glowing brighter than the skyline.

Ayla: Are you sure about this? You don’t have to.

Han huffed a quiet laugh through his mask, thumbs moving before he let himself second-guess.

Han: I’m sure. Don’t try to back out now, doctor.

A pause. Three blinking dots. He leaned forward, staring at the screen like it might disappear.

Ayla: Fine.

His grin tugged wide beneath the fabric, hidden from the driver. He typed back,

Han: I’ll be invisible. Ninja mode.

Another pause. Then,

Ayla: You? Invisible?

He smothered a laugh, shoulders shaking, earning a glance from the manager up front. Han waved it off, pretending to scroll through something harmless, but his chest was thrumming with that strange new rhythm that had followed him since Ayla. By the time his schedule ended that night, the exhaustion pressed heavy in his bones, but the thought of her cut through the weight. Not a fantasy from a hospital bed, not late-night texts across oceans. Real. Close enough to reach for, if they were careful. Ayla checked her reflection in the muted glow of the café window, fingers tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her shifts had left her wrung out, skin pale under the streetlamp, but her pulse beat quick under the scarf she’d pulled up against the night air. She wasn’t sure why her hands trembled, the cold, or the idea of Han walking through the door any second. She caught herself staring down at her phone again.

Han: Two minutes away. Don’t run.

Her lips curled despite herself. “Idiot, ” she muttered under her breath, the word gentler than it should have been.

Han spotted her instantly, though she was tucked at the farthest table, hood up, scarf wrapped tight. She was pretending to scroll, but the stiffness in her shoulders gave her away. He slipped through the door quickly, head bowed, every practiced move of anonymity snapping into place. Still, when their eyes met, even across the café, the careful disguise faltered.

“Hey, ” he murmured when he reached her, pulling down his mask just far enough to let the word fall real between them.

Ayla’s chest loosened, just a fraction. “You came.”

“Of course I did, ” he said, sliding into the chair opposite her. “I told you, I’m not backing out.”

Her fingers toyed with the edge of her paper cup, restless. “This isn’t easy, Jisung. You know that, right?”

“I know, ” he said quickly, leaning forward, elbows on the table. His voice dropped to a whisper. “But I also know I can’t not see you. So… we figure it out.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other, steam curling between them. The café noise faded to a blur, the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of strangers, the scrape of chairs. All background. The only thing sharp, in focus, was the way her gaze lingered on him like she was still deciding if this was real.

Han tilted his head, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Ayla exhaled, a soft laugh slipping free despite her nerves. “We’re really doing this.”

And for the first time, it felt less like stepping off a cliff and more like walking into something they could build, together. Han’s hands wrapped around the paper cup like it might anchor him. He hadn’t even taken a sip yet, too wired to taste anything, but he liked the way the heat seeped into his palms, grounding. Ayla raised her brows, watching him with that sharp look she wore at the hospital when a resident’s excuse didn’t convince her. “You ordered the sweetest drink on the menu.”

“Yeah, ” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Needed courage. Liquid sugar courage.”

“Mm, ” she hummed, blowing across her Americano. “And here I thought idols had nerves of steel.”

He leaned forward, voice pitched low, eyes dancing. “Not when they’re having coffee with neurosurgeons they maybe-kind-of-definitely kissed by accident.”

Her mouth twitched before she bit it back. “Jisung, ”

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “It’s true. My brain has the tape replaying in HD.”

Ayla exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half frustration. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible, ” he echoed, nodding, “but charming. Right?”

She shook her head, but her lips curved despite herself. He caught it, of course he did, and his chest eased, like he’d finally found the right rhythm after stumbling through measures of silence. They fell into a quieter moment, the hum of the café filling the space between them. Ayla tucked her hands around her cup, her scarf still wound high as though she wasn’t sure she could let herself unravel here. Han’s gaze softened. “I keep thinking…” He hesitated, searching the lid of his drink like it might hold the right words. “If someone told me months ago I’d end up here, sitting with you, feeling like this, I’d think they were insane.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, gaze dropping to the swirl of dark coffee in her cup. “And how do you feel?”

He startled a little at the question, fingers tightening around the cardboard. The words almost tangled, but he forced them through. “Like I don’t want to screw this up. Like I want to be careful but, also, I can’t stop wanting more of this. Of you.”

Ayla’s pulse fluttered at the base of her neck, a warmth she hated to admit creeping up her skin. She cleared her throat, steadying her voice. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

Han tilted his head. “Dangerous how?”

“You know how.” Her eyes flicked around the café, casual groups chatting, students hunched over laptops. None of them were paying attention, but the risk never faded. “This, us, could ruin you if it got out.”

He leaned closer, elbows pressing into the table, his voice a whisper edged with conviction. “Then it doesn’t get out. We keep it here. Just us.”

The intensity in his gaze made her chest ache, like he was giving her something fragile to hold. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. “Jisung…” she began, but the warning faded into a sigh.

He smiled gently, a small, lopsided curve that softened the weight in her chest. “I know. I know it’s messy. But tell me you don’t want it too, Ayla. Just once.”

