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The first time Hoseok hears the name Min Yoongi , it’s almost whispered – a little reverent, mostly exhausted, and punctuated with a snap of latex gloves.
“He’s a pain in the ass,” the nurse mutters, flattening a chart against the nurses’ station desk. “Brilliant, sure. But I’ve seen warmer bedside manners from a scalpel.”
The chart bends under her hand. Her tone doesn’t change – just continues, like she’s reading a weather report she’s tired of forecasting.
Hoseok glances up from his clipboard, pen resting between his fingers. He doesn’t ask who she’s talking about. He doesn’t have to. There are only a few names in this hospital that draw that particular tone, half exasperation, half awe.
He’s been here two weeks and already knows how to listen for it – which surgeons make residents sweat through rounds, which attendings snap at nurses for walking too loudly during rounds, and which ones work late enough that their scrubs stay folded in their locker room like a second home.
Min Yoongi . Trauma surgeon.
Sharp, unapproachable, and apparently terrifying. Hoseok files it away with a polite smile and continues on his way back to the pediatric wing, chart in hand and heart still full of caffeine.
It isn’t until two days later that Hoseok sees him.
It’s nearly 10 PM when Hoseok catches a glimpse of him.
He’s just coming off a peds consult – a teen seizure case that turned out to be dehydration and stress –and the hallway smells like lemon cleaner and metal. His slippers squeak faintly against the linoleum as he rounds the corner near the surgical viewing gallery. He notices a few residents lingering near the glass railing, peering down into the OR below. Curious, he joins them.
The operating room is quiet – or looks that way, from here. But even from a distance, he can feel the electricity inside.
There’s a man at the table. Surgical mask pulled high. Face shield clipped tight, but Hoseok can see the dark eyes behind the face shield. They don’t flicker once. His movements are precise, unhurried in that way that only comes with certainty. His frame is sharp and broad under the sterile gown. Hoseok can see the dark of his hair swept back, not styled, just pushed out of the way like he couldn’t be bothered. There’s a kind of stillness to him that stands out even in motion, like the rest of the room is moving around him and he’s simply holding gravity in place.
The resident beside Hoseok leans closer, whispering, “That’s Dr. Min.”
Hoseok doesn’t respond right away. He watches the way Yoongi works. The team moves around him like orbiting moons – everyone aware of his presence, adjusting their rhythm to match his without a word. And Yoongi doesn’t ask questions. He directs with a tilt of the chin, a curt nod, a single word.
Someone hands him a clamp. He doesn’t look. Just takes it. He doesn’t waste a single second. Not on movement, not on posture. Even the way he tilts his head is economical. He’s in control of the room in the way only someone who has touched death and dragged patients back from it can be.
There’s something surgical in the way he exists, too. Not just his hands, which are so exact it’s unsettling, but in the way he stands. Grounded. Still. Like chaos could explode around him, and he wouldn’t flinch.
There’s blood on his gloves, the deep kind that means someone was dying less than 10 minutes ago. And from the look of things, they aren’t anymore.
The team moves like a solar system around him. Orbiting. Responsive. He doesn’t bark orders, but they’re listening. Listening because Yoongi doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary. The kind of authority that doesn’t need volume. That’s always the most dangerous kind.
Hoseok leans a little closer to the glass. And for the briefest second, Yoongi glances up.
Just to check something overhead – maybe the lights, maybe a time marker – but in that moment their eyes catch. And it hits Hoseok harder than he expects.
Not because Yoongi notices him because Yoongi doesn’t . It’s fleeting. Yoongi doesn’t react. His gaze moves on, slides past Hoseok like he’s glass. Back to the table. Back to work.
Hoseok feels his chest tighten with something that’s not quite offense, but not admiration, either. Interest, maybe. Or the first flicker of challenge.
He stays at the railing until the final stitch is placed. Long after the residents have drifted off.
The hospital at 1:43 AM breathed differently.
Quieter, deeper. As if the building itself had finally exhaled after holding its breath through a day of trauma calls and relentless beeping machines. Most of the lights on the surgical wing had been dimmed, replaced by the faint blue haze of night-mode fluorescents that buzzed gently overhead. The kind of hour when only the ghosts and the surgeons wandered.
Hoseok padded down the east corridor, slippers soft against the linoleum. A clipboard was tucked under one arm, his ID badge swinging loose as he walked. He wasn’t in a rush – just finishing his shift. The kind of night where every elevator ding echoed louder than it should’ve.
The doors opened before he even pressed the button. He stepped in without thinking and then paused.
There was already someone inside. Leaning in the corner, one shoulder propped against the wall, coat still half open over dark scrubs. Black hair tousled and damp near the temples, as if he’d only just scrubbed out. A mask hung from one ear.
Dr. Min.
Hoseok blinked. For a second, he considered backing out. But Yoongi didn’t look up – didn’t even acknowledge him – and it felt weirder to leave now. So Hoseok stepped in, turned quietly, and pressed the button for the fourth floor. The doors slid shut with a soft whhhhmp.
Silence.
