Chapter Text
2050 | Haeun Hospital Rooftop, Seoul
“Happy anniversary,” Min-jae said flatly, stabbing at the cold dumpling on his plate like it had personally ruined his life.
Baek Kang-hyuk and Yang Jaewon sat on opposite sides of the table, like two North and South Poles that had never met. Neither made eye contact. Kang-hyuk was drinking burnt hospital coffee from a paper cup. Jaewon was texting someone furiously — probably Nurse Jang-mi, if the furious thumbs were anything to go by.
“So,” Min-jae continued, “are you two gonna say something to each other? Or just keep pretending this isn’t the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day you met, adopted me, and then proceeded to emotionally damage me for life?”
Kang-hyuk blinked. “We didn’t meet today. That was in March.”
“It’s literally engraved on your matching trauma watches,” Min-jae snapped.
Jaewon huffed. “It wasn’t love at first sight, okay? He was a stuck-up trauma bot with a hero complex. I hated him.”
Kang-hyuk replied calmly, “I found you unprofessional and needlessly loud.”
“And yet,” Min-jae said, grinning wildly, “you adopted a baby together, built a home, raised me, and bought matching ferns for the kitchen.”
“I’m leaving,” Jaewon announced, rising from his seat like a soap opera villain. “This is pointless.”
Kang-hyuk didn’t stop him. “I’ll call the lawyer.”
Min-jae stood up so fast his chair nearly flipped. “Oh, come on!”
---
2050 | Sub-basement, Haeun Hospital
It was past midnight when Min-jae broke into the restricted archives beneath the hospital.
Everyone thought the sub-basement was for records. It wasn’t. It was for mistakes — the kind that had once gotten Haeun nearly blacklisted by the national science board. The kind Nurse Agnes, then a rebellious genius in scrubs, had helped design.
In the farthest corner was a rusted machine shaped like a CT scanner and an intercom duct-taped to the side. A handwritten sticky note read:
> “TIME LOOP PROTOTYPE - DO NOT USE (unless you’re REALLY desperate)”
— Nurse Agnes, circa 2025
Min-jae stared at it, then pulled off his ID badge. “Well,” he muttered, “guess I’m desperate.”
---
2025 | Haeun Hospital, ER Floor
He landed hard — flat on his back, in the middle of a storage room filled with gauze, trauma carts, and outdated CPR posters. Everything smelled like antiseptic and cheap instant coffee.
The door slammed open.
“Are you the new intern?” barked a very young, very suspicious Nurse Agnes, wearing her hair in a ponytail and holding a clipboard like a weapon. “Why are you on the floor?”
“I—I fainted?” Min-jae croaked, scrambling to his feet.
Agnes narrowed her eyes. “You’d better not be one of those drama-queen interns from Yonsei again. I swear to god, if one more of you cries in the trauma bay—”
“Noted! Won’t cry!” he saluted, heart hammering.
From behind her, someone yelled, “AGNES, HE BROKE THE DEFIB AGAIN!”
And then Yang Jaewon strode past the open door — wild hair, cocky smirk, and swagger like a man who thought rules were optional. He didn’t even glance at Min-jae.
Seconds later, Baek Kang-hyuk followed, dressed in scrubs two sizes too big, hair perfectly parted, glaring at a chart like it owed him money.
Min-jae’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. They're young. They’re hot. They’re—worse than I imagined.”
Nurse Agnes raised an eyebrow. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing!” Min-jae beamed. “Can’t wait to start saving lives!”
---
2025 | Haeun Hospital ER | Night Shift Begins
Min-jae had read about their legendary first shift together in old HR reports and trauma rosters. He knew it was a mess. He did not expect it to be this bad.
"Why is there blood in the breakroom sink?" Jaewon asked, eyes wide.
"Field trauma kit overflow," Kang-hyuk said calmly. "The portable suction failed."
"THAT is not a reason to wash intestines next to someone’s kimchi, Baek!"
"It was a sterile kimchi container."