Her fingers tightened on the cup, nails pressing into the cardboard sleeve. She hated how easy it would be to lie. But she couldn’t, not when his eyes were on her like this, seeing more than she wanted to show. “I do, ” she said finally, her voice low, almost lost under the café chatter. “I do want it. But wanting isn’t the same as being able to have it.”

Han’s grin slipped, but not completely. Instead, he reached across the small table, fingers brushing against hers, a fleeting touch, hesitant, like testing the surface of ice. She didn’t pull back. The corner of his mouth tugged up again, quieter this time, almost reverent. “Then we start small. Coffee. Talking. Learning how not to trip over ourselves.”

“Learning not to make a mess, ” she murmured.

“Too late for that, ” he teased softly, squeezing her hand once before pulling back, leaving warmth behind. Minutes turned into an hour without either of them noticing. Han told her about a trainee story, how he’d once tripped during a serious choreography evaluation and tried to turn it into “freestyle”, and she laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

“You’re unbelievable, ” Ayla said, wiping at her eye, still smiling.

“See? That’s the word you should use. Not impossible. Unbelievable.”

She rolled her eyes, but the lightness lingered, stitching through the caution like tiny threads of relief. By the time the cups were empty and the café had thinned, Han leaned back in his chair, mask dangling loosely in his hand, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it.

“I’m glad you didn’t run, ” he said quietly.

Ayla felt her chest tighten again. “Me too.”

For a heartbeat, it felt like more than coffee. It felt like the fragile beginning of something neither of them could name yet, but both were already carrying. The café had gone half-empty by the time they pushed their chairs back. Han insisted on carrying both their cups to the bin, as though discarding them properly might buy him a few more seconds of composure.

Outside, the night air hit sharp and cool. Ayla tugged her scarf higher, the city buzzing at its edges, the thrum of cars, the hiss of tires over wet pavement, the muted chatter of late pedestrians. Han fell into step beside her, his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. For once, he didn’t talk to fill the silence. He just walked, sneakers brushing against the grit of the sidewalk, head ducked as though the rhythm of their footsteps said more than words could. Ayla’s shoulder brushed his once, barely, and even that seemed to draw the air taut between them.

“Are you, ” he started, then stopped, breath fogging. He tried again. “Are you…okay? With all this?”

She angled her gaze toward him. His hood shadowed most of his face, but she could see the curve of his mouth pulled tight, the way his jaw shifted like he was bracing for her answer. “I don’t know, ” she said honestly, voice low. “But I want to be. That has to count for something.”

Han’s head turned toward her, and the small, almost disbelieving smile that crept across his face made her chest twist. “Yeah, ” he said softly. “It counts. It counts a lot.”

They reached the crosswalk. A cluster of strangers gathered around, waiting for the light to change. Han shifted closer, the brush of his sleeve against her arm deliberate this time. Not a hand held, not yet, but something. A choice. When the light turned green, they moved together. By the time they reached the quieter street near Ayla’s apartment, the night had settled around them like a secret. Han slowed, hesitant. “I should…” He gestured vaguely back the way they came. “Head out.”

“Yeah, ” she echoed, though her feet didn’t move.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick with all the things neither of them were ready to say, all the things they’d already said without words. Han scratched the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. “This feels like a drama ending. You know, the part before they roll the credits?”

Ayla huffed out a laugh, too quick, too sharp, but it softened as she met his eyes. “Except no dramatic kiss this time.”

His mouth quirked, something like mischief flickering there before he shook his head. “Not this time, ” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

The restraint in it tugged at her chest harder than if he had leaned in. He took a step backward, hands buried deep in his pockets again. “Goodnight, Ayla.”

She nodded, her scarf muffling the words. “Goodnight, Jisung.”

For a long moment, he just stood there, like he didn’t want to turn away. Then he did, shoulders hunched, pace slow until he reached the end of the block and glanced back. She was still standing at the corner, watching. When their eyes caught, even across the distance, it was enough. Ayla finally turned toward her building, keys cold in her palm, heart drumming hard against her ribs. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, how they’d balance this fragile, impossible thing.

But tonight, the spark of hope was undeniable. And Han, walking alone through the night with a stupid grin tugging at his mouth, felt the same.

Chapter Text

Han’s phone buzzed again, vibrating against the polished surface of the studio table. He ignored it for a beat, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the edge of his chair. The screen lit up with his schedule for the next three weeks: back-to-back rehearsals, interviews, filming, overseas promotions. Even his eyes, usually bright and playful, looked heavy. He let out a slow exhale, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Jes, ” he muttered under his breath.

It wasn’t just the exhaustion from the packed schedule. It was the quiet, gnawing ache of missing Ayla. She was in her last year of residency now, which meant twelve, sometimes fourteen-hour shifts, on-call nights, endless rotations. The thought of her in the hospital, surrounded by fluorescent lights and the low hum of machines, made his chest tighten in a way no choreography or studio session could fix. He picked up his phone, glancing at the message she’d sent earlier that morning: “Sorry, Ji. Another night shift. I’ll check in when I can. Don’t overwork yourself.”