Yoongi didn’t move. He was staring at the panel of floor numbers like it had personally wronged him. His arms were crossed over his chest, one hand tapping a rhythm against the opposite forearm. The faintest whiff of antiseptic lingered on him – clean, sharp, surgical.
Hoseok shifted his weight and cleared his throat softly.
No response.
Still, he tried. “You were amazing in the OR!” He didn’t expect a whole conversation. Just a nod, maybe. A glance.
Hoseok didn’t miss the way Yoongi’s eyes flicked over him - the scrubs, the clipboard, even the stickers.
Yoongi blinked slowly. Then looked at him sideways – not turning his whole head, just his eyes. He registered the scrubs – not the usual dull blue, but light lavender. Clean, pressed, neatly cuffed at the wrists. A little bright for this hour, but oddly fitting. The clipboard tucked under his arm had little star-shaped stickers slapped on one corner – probably a kid’s doing, or maybe his own. One of them was glittery. Hoseok was slim, not in a frail way, but in that graceful, naturally narrow-framed way that made him move like he never took up too much space. Big eyes, soft mouth with a subtle beauty mark at the top lip. His posture was relaxed, but not careless – something about him glowed even under these grimy lights. Too soft for this hour. Too soft for this hospital, Yoongi thought.
Hoseok held his ground, giving a small, sheepish smile. He had a heart-shaped mouth and soft, rounded eyes, and under the harsh elevator light, he looked more out of place than Yoongi had patience for at this hour.
“You were watching?” Yoongi asked, voice low like the inside of a locked drawer.
“I mean, yeah. I was just passing the gallery and it was hard not to.”
Yoongi’s stare lingered for a beat too long. His eyes were dark, expression unreadable. He said nothing.
The elevator dinged softly as it passed the third floor.
Hoseok awkwardly laughed under his breath. “Sorry. I know you probably don’t want to talk. I just thought it was really clean work. I haven’t seen anyone stitch that fast before. And the suction timing–”
“You talk a lot.”
It wasn’t said cruelly. Just an observation. An exhausted one.
Hoseok blinked. “Uh, sorry.”
Yoongi sighed, low. Then turned his head fully, finally facing him. “Fourth floor?”
Hoseok nodded his head.
“That’s Peds. You’re the new consultant.”
Hoseok straightened, surprised. “You know that?”
Yoongi shrugged, still watching him. “I notice things.”
Then, just as quickly, he turned away again. His gaze returned to the door. The elevator slid to a stop, and the doors opened. Yoongi stepped out without another word, not a look back, not even a nod. Yoongi stepped out with the same rhythm in his stride that he always had. Quiet, precise, no wasted motion.
But just before the doors slid shut again, Hoseok caught it.
Yoongi’s voice, low, not facing him.
“You’re not bad, either.” The elevator doors closed.
And Hoseok stood there, mouth curled into the barest of smiles, the compliment still echoing quietly in the space between them.
It started happening more often.
Yoongi, usually buried in Trauma or Orthopedics, somehow began crossing paths with Hoseok everywhere. In the elevators. At the scrub stations. Near vending machines and nurses' stations, and quiet corridors where their shifts overlapped just enough to make eye contact inevitable.
He never said much. Hoseok never pushed.
“Peds needs surgical backup,” the charge nurse had said, half-reading from the chart. “Abdominal obstruction. Ten-year-old male. Min’s taking it.”
Hoseok barely looked up. “Dr. Min?”
“Yeah. Apparently, he’s assisting.” A pause. “Or maybe leading. Not clear.”
Hoseok checked the name again. It was one of his. A sweet kid, quiet. Already scared enough by the idea of surgery. And now one of the most famously unreadable surgeons in the hospital was going to be the one operating?
“Hey,” Hoseok said gently, crouching at the bedside, his fingers combing through the kid's hair. “You’re going to be okay, alright? We’re here to help, and you’ll feel better before you know it. Your mom will also be by your side at all times.” Hoseok smiled at her.
The kid blinked up at him, tears swelling. “Will it hurt?”
“Not with Dr. Min doing it,” Hoseok said with confidence and a smile. “He’s the best.”
A quiet voice joined them. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
Hoseok turned. Yoongi stood at the foot of the bed, mask looped around his fingers, coat open just enough to show the dark navy of his scrub top. His expression was calm. Voice, soft.
“Hi,” he said, nodding toward the kid. “I’m Dr. Min. We’re gonna take good care of you.”
The boy nodded, visibly calming.
And Hoseok – just for a second – watched the shift in Yoongi’s face.
He didn’t smile, not fully. But his tone changed. He crouched slightly, kept his voice low but easy. Called the boy champ. Asked about his favorite soccer team. Explained the procedure in plain words, careful, no hint of condescension.
Warm , Hoseok realized. Not friendly. Not fake. Just gentler.
They scrubbed in together in silence.
In the OR, under sterile light, they moved like puzzle pieces. Hoseok wasn’t a full surgical resident, but he’d observed, assisted, stitched, clamped, and cleaned. He knew the rhythm. Knew how to keep up.