Min-jae, watching from the medicine closet like the worst version of Cupid, whispered into his notes, “Okay, so the flirting is... unhinged rage. Got it.”
Nurse Agnes was everywhere — snapping orders, throwing gauze packs, yelling about protocols. “Min-jae!” she shouted suddenly, pointing directly at him. “You! Baby Intern! You’re shadowing them tonight.”
Min-jae blinked. “Both of them? At the same time?”
Jaewon groaned. “Do we look like we have time to babysit a hormonal intern?”
Kang-hyuk muttered, “I don’t babysit.”
Jaewon turned to him. “What do you do, then? Glare the patients into recovery?”
Min-jae clapped. “Yay! Bonding!”
They both glared at him.
---
Later that night | Trauma Bay 2
Min-jae was getting desperate.
They’d survived four codes, a toddler with a crayon up his nose, and one very dramatic intern who fainted when Jaewon yelled. Kang-hyuk and Jaewon had exchanged exactly zero romantic glances. Unless one counted Kang-hyuk wordlessly shoving a surgical tray into Jaewon’s hands and Jaewon saying, “Oh, wow. You can communicate. Impressive.”
So now, Min-jae was standing behind the crash cart, whispering his master plan.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “It’s simple. They touch hands over the chart. Sparks fly. Longing looks. Boom. Love.”
He pushed the patient chart halfway toward Kang-hyuk… and then nudged it again toward Jaewon. Their fingers brushed.
A spark of something passed between them. Something ancient. Something electric.
Jaewon looked up. “Did you just shock me with static?”
Kang-hyuk frowned. “I’m wearing hospital shoes. That’s impossible.”
Min-jae slammed his head against the crash cart. “They’re both so stupid.”
---
2AM | Rooftop, Haeun Hospital
Later that night, after a 5-hour non-stop trauma shift, both men stood on the rooftop — soaked in sweat, scrubs stained, eating vending machine ramen like it was sacred.
Min-jae watched from behind a potted plant.
“I don’t get you,” Jaewon said finally, sipping his broth. “You barely talk. You never get tired. You never mess up. But the second someone looks at you for too long, you glitch.”
“I don’t glitch,” Kang-hyuk replied, voice tight.
“You do. You blink and freeze, and it’s weirdly hot, and I hate that.”
Kang-hyuk looked away. “Then don’t look at me.”
Silence.
Min-jae nearly passed out from joy. They were bantering. It was happening. It was—
Nurse Agnes appeared behind him like a ghost. “Why are you hiding in the rooftop plants?”
Min-jae screamed.
Jaewon turned. “HEY! Baby intern! Are you stalking us?!”
Kang-hyuk stood. “I knew he was suspicious.”
Min-jae held up his hands. “I’m not a time traveler! I mean—I mean—I’m just emotionally invested in your trauma!”
Silence.
Nurse Agnes sighed. “Great. Another one of those interns.”
2025 | Staff Lounge | Noon
Min-jae burst into the breakroom with a whiteboard, six markers, and a dangerous amount of confidence.
“Okay!” he said brightly. “Team meeting. Love is now a clinical emergency.”
Kang-hyuk looked up from his black coffee. “What.”
Jaewon narrowed his eyes. “Who let you in here?”
Min-jae drew two stick figures on the board. “Here we have Kang-hyuk, stoic trauma god with unresolved emotional repression. Here we have Jaewon, the firestarter who argues for fun but secretly craves intimacy.”
Jaewon stood. “I do not crave anything—”
“Silence, Hyung, I’m diagnosing you with denial.”
Kang-hyuk blinked. “Why is this intern like this?”
Min-jae grinned. “Fake dating.”
Jaewon choked on his soda. “WHAT.”
“You’ll pretend to date. For seven days. Just seven! For a hospital wellness campaign. I forged the forms already. It’s too late. Nurse Agnes signed off.”
Agnes walked in right on cue, took one look at the chaos, and muttered, “I did not sign anything—oh god, are those my initials?”
Min-jae nodded proudly. “Love is the ultimate medicine. This is for your own good.