Han stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. A part of him wanted to reply immediately, tell her he understood, that he’d be okay. But another part, quieter and more stubborn, just stared. He knew she was running herself ragged, and he didn’t want to add pressure with his longing. Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. The first rehearsal that morning was merciless. Minho called out combinations, the other members adjusting to the new choreography, but Han’s mind kept drifting. He misstepped twice in the first ten minutes, catching Felix’s curious glance.

“Jisung, you okay?” Felix asked, raising an eyebrow mid-spin.

“Yeah, ” Han muttered, forcing a smile. “Just… tired.”

But tired didn’t cover it. It wasn’t just his body that ached, it was the gap between the hours he had and the hours she had. He tried to push it away, throwing himself into the rhythm, letting the beat guide his body even as his mind lingered on her. He imagined her tired smile after a long shift, the way her ponytail would fall into her face when she leaned over a chart. His chest tightened again, just thinking about it.

Minho noticed first, sidling over during a short break. “You’ve been off all morning. Something up?”

Han shook his head quickly, hiding his hands in his hoodie pocket. “No, just… the usual.”

Minho squinted at him, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Don’t let your head wander too far, man. You’ll mess up the set.”

Han laughed softly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”

Between takes, during small water breaks, Han finally slipped into his phone and sent a short message, “Hope your shift isn’t killing you. Can’t wait to see you when you’re free.”

He didn’t know if she’d respond immediately. Probably not. Most likely, she was somewhere between rounds, checking on patients, managing life and death while he worried over the trivialities of choreography and promotions. He tucked the phone back into his pocket and exhaled. It was silly, this tug-of-war between their worlds, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop carrying her in his chest like a secret anchor. Even as the day stretched on, interviews and filming slotted back-to-back, that little anchor kept him tethered. He smiled to himself once, imagining her exhaustion turning into a rare, quiet laugh when she finally relaxed, imagining the warmth in her eyes. It was maddening and beautiful at the same time, and he would make it work, somehow. 

The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor were harsh, humming overhead as Ayla moved from room to room. Her shoes squeaked softly against the polished linoleum, a rhythm she barely noticed anymore. Twelve hours in already, her feet ached, her back throbbed, and the relentless pace left her senses fraying at the edges. She paused outside a patient’s room, clipboard in hand, and rubbed her temple. Her mind drifted for the briefest moment, Han. She felt a pang of longing she couldn’t let herself indulge. The last few weeks had been a blur: rotations, night calls, board prep, endless rounds. And yet, the memory of their last quiet evening together, walking through the park after coffee, tugged at her chest. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She extracted it quickly, careful not to draw attention from passing nurses. A single message from Han lit the screen, "How’s my favorite doctor holding up? Remember to breathe. Even once in a while."

A smile tugged at her lips, despite the tightness in her shoulders. Even once in a while. He always knew how to phrase it just right, threading care and mischief together. She typed a quick reply, "Still breathing. Barely. You’re lucky I like you, Ji."

Seconds later, another buzz. His reply was instant, as if he’d been waiting. "Lucky? You mean you’re stuck with me whether you like it or not."

Her lips curved into a laugh she had to swallow quickly to avoid drawing attention. She let herself linger over it for a heartbeat, imagining his grin, the tilt of his head when he teased her. And just like that, the world outside the hospital walls faded, leaving only the small, bright thread of him threading through her day. 

Meanwhile, Han was finishing a late-night rehearsal in the studio. Every muscle in his body ached, and the lingering high of the day’s schedule was beginning to collapse into exhaustion. Yet he couldn’t stop stealing moments with his phone. Every quiet hallway, every few seconds in the green room, he found himself scrolling back to their messages, crafting responses that might be too long, too flippant, or just awkward, but always honest.

"I know you’re swamped. Don’t push yourself too hard, okay?" He hesitated, thumb hovering over the send button. The thought of her exhaustion made him restless, almost protective, even from miles away. But there was also a fear threading through it: he hated feeling so disconnected from her. Every moment apart made the tension grow, pulling at him like a wire stretched too tight.

Back in the hospital, Ayla was caught between rooms, dealing with a patient who refused to follow instructions and another whose vitals dipped unexpectedly. She kept one eye on her phone, praying for a quiet moment. When a lull came, she typed another message, "Thanks… for caring. But seriously, don’t let me distract you from your chaos over there."

Han’s reply appeared almost immediately. "You’re not a distraction. You’re… my sanity, more than I’d admit out loud."

Her stomach fluttered, warmth blooming despite her fatigue. She tucked her phone into her pocket, shaking her head at herself. Professional boundaries. She reminded herself, silently. Professional boundaries, Ayla. But her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted an IV line, heart caught somewhere between worry, longing, and the knowledge that he was thinking of her too.

That evening, their worlds collided in brief, stolen threads. Han had a ten-minute break between interviews and video recordings. He pulled out his phone in the dimly lit studio hallway, sending one more message. "Coffee. Just you and me. No schedules. I’ll wait."