Yoongi didn’t talk unless he had to, but when he did, his voice was firm. Efficient. Surgical.
They worked the case cleanly. Midway through, the kid’s vitals dipped briefly, and Hoseok’s hand flew to the clamp tray. Yoongi reached for the same tool at the same moment. Their hands brushed. Yoongi’s touch was warm. Gloved, but steady. And the contact sent a tiny static jolt up Hoseok’s arm.
“Here,” Yoongi said, adjusting Hoseok’s wrist almost automatically. Just a flick of his fingers, a push to correct the angle, but Hoseok felt it like a hand on his lower back.
Yoongi didn’t look up. Didn’t mention it. But Hoseok saw the way his shoulders had gone still, like he wasn’t used to being touched.
Later, as they cleaned up, peeling off gowns and snapping gloves into the bin, Hoseok glanced over. “You’re good with kids,” he said softly.
Yoongi was washing his hands, back slightly turned. “I’m good with patients.”
“I meant what I said,” Hoseok teased. “If I had to be on that table, I’d want it to be you.”
Yoongi looked over then, not full-on, just enough for Hoseok to catch his eye. He didn’t say thank you. Just studied Hoseok like he was trying to solve something.
“You always talk this much after surgery?” he asked.
“Only when it’s a good one.”
Yoongi huffed – barely audible – and turned back to the sink.
But after Hoseok left the room, Yoongi lingered.
Hands dry. Lights buzzing overhead. Still staring at the door Hoseok had walked out of. He wasn’t smiling. But his expression had softened, like the edges of something sharp dulled for just a second. Like something warm had settled under his skin, and he wasn’t sure whether to shake it off or let it sink in.
It’s 3:21 AM, and the post-op wing was half-dark and mostly silent.
A single nurse sat behind the desk, scrolling through her phone. Monitors blinked slowly and steadily, their beeps like calm heartbeats in the otherwise still hall. Yoongi moved quietly, not sneaking, but practiced. He knew how to walk without drawing attention. Most people assumed he didn’t care to check on patients personally. And usually, he didn’t. Not because he didn’t care, but because it was already done. He did his job in the OR. That was the promise. That was the standard.
But tonight, he had walked to the fourth floor instead of heading home.
The pediatric recovery room was dimmed. A soft nightlight glowed in the corner, casting a warm amber circle across the tile. The boy, his patient, slept soundly in the bed, chest rising and falling slowly. No complications. No stress.
But it wasn’t the boy who made Yoongi pause in the doorway.
It was the figure curled in the chair beside the bed.
Jung Hoseok.
This time in his light pink scrubs, badge turned around on its lanyard, and clipboard tucked under one arm like a security blanket. His body was curled slightly inward, head resting on one forearm, which was stretched gently across the mattress like he’d meant to comfort the kid – and fallen asleep mid-sentence. His eyelashes cast long shadows. His lips were parted just slightly. One hand hung over the edge of the armrest, fingers limp. His knees were drawn in loosely, legs crossed at the ankle. He looked like he hadn’t meant to sleep. Like he’d fought it. Like he’d stayed because he wanted to be the one to make sure everything stayed okay.
Yoongi stood there for a moment, quiet.
He took in the curve of Hoseok’s spine, the way his shoulder blades rose under the cotton scrubs. He noticed the way his heart-shaped lips were in a pout – like Hoseok’s face had never learned how to frown, even unconsciously. His hands looked warm, ungloved, open, and small.
Without thinking, Yoongi stepped inside. Quiet as a breath. He moved closer. His own shadow fell across Hoseok’s hand. Yoongi’s fingers twitched at his side, uncertain, then moved. Slow. Measured. He reached for the folded gray blanket on the shelf and brought it down without a sound.
And then, carefully, almost hesitantly, he draped it over Hoseok’s shoulders. His coat would’ve been warmer, but it was still in the locker room. This would do.
For a second, Yoongi hovered. His fingers brushed Hoseok’s shoulder as he adjusted the fabric, and the younger man stirred-not awake, but enough to turn slightly toward him. His cheek shifted against the crook of his arm.
Yoongi’s gaze dropped to Hoseok’s face. He was pretty. That kind of soft, delicate, pretty that didn’t look rehearsed. Long lashes, the gentle curve of his nose, and that mouth, full, relaxed, the kind of mouth that smiled without needing to.
And Yoongi – well, he’d operated on shattered spines and sewn arteries in hurricanes. But something about the way Hoseok sighed in his sleep, completely unaware, was a different kind of pressure.
A different kind of fragile.
Yoongi straightened. Looked once more at the boy in the bed – healthy. Stable.
Then, with no expression and something unreadable in his chest, he turned and left.
The nurse at the desk watched him pass. “He’s gonna think you’re soft,” she muttered as he walked by.
Yoongi didn’t answer, but his steps were slower.
The pediatric ward was always rowdy and loud during the day and quiet at night. Lights dimmed low. Hallways hushed. Only a few nurses moved softly from room to room, and the televisions in the family lounge played on mute. Hoseok likes to check the ward before heading out. He liked ending his shifts that way. The world outside the windows was black glass, the reflection of sterile floors and sleeping children stretched out like a dream.