---
”2025 | On-Call Room | 2AM
The fluorescent light buzzed quietly above them. Jaewon leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes half-closed. Kang-hyuk sat across from him, reviewing a chart he wasn’t really reading.
It had been three days since the “fake dating campaign” began. And somehow, it didn’t feel fake anymore.
They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to.
The silence between them had started as awkward. Then tense. Now it felt like its own kind of communication. A language of glances and near-touches. A shared rhythm.
“You’re doing it again,” Jaewon finally said.
Kang-hyuk looked up. “Doing what?”
“Watching me like you’re trying not to.”
Kang-hyuk didn’t respond. He just put down the file and met Jaewon’s eyes fully.
“You’re the one who started this stupid thing,” Kang-hyuk said. Quietly. Tired. Not angry, not anymore.
Jaewon scoffed. “I started it? You kissed me in the storeroom.”
“That was Min-jae’s fault.”
“He didn’t hold your hand for you.”
“…Touché.”
They fell silent again, but it was different now. A storm waiting behind the calm.
---
Nurse Station | The Next Morning
Agnes stared over her coffee. “Has anyone noticed that intern Min-jae doesn’t seem to sleep?”
Cheon Jang-mi nodded. “Or age.”
Park Gyeong-won, half-asleep beside them, added, “He knew I was going to spill coffee before I did it. I think he sees the future.”
Agnes sighed. “Honestly, with this hospital? That wouldn’t even crack my Top 3 daily concerns.”
From the hall, Min-jae zipped past with a tablet and the chaotic energy of someone absolutely holding back secrets from the space-time continuum.
---
2025 | Rooftop | Day 5 of Fake Dating
Jaewon was leaning on the railing again. It was turning into a habit. Maybe because no one else came here. Except him.
Kang-hyuk showed up without a word, like gravity pulled him there.
“Do you ever stop pacing?” Jaewon muttered, not looking at him.
“Do you ever say what you mean?” Kang-hyuk shot back, just as quiet.
A beat.
“I don’t like sleeping in the same room as you,” Jaewon said.
“Why?”
“Because I never want to get up first.”
Kang-hyuk blinked. His voice dropped. “Why?”
“Because you always leave first. You always leave before I’m ready.”
Kang-hyuk exhaled. Shaky. “I didn’t know you noticed.”
“I notice everything. You just pretend not to.”
They didn’t kiss. They didn’t touch. But something cracked open that night.
---
2050 | Min-jae’s Hidden Device | Storage Closet
Alone, Min-jae flipped on the temporal stabilizer — a cracked touchscreen hidden in a device disguised as a med scanner.
It beeped twice. Then:
[TIMELINE STABILITY: 52%]
[EVENT DEVIATION: KANG-HYUK SPOKE TOO SOON]
Min-jae groaned, head in hands. “Hyung, you were supposed to take two more days.”
He rewound a tiny digital clock on the screen, heart pounding.
If Kang-hyuk and Jaewon didn’t get it right this time, the loop might lock in permanently. And he couldn’t fix it again.
He had one shot left.
Agnes’s voice echoed from the hallway: “If you’re in there stealing pudding again, I will slap you into 2050.”
Min-jae locked the device and whispered, “You don’t know how right you are.”
---
2025 | Doctors’ Lounge | 3:47AM
Jaewon should’ve gone back to his apartment. He meant to. But the idea of going home and not seeing Kang-hyuk again until the next shift felt... wrong.
Kang-hyuk was already half-asleep on the lounge couch, long legs folded up awkwardly, coat draped over him. His face looked younger like this — less guarded. Less sharp.
Jaewon sat quietly on the edge of the armrest. He didn’t want to wake him.
But Kang-hyuk, even in sleep, noticed everything. His eyes opened slowly, and they locked eyes.
Neither said anything.
Kang-hyuk scooted slightly, making room on the couch. His voice was soft. "You staying?"
Jaewon nodded.
And they just... sat there. Side by side. Close enough that their knees brushed every time someone shifted. They didn’t talk, didn’t move much. But every breath felt heavier than it should have.