Ayla, moments later, in the hospital break room, stared at the message, her fatigue pressing against her chest like a heavy weight. She could leave now, just step out, take a cab, but the guilt of abandoning her shift gnawed at her. She typed, "I wish I could. Another hour, maybe?"

"I’ll wait, " he replied, almost instantly, as if he had been counting the seconds until she could.

The tension between their desire to be together and their separate responsibilities hung heavy in the space between them. Both of them carried exhaustion, guilt, and yearning in equal measure, each message a thread stretching across miles, threading intimacy through distance, slow and deliberate. The small exchanges of texts, the stolen glances, the imaginary presence of the other in their minds, these were the quiet moments that kept them tethered. And yet, each message, each longing glance, left a residue of frustration: the world wouldn’t bend for them, schedules wouldn’t pause, responsibilities would not wait.

Ayla finished her shift later than planned, shoulders heavy, body weary, and finally stepped into the night air. Han’s message from earlier still glowed on her screen, a silent promise. She walked toward the elevator, knowing that soon, somehow, they would carve out a shared moment, one where exhaustion, schedules, and reality could momentarily fall away. Even through the fatigue, through the tension, the pull between them was undeniable. Both of them knew that the friction of their lives only made the moments they did share sharper, more urgent. And for now, that small hope, the promise of meeting, of conversation, of closeness, was enough to carry them through the long hours ahead.

Ayla finally stepped out into the night, the hospital doors sliding shut behind her with a hollow click. The cool air hit her face, sharp and freeing after the stifling fluorescent heat of the ward. Her bag swung heavily at her shoulder, and every step toward the quiet streets felt like moving through molasses, her body aching in protest. Yet somewhere beneath the fatigue, a tiny spark pulsed, Han’s last message, glowing on her screen, persistent and soft: “I’ll wait.”

She found herself walking faster than necessary, her mind sketching the moment when she would see him again. Just a coffee, just a quiet corner. Nothing public, nothing complicated. But as she approached the small café they’d agreed upon, her phone buzzed again. Han’s name flashed across the screen. "I’ll be here. Don’t rush. I want you to get there safely."

Her chest tightened. Even in a few words, he managed to thread concern, patience, and care into a simple text. She typed back, hesitated, and finally sent. "I’m almost there."

Meanwhile, miles away, or maybe only streets apart, Han leaned against the café window, arms folded, shifting weight from foot to foot. His rehearsal had left him bone-tired, his muscles still humming with exertion, yet every nerve felt alert with anticipation. He glanced at his phone again, counting down the minutes until her arrival. Almost there… almost.

The tension between exhaustion and hope was nearly unbearable. Each step Ayla took toward the café, each heartbeat, each tiny flicker of movement on her part stretched time taut for Han. And when she finally appeared through the window, silhouetted by the warm light spilling from inside, his chest tightened, and he felt the weight of relief and longing crash over him. She entered, her coat clinging damp from the night air, hair slightly mussed, eyes bright despite fatigue. Their gazes met across the small café, and the exhaustion of the day, of weeks, fell away in the soft pull between them. No words were necessary at first.

Han rose, offering a small, uncertain smile, and she returned it, tentative but genuine. The world outside, the chaos, the schedules, the expectations, paused. Just for them. "You made it, " he said, voice low, almost drowned in the hum of the café.

"Yeah… barely, " she replied, sliding into the booth across from him, exhaling as if letting go of the weight of the day.

They talked in fragments, punctuated by laughter and shy glances, their conversation weaving around small jokes and the trivial details of their exhausting days. Every smile, every brush of hands across the table, carried the tension of everything left unsaid, of the weeks of longing compressed into this fragile, fleeting moment; and when their drinks were finished, when the night had grown heavy and the café emptied around them, they lingered, neither ready to let go. Han’s hand hovered, almost touching hers on the table, his chest tight with desire and hesitation. Ayla’s eyes met his, cautious, but warm, inviting in their own quiet way.

"I should go, " she said softly, the words heavy with reluctance.

"I know, " he murmured, voice rough, carrying the weight of his exhaustion and longing.

Yet as they stood, the tension between them remained, thick and unspoken. Han’s fingers brushed hers, accidental, or maybe not, and their eyes locked. He wanted to say more, wanted to reach across the distance that still separated their schedules and their lives, but he didn’t. "See you soon?" he asked instead, a whisper threaded with hope.

Ayla nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. "Soon, " she echoed.

They parted, stepping into opposite directions down the quiet streets, carrying the tension, the exhaustion, the longing, but also the spark of a small, undeniable victory. For all the chaos and impossibility, for all the miles and hours between them, they had made it to this night. They had held this moment.

Chapter Text

Han’s apartment smelled faintly of takeout and coffee, a mixture of familiarity and comfort that seemed to settle around him like a blanket. He was sprawled on the couch, legs crossed awkwardly, laptop open with rehearsal schedules and fan meet notes blinking insistently at him. But despite the chaos of his screen, his attention kept drifting to the other side of the room. Ayla perched on the edge of the armchair, scrub jacket folded neatly on the back, phone in hand, eyes soft with fatigue. She had just finished a long day at the hospital, the kind that made her knees ache and her mind foggy, yet somehow she had made it here, to him, in these rare stolen hours.