Tonight, he moved slowly. No clipboard. Just his badge and that same soft rhythm in his steps.
When he passed the old playroom, he kept walking. It was a converted space – used more for storage these days, a few mats still stacked in the corner, some oversized plush toys leaning against a low bookcase. But then he heard it.
A faint strum.
The door wasn’t fully closed. Just cracked an inch. Enough to let the soft hum of acoustic guitar drift out into the hall – something clean and sweet, the kind of song that didn’t need words to say something.
He stepped closer. The room glowed dimly with a standing lamp in the corner, golden light pooling around a loose circle of kids, five or six of them, sleepy-eyed and curled up on beanbags or sitting cross-legged on the padded floor. They were listening. Really listening.
And there, at the front of them, was Yoongi. Seated on a low bench, black scrubs loose, sleeves pushed to the elbows, guitar resting in his lap. His fingers moved easily over the strings, slow and practiced. Not stiff. Not fussy. Just sure.
He froze in the doorway, breath snagging before he even knew why. Yoongi didn’t speak. Didn’t narrate. Just played – focused, head tilted slightly, the line of his jaw soft in the lamplight. His expression was calm, almost peaceful. The kids watched him like he was magic.
Hoseok didn’t step in. He stayed in the hallway, back pressed lightly to the doorframe, just listening. And for a long, quiet minute, Yoongi didn’t notice. Then, mid-chord, he glanced up, and their eyes met.
Yoongi stiffened.
It was just a flicker of surprise, but it showed. His fingers faltered, just slightly, stumbling on the next chord before catching it again. His head dipped down a second later, hair falling forward as he focused hard on the frets like nothing had happened. But Hoseok had already seen it – the exact second Yoongi realized he was being watched. And something about that reaction, that split-second moment of vulnerability, warmed Hoseok more than the music had.
He smiled, soft and wide. Pressed a hand to his chest, like he was holding in a laugh.
Then turned and walked away.
No words. No teasing.
Just the smallest giggle in the hallway as he disappeared down the corridor, steps light, heartbeat lighter.
Inside the room, Yoongi finished the song. His fingers had steadied again. But his ears were warm, and for some reason, he couldn’t stop replaying that sound in his head – not the kids, not the guitar.
Just that little laugh.
The cafeteria sat on the west wing of the hospital, tucked behind glass walls that looked out over the massive lake just beyond the property. Some days, the view almost made the place feel peaceful, especially around noon, when the sun was sharp against the surface, painting it in endless blues and silvers that glinted through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Yoongi sat at the smallest table nearest the glass, alone. The rest of the room was mostly cleared out – lunch rush gone, trays abandoned on carts, chairs pushed back and left half-swiveled. No one liked the corner because the chairs wobbled slightly, but Yoongi didn’t care. He’d just come off a 12-hour shift, mostly in the trauma OR, and he was on call again tonight. He didn’t need perfect. He just needed quiet. He had a second cup of coffee in front of him, already half-cold, the plastic lid discarded somewhere to the side. His shoulders slouched slightly as he leaned back in the chair, legs stretched out under the table, one boot knocking lightly against the leg of the chair across from him. It was quiet here.
He’d been on call the night before. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Just moved between ORs, his pager screaming every ninety minutes. He was still in his scrubs – coat off, sleeves pushed up. His shoulders hurt. His jaw ached from clenching it too long.
So when a bright blur of movement entered the corner of his vision, he braced.
“Hi,” Hoseok said, breathless and beaming, practically hugging the oversized lunchbox he held with both hands. His scrubs a pale, soft yellow, radiating against the warm glow of his skin like the universe personally lit him from the inside.
His lanyard swung from time to time, clinging and clanging and jingling and jangling. Yoongi counted at least four charms –a glittering star, a plastic strawberry, a doctor hello kitty, and something with a cartoon bear in a nurse hat. The whole thing jingled with each bounce of his ID card, and somehow, that was what made Yoongi’s headache pulse harder.
Yoongi stared at him over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Found you,” Hoseok beamed, lifting a massive lunchbox in both hands like he was offering Yoongi a trophy. “Was hoping you didn’t sneak off to the roof again.”
Yoongi blinked once, barely glancing up from his coffee. His tone was flat, but not unkind – the kind of quiet sarcasm that came from knowing someone well enough to speak without effort. “It’s not sneaking if it’s allowed.”
He watched as Hoseok set the oversized lunchbox on the table like a prized offering. The plastic charms on his lanyard clinked against the edge of the container, their cheerful rattle completely at odds with the sterile stillness of the cafeteria.
“You eat like a raccoon when you go up there,” Hoseok replied, already pulling off the lid and revealing layers of neatly packed food. The smell drifted out immediately – soy, garlic, sesame oil, something sweet and citrusy – warm and grounding, like home.
Yoongi exhaled through his nose, long and a little tired. “I eat efficiently.”
“You eat fruit rinds and espresso shots,” Hoseok countered, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. He sat down without waiting for permission, the chair scraping softly against the tile. “That's not efficiency, that's malnutrition with commitment.”