In the quiet, Jaewon whispered without meaning to, “You always smell like coffee and eucalyptus.”
Kang-hyuk blinked slowly. “You always talk like you’re about to say something else.”
And still—no one touched. No one kissed.
But the silence was blistering.
---
”2025 | ER Corridor | Day 9
Dr. Han leaned over Jaewon’s shoulder with a smirk, pointing out a chest X-ray. “You’re good with your hands,” he teased.
Kang-hyuk, across the room, dropped a clipboard.
Jaewon barely flinched. “It’s called having basic competency, Dr. Han.”
“Oh, so I’m Dr. Han now? Not Oppa?”
Jaewon shot him a look that could end timelines.
Later, in the med supply room, Kang-hyuk cornered Jaewon with the full intensity of a man who'd rather die than admit he was jealous.
“You and Han. You dating now?”
Jaewon stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“You were laughing with him.”
“I laugh with Nurse Agnes too. Should I report that?”
Kang-hyuk didn’t answer.
Jaewon stepped closer, crowding into his space. His voice dropped, quiet but sharp. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
Kang-hyuk didn’t move. “No.”
Jaewon leaned in just a little more. “You sure?”
Kang-hyuk said nothing. But his hands were clenched, jaw locked, and he was breathing like he’d run ten flights of stairs.
Min-jae walked by and muttered, “Please just kiss already. The timeline’s screaming.”
---
2025 | Rooftop Again | Midnight
It was raining. Not hard. Just enough to chill your skin if you stayed out too long.
But Jaewon was already soaked by the time Kang-hyuk found him there.
“You’ll catch a cold,” Kang-hyuk said.
“You always say that.”
Kang-hyuk handed him a dry towel. Jaewon took it without looking.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Jaewon murmured.
“You always come here when you’re upset.”
Jaewon looked over. “How do you know?”
“Because I know you.”
A pause. Something shifted.
“I hate how well you do,” Jaewon whispered.
“Why?”
“Because it’s harder to pretend.”
Kang-hyuk was quiet for a long time.
Then he reached out and gently brushed Jaewon’s wet fringe back from his forehead — barely touching, trembling fingertips.
“I’m not pretending anymore,” he said. Soft. Wrecked.
Jaewon’s breath caught. He looked like he wanted to move forward. To close that inch between them. But he didn’t.
And neither did Kang-hyuk.
Because wanting wasn’t the same as ready.
---
2050 | Staff Room | Min-jae’s Timeline
Agnes tossed a file on the desk. “So let me get this straight. In 2025, they were already fake-dating, sharing beds, whispering sweet trauma-diagnoses at 2AM—and still didn’t confess?”
Min-jae, exhausted, rubbed his temples. “They don’t operate on linear logic. Or emotions. Or basic communication.”
Agnes pointed at the monitor. “You better fix this. I’m not living through another 25 years of Do you think he likes me? from two emotionally constipated idiots.”
Min-jae groaned. “I’m trying! I just… need one perfect moment.”
Agnes deadpanned: “You’re gonna need divine intervention.”
Min-jae: “I am the divine intervention.”
Agnes: “Then work faster.”
---
2025 | Outside Trauma Bay | 6:31PM
There’s a chaebol heiress patient in the ER. Paparazzi in the parking lot. Chaos everywhere. Dr. Han makes a questionable call: Jaewon and Kang-hyuk have to pose as a couple to escort the patient discreetly past the media.
Han smirks. “You two already act like one. Might as well be useful.”
Kang-hyuk scoffs. “Ridiculous.”
Jaewon mutters, “Utterly absurd.”
And yet.
They’re standing two inches apart in the ambulance bay, pretending to argue about weekend brunch, when a photographer rounds the corner.
“Do something couple-y!” Min-jae whispers from behind the stretcher. “They’re watching!”
Kang-hyuk hesitates. Jaewon looks like he’s going to bolt.
But then—Kang-hyuk grabs his face.
It’s sudden. Desperate. Rough around the edges. His hands are shaking.