“You really don’t have to stay so late, ” Han said, tilting his head to catch her eye, his voice low and careful. He was conscious of the way her shoulders drooped with exhaustion, how her fingers drummed lightly against the phone.

“I wanted to, ” she said simply, a tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Besides… someone has to make sure you don’t collapse in front of your laptop.”

Han laughed, a soft, breathy thing, but his grin didn’t reach the tension in his shoulders. “I can handle myself, ” he said, though she could see through the façade. Her eyes lingered on the faint lines under his eyes, the barely-there slump of his posture.

“I know you can, ” she said gently. “But it’s okay to let someone care about you.”

The words hung between them, heavier than either expected. Han shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, and for a long moment neither spoke. Outside, the city hummed quietly beneath the faint glow of streetlights. It was a different world from the stage, the hospital, the constant schedules and deadlines. Here, there was only this, the pause, the quiet, the mutual acknowledgment of care.

“So…” he said finally, voice rougher than intended, “how was meeting the guys?”

Ayla’s eyes flicked up, a shadow of apprehension crossing her face. “You didn’t… warn me about Minho.”

Han’s eyebrows shot up, though a small grin played on his lips. “Warn you? What do you mean?”

“Warn me, ” she repeated, voice low. “I thought… I don’t know. He looks intimidating.”

Han chuckled softly. “He’s protective. You could say that. But he’s harmless once you get to know him.”

Ayla shook her head, exhaling softly. “Harmless, maybe. But scary at first glance.”

“That’s Minho for you, ” Han said with a shrug, leaning back on the couch. “But if he made you feel uneasy, I promise he’s only protective because he cares.”

Ayla studied him, watching the ease in his posture, the way his expression softened as he spoke of his bandmates. For all his chaos and public life, there was this grounded, tender side he reserved for her. She felt her heart tug at that thought, a warmth spreading through her chest. “I guess…” she started, voice quiet, “I just wasn’t expecting anyone to care that much about you. Not just as a bandmate, but… as a person.”

Han’s gaze softened, and he leaned forward slightly, reaching across the small distance between them. His hand brushed hers, tentative, grounding. “Then let me show you, ” he said simply, sincerity threading every word. “I care about you, Ayla. Not just tonight, or tomorrow, but always, in the little ways you might not notice.”

Ayla’s fingers twitched where his brushed against hers. “I notice, ” she said softly, almost a whisper. The tension between them shifted, subtle and unspoken. For all the chaos outside, the schedules, the world, the impossible demands, they had carved out this little corner where they could exist simply as Han and Ayla. Friends, maybe more. Lovers, not yet fully, but cautiously exploring the space between. “And you?” she asked, curiosity edging the question. “You care about me because… I’m there when you’re tired, or because I… make you feel something different?”

Han’s lips twitched, a small, teasing smirk crossing his face. “Maybe a little of both, ” he admitted, voice low, earnest. “I mean… I don’t need anyone to make me feel alive, Ayla. But somehow, you do. And I can’t ignore that.”

Ayla’s chest tightened at the words, her fatigue momentarily forgotten, replaced by the electric tension of vulnerability, trust, and unspoken desire. She let herself linger in that moment, letting the warmth seep through the edges of exhaustion. Outside, the city pulsed with life, but inside the apartment, time seemed to slow. Words fell into silences that weren’t empty, hands brushed, and the quiet intimacy of shared presence wrapped around them like a fragile shield; and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, they allowed themselves to just exist together, no schedules, no expectations, no obligations. Just Han and Ayla, slow-burn tension simmering into quiet connection, navigating the fragile, tender first steps of a love that neither of them could yet fully define, but both knew was undeniable. Han guided Ayla through the small living room, offering a reassuring hand at her elbow. She had hesitated at the threshold, a mixture of nerves and awe flashing in her eyes. This was the first time she’d been inside Han’s apartment without the buffer of daytime schedules, rehearsals, or hospital shifts, a personal space that felt both intimate and slightly intimidating.

“Everyone’s just downstairs, ” Han said quietly, trying to keep his voice calm despite the flutter in his chest. “You don’t have to be nervous. They’ll be happy to meet you.”

Ayla nodded, though she couldn’t stop the tiny tremor in her fingers. “I know, ” she whispered, “but… it’s different seeing the people you work with so closely.”

Han smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just be yourself.”

They stepped into the living room together, and the members were lounging around, some with their phones, some with half-eaten snacks. Felix’s face lit up instantly at the sight of Ayla. “Ah! So you’re the one I’ve heard so much about!” he said, voice warm and welcoming.

Ayla felt her shoulders relax a fraction. “Hi… nice to meet you, ” she murmured, giving him a polite smile. Felix’s friendliness was like a balm, easy and genuine, and she allowed herself to feel at ease, at least temporarily.

Then Lee Know moved from the couch, towering slightly, with a calm but sharp expression that immediately set Ayla on edge. She froze, her instincts kicking in. His eyes, though kind, seemed to measure her, analyzing every micro-expression. “Hi, ” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, gripping her bag strap.