Yoongi’s mouth twitched at the corner. Just barely. He looked at Hoseok now, really looked – at the pale yellow scrubs catching the afternoon light, at the faint curve of a smile forming under large eyes, at the warmth he carried in his movements without even realizing it.
His voice came low, almost begrudging. “Are you here to scold me or feed me?”
“Of course, both,” Hoseok said. Yoongi didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything at all. Just watched – silent, unmoving – as Hoseok laid out container after container, like he was setting a feast for a small army. Each one neatly packed. Rice, meat, seasoned greens, steamed egg rolls, something that looked like stir-fried lotus root, and fresh-cut fruit. Even the utensils were wrapped in a napkin, held together with a cartoon sticker of a bunny holding a fork.
Yoongi didn’t stop him.
Yoongi stared, spoon paused mid-air. His brows lifted slightly as he scanned the array of food in front of him, still steaming, meticulously arranged, too generous to be casual.
“You always cook like this?” he asked, voice low, caught somewhere between suspicion and genuine surprise.
Across from him, Hoseok shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. But the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. There was a quiet pride in the way he nudged the sweet-glazed lotus root closer to Yoongi’s plate.
“Only for people I want to keep alive.”
Yoongi gave him a slow look. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Enough to know you survive off of bitterness and citrus.”
Yoongi huffed something like a laugh. “Those are technically both fruit.”
“Yoongi.”
But his name didn’t sound like a reprimand. It came out soft. Familiar. Like it belonged in the air between them.
Hoseok filled one of the small side plates with rice and slid it across the table. No demand. No big gesture. Just quiet, natural care. Like he’d done it before and would keep doing it again.
And Yoongi – tired, worn down to the nerves, face slightly pale from lack of sleep – picked up the spoon and let himself eat. It was good. Better than good. It was warm and rich and carried a hint of something deeply nostalgic, like a meal meant to bring someone back to life. The beef was perfectly tender. The sauce soaked into the rice just right. The vegetables weren’t overcooked, the fruit was chilled, the portions ideal. And Yoongi, in a rare moment of honesty, muttered “You’re a really good cook.”
Hoseok’s face lit up again “Yeah?”
Yoongi nodded slowly, swallowing his next bite. “Yeah.”
They ate like that for a while – Hoseok chattering gently about nothing in particular, Yoongi listening in comfortable silence. Every so often, Hoseok would scoop up another portion and offer it, like it was second nature. And Yoongi would let him. No grumbling. No eye rolls.
Just small nods. Quiet hums. A softening behind his eyes.
At some point, Yoongi realized his muscles weren’t clenched anymore. His stomach didn’t ache. The weight behind his eyes had eased. He felt warm. Not just full – fed . Like something had been stitched back into place that he hadn’t even known was missing.
And Hoseok, across from him, bright and humming and bouncing slightly in his chair with every smile, he looked like he’d known it all along.
“I made too much,” Hoseok said, nudging a second slice of rolled egg onto Yoongi’s plate.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t,” Yoongi said again, voice low. “You made it exactly right.”
Hoseok blinked. And then a soft smile.
Gentle.
Private.
And the trinkets on his lanyard jingled once more, a quiet sound between two people who were finally learning how to sit at the same table.
The lunchbox sat half-open between them, the food barely touched. Hoseok, as usual, had gone overboard: a rolled omelet, sweet soy mushrooms, grilled beef strips with crisped edges, two sections of perfectly peeled tangerines, and even a little square of honey cake sitting in a corner compartment like a reward.
Yoongi wasn’t saying much, but he hadn’t pushed it away either. He just kept eating, slow and methodical, as if this were routine – which, at this point, it kind of was.
The cafeteria had quieted from the lunch rush, the clatter of trays and laughter fading into the low hum of vending machines and distant hallway pages. The two of them sat by the window, light spilling in across the floor, glinting off Hoseok’s ridiculous lanyard charms again – a tiny bunny, a sunflower, something that looked like a jellybean with a face.
Yoongi tried not to stare. He failed, but at least he did it behind sips of barley tea.
“You should slow down,” Hoseok said, nudging the thermos closer. “You eat like someone’s gonna take it away from you.”
Yoongi didn’t glance up. “You might.”
“I cooked it for you,” Hoseok whined with a soft laugh, eyes crinkling. “Why would I steal it back?”
Yoongi raised a brow. “To feed me with your own fork again. You seem to enjoy that.”
A beat of silence.
Hoseok’s smile faltered just slightly, the colour in his cheeks rising.
He looked down, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “That was once.”
Yoongi finally met his eyes – dark and unreadable, but his mouth had a hint of curve. Barely there. “Twice.
“Fine. But you didn’t stop me.”
“I was tired.”
“You opened your mouth when I held the food up.”
Yoongi smirked. “You looked offended when I didn’t.”
Hoseok groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “You are the worst.”
A voice from behind them interrupted before Yoongi could respond.
“Well that’s cute.”