And then he kisses Jaewon.
Not for show.
Not for the mission.
Not for anyone but himself.
Jaewon makes a broken noise against his mouth, fists clutching his sleeves like he’s drowning in it.
It only lasts three seconds.
But the moment they pull away—everything changes.
They don’t speak. They don’t look at each other.
Because if they do—they might never stop.
---
2025 | 2 Days Later | Hospital Chaos As Usual
Kang-hyuk is scrubbing in like his life depends on it. He’s gone full avoidance mode. No eye contact. No banter. Just brisk, sharp movements and too many emergency surgeries.
Jaewon, meanwhile, is also pretending nothing happened.
Except he keeps looking at the door like he wants Kang-hyuk to walk in.
Nurse Agnes throws a latex glove at Jaewon’s head. “Stop mooning. Start suturing.”
Dr. Han, sipping iced coffee: “You two kissed, huh?”
Jaewon: “We had to.”
Han: “Sure. For the mission. Not because you’re in love and wildly repressed.”
Agnes: “Twenty bucks says they combust before the month ends.”
Min-jae (from the future, again): “Please. They combusted in 2023. The timeline’s just catching up.”
---
2025 | Locker Room | Night Shift
Kang-hyuk’s there when Jaewon walks in. Alone. Quiet.
They freeze. The air between them shifts, charged and unbearable.
Finally, Jaewon says softly, “We’re not talking about it, right?”
Kang-hyuk doesn’t answer right away.
Then: “Right.”
But neither of them moves.
Kang-hyuk’s fingers twitch at his side. Jaewon’s jaw is clenched. The silence is the loudest it’s ever been.
Kang-hyuk whispers, almost too soft to hear: “I don’t regret it.”
Jaewon flinches like it was a slap.
And then he leaves.
Fast.
Like if he stays a second longer, he’ll break.
---
2025 | Break Room | 11:09AM
Baek Kang-hyuk walks in late, fresh from surgery, hair a mess, still pulling off his gloves with that sharp, efficient grace Jaewon secretly hates.
Hates, because it makes his heart do stupid things.
Jaewon tries to act normal. He grabs a water bottle, nods like they’re just colleagues, like he doesn’t taste that kiss every time he looks at Kang-hyuk’s mouth.
But then Kang-hyuk walks past, leans in, and murmurs, “I dreamt about it.”
Jaewon freezes.
Kang-hyuk says nothing else. Just walks away like he didn’t just nuke the room with a single sentence.
Nurse Jang-mi watches this unfold from the coffee machine, sipping her latte with the smugness of a cat watching a mouse crawl into a trap.
She grins. “Jaewon, you’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“Right. And Kang-hyuk doesn’t look at you like he wants to write poetry and ruin your life.”
Jaewon: sputtering noises
Jang-mi: “I’m telling Agnes. She owes me thirty bucks.”
---
2025 | On-Call Room | Late Night
It’s raining again. Because of course it is.
Jaewon’s sitting on the edge of the bed, coat draped over his lap, hair damp. Kang-hyuk enters, silent, carrying two cans of coffee.
They don’t speak for a while. Just drink, side by side, the air thick between them.
Then Kang-hyuk says, “I know I scare you.”
Jaewon turns, startled. “What?”
“You think if you say it out loud, something breaks. Something changes.”
He sets the can down.
“You almost said it that night. In the med room. After the kiss.”
Jaewon’s breathing quickens.
Kang-hyuk’s voice is quiet now. “Why didn’t you?”
Jaewon doesn’t answer. He just looks at him, eyes glassy, jaw tight.
Kang-hyuk nods. “Okay.”
But when he turns to leave—
Jaewon grabs his wrist.
Just holds it.
No words. Just raw feeling.
---
2050 | Future Nurses' Lounge
Min-jae watches the hospital footage projected across the timeglass screen: Jaewon holding Kang-hyuk’s wrist like he’ll shatter if he lets go.
He slams the tablet shut. “Nope. Too much. Way too intimate.”
Nurse Agnes walks in, sees his face, and deadpans, “What now?”