Lee Know’s gaze softened slightly when he noticed her tension. “Ayla, right? Han’s told us a lot about you.” His voice was low, and he tilted his head in that slight, practiced gesture of someone who was protective but willing to extend trust.

Han nudged her gently. “He’s a little… intimidating at first, I know, ” he said, the faint teasing in his tone meant to lighten the mood. “But he’s actually a huge softie.”

Ayla let out a small, nervous laugh. “Yeah… I can see that, ” she said, though her eyes never left Lee Know’s.

Minho’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “Don’t worry, ” he said finally. “I’m just… careful. I like knowing the people Han cares about.”

The room’s energy shifted slightly after that moment. Ayla could feel it, the warmth of the other members, Chan and Hyunjin already chatting with her casually, Felix offering small smiles and questions about her work, Seungmin teasing Han quietly about being soft. But Minho’s protective presence lingered in the edges of her awareness, and it made her heart rate spike ever so slightly. Han noticed, he could feel her subtle tension even from across the room. He leaned closer, voice just above a whisper. “You okay?”

She met his gaze, and the vulnerability in her own eyes made her heart thrum. “Yeah… just… adjusting, ” she admitted.

He reached for her hand under the table, a quiet grounding gesture, and she felt herself relax a little. “I’m glad you’re here, ” he murmured, letting his thumb brush her knuckles. It was small, almost imperceptible to everyone else, but it meant the world to both of them.

Minutes passed, and the awkwardness eased into a kind of easy camaraderie. Ayla laughed at Changbin’s jokes, Jeongin’s teasing, and even Minho’s dry sense of humor once she realized he wasn’t actually scary. The initial tension faded, replaced by a subtle warmth that wrapped around her chest, a feeling of being seen and accepted, both by Han and by the small circle of people he held dear; and throughout it all, Han watched her with a quiet intensity, his chest tight with a mix of admiration and longing. Every laugh, every nervous glance, every small gesture she made was etched into his memory. He realized that the slow burn between them wasn’t just about desire, it was about seeing each other fully, flaws and all, and wanting to be present for it.

When the evening finally started to wind down, Ayla found herself leaning into Han’s side as he walked her to the door. The members waved goodbye, the air filled with casual chatter and lingering smiles, but it was the quiet intimacy between Han and Ayla that dominated her thoughts. “I… I had a really nice time, ” she admitted, a blush creeping across her cheeks.

Han’s lips curved gently. “Me too, ” he said. “And don’t worry… we’ll figure out how to balance all of this.”

Ayla looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and for the first time since their relationship had begun to navigate the real world, she felt a spark of reassurance. It was fragile, delicate, and yet undeniably strong. As she stepped out into the cool night, Han’s hand lingered near hers, a silent promise that whatever challenges lay ahead, whether it was the public eye, schedules, or the pressures of their separate lives, they would face it together. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint hum of the city as Han and Ayla stepped out of the apartment building. The warmth of the evening inside clashed pleasantly with the cool breeze brushing Ayla’s cheeks, making her shiver slightly. Han noticed immediately and slipped his jacket around her shoulders without a word, the motion casual but intimate enough to make her pulse quicken.

“Thanks, ” she murmured, leaning into the warmth of the fabric. The scent of him, soft, faintly musky, tinged with laundry detergent, clung to her, a comfort that seemed almost forbidden in the chaos of their lives.

Han’s hand lingered near hers as they walked down the quiet street. “I’m glad you met them, ” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “I know it can feel… a lot.”

Ayla nodded, her gaze on the dim streetlights reflecting in the wet pavement. “It was… overwhelming at first, ” she admitted. “But they’re… good people. And… you’re right. Minho isn’t scary at all.”

Han chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her chest. “Told you, ” he said, though there was a hint of relief in his voice. “I think… I think they like you.”

“I hope so, ” she said, almost whispering, and she realized how much she wanted him to be proud of her, even in small ways. The thought made her heart ache with warmth and something more, something neither of them were ready to name aloud yet. They reached the corner where they would part ways, and the quiet moment stretched longer than either expected. Han hesitated, his hand brushing the edge of hers as if testing the waters, not wanting to break the fragile intimacy but unwilling to leave it entirely untouched.

“I… I’ll see you soon?” he asked, almost softly, as if asking too loudly might shatter the moment.

Ayla looked up at him, the streetlight glinting in her eyes. She could feel the weight of the world pressing down, her schedule, his schedule, the impossibility of being public, but in that instant, none of it mattered. She nodded slowly. “Yeah… soon, ” she said, letting the promise linger without words of clarification.

He smiled, a quiet, determined smile that carried all of his hope and longing. “Good. Because… I don’t think I can wait too long, ” he said, a teasing lilt in his tone, though the honesty behind it made her heart flutter.

Their hands brushed, just barely, before she stepped back. The contact was fleeting, a ghost of what had become a deeper connection over months of slow-burning tension, but it left them both feeling unsteady and aware of how much they wanted more. “I should go, ” Ayla whispered, her voice catching slightly. She adjusted the jacket around her shoulders, not quite ready to leave the warmth of his presence behind.