Both of them looked up at once – and there stood Dr. Kwon, one of the senior cardiothoracic surgeons. Mid-fifties. Gruff. Sharp as glass and just as blunt. He’d clearly come looking for coffee and found something far more amusing.
Yoongi blinked. “What?”
Dr. Kwon grinned. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your date , Dr. Min.”
Yoongi sat up straighter, something shifting in his shoulders – not bristling, but aware. Hoseok looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole.
Dr. Kwon nodded toward Hoseok. “He’s the pediatrics resident, right? The smiley one who wears stickers on his pager.”
Hoseok made a noise of protest, already flushing.
“Finally dating him?” Kwon asked bluntly. “Good choice. The nurses said it’d happen eventually.”
Yoongi didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at Dr. Kwon for a long second, letting that dry, calculating quiet hang there like a smoke cloud.
“None of your business.” Yoongi muttered, annoyed, going right back to his food.
Kwon laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Walking off, chuckling all the way to the vending machines.
Yoongi said nothing. Just kept chewing, then reached for the rice roll without missing a beat. Across from him, Hoseok was frozen, spoon hovering mid-air, face tomato red.
“I – uh – do people actually–? Do they think that–?” Hoseok stammered, voice going high and sharp. “I mean, it’s not–! We’re not!”
Yoongi sighed like he’d been expecting this. “They talk. Let them.”
“But you – You didn’t deny it.”
Yoongi looked at him, expression unreadable but gaze very direct. “Would it be a problem if I didn’t?”
Hoseok’s mouth opened. Then closed.
He fumbled with his spoon again. “I just – I thought you didn’t like rumours.”
“I don’t.”
A pause.
“But I don’t like denying you either.”
Silence fell thick between them.
The sounds of the hospital returned, distant footsteps, a soft overhead chime, a low voice paging someone to cardiology. But at the table by the window, time stretched thin and slow like sugar pulled taut.
Yoongi finally leaned back in his chair, taking in Hoseok’s stunned expression, the way his lashes dipped, the way his pretty mouth parted like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.
He gestured toward the half-eaten lunchbox.
“Eat,” Yoongi said, quieter now.
Hoseok obeyed. Still dazed. Still flushed.
Yoongi looked out the window again, hand on his cup, jaw resting against the knuckles of his other hand.
But beneath the surface, behind the carefully cool exterior, he was buzzing. A warm, anchored kind of buzz. Like he could sit here with Hoseok’s food and Hoseok’s voice and Hoseok’s trinkets jingling like bells – and stay forever.
It was just past 1 a.m.
The hospital had thinned out – patients settled, nurses rotating shifts, the fluorescent lights humming low instead of bright. Hoseok was finishing up his charts when he heard the knock. A soft double tap against the supply room door. Not urgent. Familiar.
He opened it to find Yoongi leaning against the doorframe, white coat slung over one shoulder, black undershirt wrinkled, hair mussed slightly from running a hand through it too many times. His lanyard was gone. So was his tie. The only thing left on him that looked “surgeon” was the fatigue in his eyes and the faint indentation on the bridge of his nose from his glasses.
“I need a favour,” Yoongi said, voice rough from hours of speaking low, sharp commands in the OR.
Hoseok blinked. “Uh – okay?”
“Your hands. You said you used to do physio before med school.”
Hoseok’s brain stalled for a second. “You want a massage?”
“Shoulders. Just ten minutes.” Yoongi gestured with a loose shrug. “My back’s killing me. I’ve been standing since noon.”
Hoseok stared. “Why me?”
“Because your hands are soft and you talk too much,” Yoongi said flatly. “Figure it evens out.”
That wasn’t an answer. But Hoseok was already nodding, heart doing stupid little backflips against his ribs.
The on-call room was dimly lit, a single lamp in the corner and a narrow bed pushed against one wall. There was a folded blanket on the end, someone’s spare hoodie on the chair, and the faint sterile-clean smell of a place where too many doctors had tried to get too little rest.
Yoongi shut the door behind them with a soft click, then walked to the edge of the bed and sat down.
Wordlessly, he peeled off his shirt.
Hoseok froze.
Yoongi’s back and shoulders were broad, muscle running smooth under pale skin marked with faint, old freckles – the kind you only noticed up close. His shoulders were cut, thick arms flexing slightly as he adjusted his position. Hoseok caught sight of veins, the slope of Yoongi’s neck, the solid line of his spine.
Yoongi looked over his shoulder. “You coming, or are you planning to faint first?”
“I’m fine,” Hoseok croaked, voice about an octave too high.
He stepped forward, heart thundering, and placed his hands carefully on Yoongi’s shoulders — thumbs just under the slope, fingers curling around muscle.
Yoongi didn’t flinch. He just exhaled, slow and deep, like the tension had been sitting under his skin all day and finally had permission to release.
“You’re tense,” Hoseok murmured, trying to focus.
“Mm.”
“Like… a rock .” Hoseok’s hands moved slower now, more deliberate. Pressing into the deep tissue, working through the stubborn knots near the shoulder blades. Yoongi’s skin was warm. Dense with heat, with strength. His breath hitched just once when Hoseok found a particularly tight spot – a quiet inhale, chest expanding under Hoseok’s hands.