“They’re doing the emotional equivalent of dry-humping with their eyes.”
Agnes: “Oh, good. The romance arc’s back.”
Min-jae: “I need therapy. And possibly holy water.”
Agnes pats his shoulder. “No time. You’ve got a timeline to fix. And two love-stupid doctors who keep emotionally edging the entire space-time continuum.”
Min-jae sighs dramatically. “Remind me again why I volunteered for this job?”
Agnes: “Because you’re their son, and you inherited all of their dramatic tendencies.”
Min-jae: groans in future gay chaos
---
2025 | Med Storage Room | 2:13AM
They're alone again. Of course they are.
Kang-hyuk is searching for IV tubing. Jaewon’s there for antibiotics. It's cramped. It always is. The lighting flickers ominously like it's in on the secret.
Neither of them speaks.
Then Jaewon brushes past to reach the top shelf. His shoulder grazes Kang-hyuk’s chest. Kang-hyuk doesn’t move. He freezes, eyes fixed on Jaewon like he's trying not to breathe.
Jaewon turns.
They’re face to face. Inches apart. Both breathing hard for no reason.
Kang-hyuk’s voice is raw. “You have to stop looking at me like that.”
Jaewon laughs, quiet and shaky. “You started it.”
“No, I didn’t. You kissed me back.”
Jaewon: “You kissed me first.”
And before either of them can stop it, Kang-hyuk’s hand finds Jaewon’s waist. Jaewon’s fingers curl into the collar of his scrubs. It’s not violent. Not tender. Just desperate.
So close.
Lips barely brushing—
Door slams open.
Nurse Cheon Jang-mi stands there, holding an armful of saline bags. She stares.
They stare back.
Jaewon yelps and practically flings himself sideways into a shelf.
Kang-hyuk coughs and pretends to examine a box labeled gauze pads like it's the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
Jang-mi blinks. “Uh-huh.”
She drops the saline bags onto the counter and smirks. “This is not the supply closet for that, doctors.”
Then she leaves.
No questions. No explanations.
Just judgment.
---
2025 | Rooftop | Later That Night
It’s cold. Quiet. The kind of night that doesn’t ask questions.
Jaewon sits on the rooftop edge, hoodie pulled tight, coffee in hand.
Kang-hyuk joins him, silent.
They don’t look at each other. Not at first.
Jaewon finally says, “Why do we keep doing this?”
Kang-hyuk answers without hesitation. “Because we’re not done.”
Jaewon’s voice cracks. “And if we never say it—what then?”
Kang-hyuk looks at him. Really looks at him.
“Then I’ll keep finding excuses to kiss you.”
Jaewon doesn’t smile.
But he doesn’t move away, either.
---
2050 | Future Archives
Min-jae’s going through old hospital files for his time-jump mission.
He opens a folder labeled “Trauma Unit Internal – 2029”
Inside: a photo. Candid. Laughing. Two rings. A hospital rooftop.
Kang-hyuk and Jaewon.
Married.
Min-jae stares.
“I swear to God, if they don’t get together in the next five days, I’m dragging their repressed asses into a time loop until they confess.”
Agnes leans over his shoulder. “Give them three more scenes. Maximum.”
Min-jae sighs, already prepping the next jump.
2025 | ER Observation Room | 3:47AM
Kang-hyuk’s hand is bandaged. His knuckles torn up from catching a falling patient mid-seizure. It could’ve been worse. Everyone says so.
Jaewon sits at the edge of the bed, silent.
He’s been silent for fifteen minutes.
Kang-hyuk finally breaks it, voice hoarse. “Jaewon. It’s nothing.”
“It’s your hand,” Jaewon says without looking up. “You’re a surgeon.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You weren’t supposed to get hurt,” Jaewon whispers. “Not you.”
Kang-hyuk tries to joke. “You sound like you care.”
“I do, you idiot.”
The words fall out. No drama. No build-up. Just raw truth between the IV machine’s beeping and the buzz of fluorescent lights.
Kang-hyuk blinks. Slow.