“I’ll walk you to the subway, ” Han offered, not wanting to let the night end just yet.

They walked side by side for a few more moments, quiet, the world around them muted except for their shared breaths and the subtle rhythms of the city at night. When they finally reached the station, they paused again, the space between them heavy with unspoken words. Ayla smiled faintly, a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration in her eyes. “Thanks… for tonight. For everything, ” she said.

Han’s fingers twitched, wanting to reach for her again, to hold her close, but he let it be. “Always, ” he murmured. “Be safe.”

She stepped back, disappearing down the stairs toward the train platform, and he stayed at the top, watching until her figure blurred into the crowd. The quiet ache in his chest was tempered by hope, a fragile, glowing ember that whispered that this secret, impossible relationship might just be worth it; and as he turned back toward the apartment, Han felt it clearly: the slow-burn between them wasn’t just desire or curiosity anymore. It was growing into something steady, something worth protecting, worth fighting for, no matter the challenges ahead.

Chapter Text

Han’s apartment felt unusually small that evening, the hum of the city outside pressing in through the windows. He sat on the edge of the couch, head in his hands, chest tight, as if the weight of everything, the schedules, the expectations, the never-ending swirl of promotions and interviews, was pressing him under. His phone buzzed on the coffee table, ignored, because even the idea of replying felt like a mountain he couldn’t climb. He’d tried to breathe, he’d tried to tell himself he could handle it, that he always handled it. But tonight, everything unspooled at once. His chest constricted, his vision tunneled, and the edges of the room seemed to warp in a blur of color and noise.

Ayla’s voice cut through the haze, soft but insistent, “Han? Are you okay?” He didn’t respond at first. He wanted to, but the panic had a grip on him he couldn’t loosen. His breathing came in jagged, shallow bursts. His hands shook as he tried to pull them from his face. Ayla was beside him before he could process, sitting on the couch next to him, her fingers brushing against his arm. “Han, ” she said gently, voice steady, careful. “Look at me. It’s okay. You’re safe here. I’m right here.”

Her presence anchored him in ways he hadn’t realized he needed. The rush of panic didn’t immediately subside, but her hand on his shoulder, her proximity, her unwavering gaze gave him something to hold onto. Something real. “I… I can’t…” he choked out, voice shaking. “Everything’s too much. I can’t… keep up…”

Ayla’s thumb traced small circles on the back of his hand. “Shh. You don’t have to do it alone. Not now. Not ever, ” she murmured, her tone soft enough to cut through the roar in his mind. “Breathe with me, okay? One, two… in. Two, out. Slowly.”

He followed, reluctantly at first, then gradually, the shallow, panicked gasps lengthening into fuller, if still uneven, breaths. She didn’t rush him. She didn’t ask questions. She simply existed beside him, a steady presence against the chaos clawing at his chest. “I… I feel so stupid, ” he whispered after a long silence, shame threading his words. “I shouldn’t… I can’t… panic like this…”

Ayla shook her head, brushing hair from his forehead. “No. You’re not stupid, Han. You’re human. And feeling like this… it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you need support. And I… I’m here. Always.” Her words sank in, warm and grounding. For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself lean into her presence. Not the Han the world saw, the idol, the unshakable performer, but the Han who was just… Han. Vulnerable, scared, messy, real. She adjusted herself so her head rested lightly against his shoulder. “I’ve got you, ” she whispered again. “Just let me hold you for a minute.” And he did. No words. No pretenses. Just the quiet, intimate weight of her beside him, her warmth spilling into him, slowing the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat. The apartment, the city, the expectations, all of it faded to a low hum in the background.

Somewhere between the steadying of his breath and the press of her hand over his, Han felt a fragile kind of relief. Not complete, not fixed, but enough. Enough to realize that whatever came next, the chaos, the schedules, the secrets, he didn’t have to face it alone. Not while she was here; and as he leaned into her, letting the panic recede slowly, he thought, maybe he could let himself hope. Maybe this slow-burn, impossible, secret relationship wasn’t just something to survive. Maybe it could be the thing that kept him grounded when the world got too heavy.

Han stayed pressed against her shoulder for a long moment, his fingers clenching the fabric of her sweater as if grounding himself in her presence. He didn’t speak, and she didn’t push. The silence wasn’t empty, it was a kind of shared understanding, a space where words weren’t necessary. Finally, his voice came, quiet, raw. “I don’t… I don’t know how to stop feeling like this. Like it’s all too much. The schedules… the fans… everything.”

Ayla tilted her head, brushing her thumb along the line of his jaw. “You don’t have to stop feeling it, ” she said gently. “You just need someone to be here with you when it hits. And I’m here.”

He let out a shaky laugh, a short, humorless sound. “I sound pathetic.”

“You sound human, ” she corrected softly. “And humans aren’t perfect. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

Her words had a gravity that settled over him like a blanket. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers, eyes still rimmed with the residue of panic, lips slightly trembling. “I… I don’t even know how to ask for help, ” he admitted. “I’ve always had to be the one people lean on, you know?”