“Right there,” Yoongi murmured, almost too low to hear.
Hoseok felt sick.
He didn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe a moment of awkwardness. A laugh to shake off the tension. But none came. Just Yoongi, quiet and calm, letting himself be touched without flinching. Trusting him.
And Hoseok, trying very hard not to tremble under the weight of that.
Ten minutes passed like a dream. When Hoseok finally started to pull back, Yoongi reached behind and caught his slim wrist – just gently, fingers wrapping around.
“You’re good at this,” he said, still not looking.
Hoseok blinked. “Thanks. I mean – I used to do it a lot. For rehab patients. I –”
“You always this nervous?” Yoongi cut in, tone lazy.
Hoseok flushed. “Not always.”
“Hm.”
He turned, slowly, shifting until he was half-facing Hoseok now, still shirtless, still close enough that Hoseok could see every faint line of muscle.
“You get flustered too easy.”
“I do not ,” Hoseok lied, poorly.
Yoongi’s eyes flicked to where Hoseok’s own hands still lingered near his shoulder, to the way his breath hitched in his chest. Yoongi smiled small, and leaned in just a little closer.
Not touching. Not quite.
But close enough that Hoseok could feel the intention behind it.
“Turn off the light on your way out,” Yoongi murmured, finally breaking eye contact and reaching for his shirt again.
Hoseok backed into the door. Then missed the handle.
Twice.
It started with the massages.
Small thing. Routine thing. Once or twice a week, tucked behind the on-call room’s heavy door. Yoongi never asked directly. Just found Hoseok in passing – in the hallway, in the stairwell, once by the vending machine – and nodded toward the hallway like it meant something.
Hoseok always followed.
Yoongi would sit on the edge of the cot, half his shirt unbuttoned already. Hoseok would step in behind him, hands familiar now with the shape of Yoongi’s shoulders, the tension that curled there like wire. It had become rhythmic. Hoseok pressing slow and deep into muscle. Yoongi breathing soft and steady. Sometimes speaking. Sometimes not.
But tonight wasn’t like the others.
The door clicked shut. Yoongi didn’t speak. He sat in his usual place, but slower, hands on his knees, shirt still on. His body was stiff in a way Hoseok hadn’t seen before. Like something had been clamped down all day. Like he hadn’t had a second to breathe.
“Bad day?” Hoseok asked gently.
Yoongi didn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly “Yeah.”
Hoseok stepped behind him, hands warm against Yoongi’s shoulders. “Alright. Deep breath.”
Yoongi exhaled slowly. Hoseok started to work.
The silence stretched out – heavy, but not uncomfortable. His slim fingers found the tightest points. Yoongi’s head dipped slightly forward. The light above them was soft, almost golden, casting long shadows across the lines of his back.
“You’re really tense,” Hoseok murmured.
Yoongi hummed. “Guess I need you more than I thought.”
Something about the way he said it made Hoseok pause. But he kept going – moving lower, thumbs pressing in a firm circle along the edge of Yoongi’s spine. Yoongi’s breath hitched.
Hoseok swallowed. He didn’t mean to lean in, but he did. His hands slid slightly lower – just above the waistband of Yoongi’s slacks – and Yoongi’s body went still.
The pause was quiet.
Loaded.
Then Yoongi’s hand reached back, fingers curling around Hoseok’s wrist. Not stopping him. Just holding.
“You’re good at this,” Yoongi said, voice rough.
Hoseok blinked. “You say that every time.”
Yoongi turned slowly – until he was facing him, eyes darker than before, lips parted like he’d just been interrupted in the middle of a thought. Hoseok’s heart slammed against his ribs. He was still standing, Yoongi still seated, but the air had shifted entirely.
Yoongi looked up. “You always this close,” he said, “or just with me?”
Hoseok stammered. “I – No! I mean, I don’t –”
Yoongi reached out, hand sliding up the side of Hoseok’s thigh, slow and deliberate. Just enough pressure to ground him. To warn him.
“I like your hands,” Yoongi said.
“Yoongi – ”
And then it broke.
Yoongi tugged him forward by the waist – Hoseok’s knees pressing against the edge of the cot. Before he could blink, Yoongi was leaning in, tilting his head slightly, and his lips brushed against the corner of Hoseok’s mouth. Not kissing yet. Just hovering .
Then he moved, so slow it felt cruel.
Lips ghosted over Hoseok’s mouth, then up – to the tiny beauty mark just above his lip. A single, deliberate lick of his tongue against it.
Hoseok gasped – a sharp, shocked inhale – and his legs nearly buckled.
Yoongi didn’t pull back. He just whispered, “I’ve wanted to do that for weeks.”
Hoseok looked dazed, lips parted, breath catching in shallow hiccups.
“I – I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.
Yoongi chuckled softly. “You don’t need to.”
His hands were back at Hoseok’s hips now, steady and warm. Hoseok was buzzing – dizzy and hot and heavy all at once. Every nerve under his skin felt electric.
Yoongi leaned forward, dragging his lips along Hoseok’s jaw, then lower – kissing his throat, slow and hot and open-mouthed. Hoseok’s knees gave out just a little.
“I’ve got you,” Yoongi murmured, catching him. “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”
“You’re –” Hoseok swallowed, face burning. “You’re really intense.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi said, pulling him flush against his chest. “And you like it.”
Hoseok buried his face in Yoongi’s shoulder, still trembling slightly, the scent of his skin dizzying up close.
“Sit down,” Yoongi said, gently tugging him into his lap on the cot. “Let me hold you for a bit.”
And he did.
He held Hoseok like he was made of something finer – big arms around his waist, Hoseok’s legs curled on either side of him, head tucked under his chin. Fingers tracing idle circles on his back.
It wasn’t even about the kiss anymore. It was the aftermath. The quiet.
The care.
Yoongi pressed one last kiss to the top of Hoseok’s head.
“You’re really something,” he whispered.
Hoseok barely managed to respond. Just curled tighter into Yoongi’s chest.
Warm. Flushed. Shaking. And smiling.
It was past seven. Hoseok had just finished his evening rounds, chart clipped under his arm, a pen tucked behind his ear, and a sleepy smile tugging at his mouth. The peds floor was dimming into its usual calm, most of the kids tucked in, warm with night-lights and the soft murmur of cartoons.
He didn’t expect to see Yoongi leaning against the nurses’ station.
At first, he almost missed him – hair pushed back but loose strands falling into his eyes, thick black jean jacket over a white shirt, clean black dress pants. A silver watch glinting on his wrist. He looked freshly showered, skin dewy and warm like he’d just stepped out of steam, cologne curling into the air around him – something deep and expensive, cedar and citrus. His hooded eyes were trained directly on Hoseok.
Hoseok stopped walking.
Yoongi didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at him. Like he was taking a moment.
Then, quietly, “You done?”
Hoseok blinked, a beat behind. “I – Yeah. Just finished.”
Yoongi nodded. Then straightened up, slow, hands in his pockets. “I wanna take you home.”
It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t demanding, either. Just simple. Honest.
Hoseok felt his ears heat. “You – You mean right now?”
Yoongi tilted his head slightly, and his mouth curved. “You got plans?”
“No – I mean. No. Just – ” He looked down at himself. Still in his scrubs, slippers scuffed, trinkets on his lanyard jingling. “I should probably shower first.”
Yoongi stepped in closer. Hoseok caught the scent of his perfume again – fresh, clean, dark.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” Yoongi murmured. “I’ll wait in the car.”
By the time Hoseok stepped into Yoongi’s car, his hair still damp at the ends, hoodie pulled on over a soft t-shirt, his pulse was racing. Yoongi had opened the door for him without saying anything, hand brushing lightly at the small of his back as he ducked inside.
The car was as sleek and quiet as Yoongi – all black leather and smooth curves, a subtle thrum under the dash. Music played low, something instrumental and soft.
They drove in a silence that wasn’t awkward. Just heavy. Full.
Halfway through the city, Hoseok spoke.
“So… the on-call room.”
Yoongi’s mouth twitched. “Mm.”
“I’ve never… I’ve never done anything like that,” Hoseok said softly, staring out the passenger window. “At work.”
“Me neither.”
Hoseok turned, surprised.
Yoongi kept his eyes on the road, voice calm. “Not until you.”
A quiet beat passed. Hoseok felt his throat close up.
“I’m not trying to mess around, Hoseok,” Yoongi said, gently. “I want to take you out. I want to do this right.”
Hoseok was quiet for a second too long.
Yoongi glanced over at him. “Unless that’s not what you want.”
“No – !” Hoseok said quickly, too loud. Then covered his mouth. “No. I want that. I really – I do.”
Yoongi smiled, just a little. “Good.”
They stopped at a red light. The streetlights washed them in white and gold. Hoseok looked over at him again – Yoongi’s hair falling into his face, watch catching the light, the slow roll of his jaw as he turned his head slightly to meet Hoseok’s eyes.
Hoseok’s heart thudded once. Yoongi reached across the console. Took his hand – big and warm, against Hoseok’s fingers.
He held it gently. Just like that. No rush.
“I figured I’d start with dinner,” Yoongi said quietly.
“And see how far you let me spoil you after that.”
Then Hoseok blinked and turned to look at him.
“Wait – aren’t you on call tonight?”
Yoongi’s mouth quirked, like he’d been waiting for the question. “Kwon gave me the week off.”
Hoseok sat up a little. “What? Why?”
“Said I’ve been pulling too many shifts and ruining morale with my face.”
Hoseok laughed. “That sounds exactly like him.”
Yoongi hummed. “Also said, and I quote – ‘Take Jung Hoseok on a real damn date before he starts thinking you’re just teasing him.’”
Hoseok flushed. “He said that? ”
Yoongi smirked. “He did. Smug bastard.”
Hoseok pressed his hands to his cheeks, clearly trying not to melt into the passenger seat. “You were already going to, though.”
Yoongi glanced at him. “Obviously.”