Ayla’s hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his temple. “Then let me be the one you lean on, ” she murmured. “Just for a little while. That’s all I’m asking.”

He swallowed hard, caught between relief and vulnerability, and nodded slightly. “I don’t deserve… I don’t deserve this, ” he said, voice breaking.

“You deserve someone who stays, ” she said, voice firm but tender. “I stay. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words pierced through the guilt and self-doubt he’d been carrying for weeks. Slowly, hesitantly, he shifted closer, resting his forehead against hers. His breath mingled with hers, warm and steadying, and she didn’t pull away. “You make it… easier, ” he whispered, fingers brushing her arm. “Being with you… even just here. I’ve never… I don’t think I’ve ever felt safe like this.”

Ayla smiled faintly, the edges of her lips curving with care and patience. “Good, ” she said softly. “Because you are safe. Here. With me.”

They stayed like that, quiet, just feeling each other’s presence, each heartbeat syncing with the other. The room outside, the schedules, the chaos, all of it existed, but not in this space. Here, there was just them, and the fragile, tentative trust being built between two people who had spent too long carrying everything alone. Han’s hand trailed down to hers, brushing fingers against hers until their palms touched. Small, hesitant, but deliberate. Ayla didn’t pull back. Instead, she wove her fingers into his, letting the simple gesture carry weight far beyond words. 

“I… I don’t want to screw this up, ” he murmured, voice tight. “I want… I want to be better at this. At… us.”

“You’re doing fine, ” she whispered. “Better than you think. We’ll figure it out together. One step at a time.”

Her calm certainty grounded him in a way that nothing else could. For the first time in a long time, he felt the panic recede not just because it had to, but because someone held the space for him to breathe, to exist without the pressure of expectation. They leaned back against the couch, fingers intertwined, heads resting close. The apartment was quiet save for the low hum of the city beyond the windows. And as Han closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in her presence, he realized something profound: he could be scared, vulnerable, overwhelmed, and still feel like he belonged somewhere. With her. Ayla’s soft exhale against his shoulder was the quiet affirmation he needed. And in that small, unspoken way, a new layer of their relationship began, one built not just on attraction or slow-burning affection, but on trust, safety, and the courage to be vulnerable together.

The quiet stretched between them, but it no longer felt heavy. Instead, it carried the weight of something fragile and new, trust, closeness, and the first glimmers of something more. Han lifted his head slightly, meeting Ayla’s gaze. Her eyes were steady, unflinching, yet soft in a way that made his chest ache.

“I don’t… I don’t even know where to start, ” he admitted, voice low, threading between embarrassment and relief. “I just… I want to do better. Be better. For… us.”

Ayla’s hand squeezed his gently, a silent anchor. “We start by being here, ” she said. “Right now. Together. That’s enough for today. One step at a time.”

He let out a shaky laugh, brushing a thumb along her knuckles. “Yeah… okay. One step at a time.”

Her smile, faint but warm, was enough to make the panic and guilt that had clung to him all week melt into something manageable. “We’ll figure it out, ” she murmured. “Even if it’s messy or awkward. Even if it’s… complicated.”

“Complicated…” he echoed, the word tasting bitter and sweet at the same time. “Yeah. That’s… us.” They laughed softly together, the sound light but grounding. Han’s forehead rested against hers again, longer this time, as if trying to memorize the feel of her, to hold onto the warmth that seemed almost impossibly rare in his world. “I… I like this, ” he said quietly, “even if it’s just… this. Just sitting here with you, nothing else matters.”

Ayla shifted closer, her other hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Then we’ll have more of this, ” she promised. “Not every day will be easy, but we’ll have moments like this. Enough to remind us why we try.”

His chest tightened with the weight of that promise. “I don’t want to lose you, ” he murmured, almost to himself.

“You won’t, ” she said firmly, her thumb tracing small, soothing circles against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere, Han. I mean it.”

For the first time in a long while, he believed her. They sat there in silence a while longer, allowing themselves to settle into the comfort of each other’s presence. No words, no expectations, just connection. And it was enough. 

Finally, Han leaned back slightly, brushing a hand across his face as if to dispel the lingering tension. “Okay, ” he said, a small, determined grin tugging at his lips. “One step at a time. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Ayla mirrored his smile, a quiet warmth in her eyes. “Together, ” she agreed.

The clock ticked softly in the background, the apartment bathed in the golden hues of evening. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Han allowed himself to imagine a future, not a distant dream, but one that might actually exist. One that included her. As they finally rose, stretching limbs stiff from sitting close for so long, their hands found each other again, fingers entwining naturally, without hesitation. It was a small gesture, but a statement: a promise that whatever came next, they would face it together; and in that silent, intimate agreement, the slow burn of their relationship gained its first tangible warmth. A warmth they would carry forward, quietly but fiercely, into the days, and challenges, that lay ahead.

The night settled around them, calm and soft, and Han felt something he hadn’t allowed himself in a long time: hope.