Jaewon stands abruptly. “I’m going to get the new dressings.”
But as he moves past, Kang-hyuk catches his sleeve.
Their eyes meet.
Kang-hyuk’s voice is quiet. “Say it again.”
Jaewon’s throat bobs. He doesn’t.
Instead, he gently unwraps the bandage, carefully replacing it with practiced fingers and a touch too soft for colleagues. It’s reverent. Intimate. Almost painful.
Neither of them speaks after that.
2050 | Hospital Cafeteria
Min-jae slams his tablet facedown.
“THEY. ARE. KILLING. ME.”
Agnes takes a calm sip of her coffee.
“They just bandaged each other’s wounds with the intensity of a Victorian love letter.”
Min-jae stares at the ceiling. “If they don’t kiss in the next forty-eight hours, I’m hacking the timewatch and locking them in a janitor’s closet.”
Agnes: “That’s abuse of temporal authority.”
Min-jae: “So is their sexual tension.”
---
2025 | ER Bay 3 | 9:11PM
The patient is tall, handsome, bleeding slightly from a motorbike accident, and flirting shamelessly with Kang-hyuk.
“I think I’m in shock,” the guy says with a charming smile, “or maybe it’s just your face, doc.”
Kang-hyuk raises an eyebrow but doesn’t shut it down.
Jaewon watches from across the room. Stiff. Silent. Seething.
Nurse Agnes walks past, barely hiding her grin. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” Jaewon grits out.
“You look like you want to break a thermometer.”
“I’m fine, Nurse Agnes.”
Agnes nods, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, Dr. Yang. Just don’t murder anyone before handover.”
---
2025 | Storage Closet | 9:44PM
Jaewon yanks open the supply room door with too much force.
Kang-hyuk follows. “You okay?”
Jaewon spins around. “Are you serious right now?”
“What?”
“That guy was flirting with you, Kang-hyuk.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t flirt back.”
“You smiled.”
Kang-hyuk steps closer. “Why does it matter?”
Jaewon exhales sharply. His hands are fists at his sides. “Because I—”
He stops himself. Looks away.
Kang-hyuk’s voice drops. “Say it.”
“You’re not mine,” Jaewon whispers. “I know that. But I hate watching someone else pretend you could be.”
Silence. Thick enough to drown in.
Then, slowly, Kang-hyuk steps in.
One hand on Jaewon’s waist. The other against the shelf behind him. Leaning in—not kissing. Not yet. Just there.
“I haven’t smiled like that at anyone in ten years,” Kang-hyuk says quietly. “Until you.”
Jaewon’s breath catches. “We shouldn’t…”
But he leans into the warmth anyway.
They don’t kiss.
But it’s the kind of almost-moment that aches more than one.
---
2050 | On-Call Room
Min-jae faceplants into a hospital pillow. Screams.
Agnes: “They didn’t kiss again, huh?”
Min-jae throws a pen. “THEY WERE IN A CLOSET. IN LOVE. INCHES APART.”
Agnes flips the page in her book. “Good. Let them suffer like the rest of us.”
---
2025 | Treatment Room 4 | 2:02AM
The case was brutal. A teenager coded twice before they saved him. Blood everywhere. Screaming parents. One of those shifts that clings to you even after you’ve scrubbed your hands raw.
Jaewon’s got a cut on his arm. Shallow but messy.
Kang-hyuk kneels in front of him, cleaning it silently.
Jaewon winces. “That antiseptic stings like hell.”
“Don’t flinch,” Kang-hyuk murmurs, focusing on the gauze. “You’ll make it worse.”
Jaewon watches him. “You always this gentle when you’re pissed?”
Kang-hyuk’s eyes flicker up. “I’m not pissed.”
“You haven’t looked at me since that supply closet.”
“I am looking at you,” Kang-hyuk says quietly.
The silence that follows says too much.
Jaewon finally breaks it. “I said you weren’t mine. I didn’t mean it.”
Kang-hyuk exhales slowly. “I know.”
“And I hated watching him flirt with you.”
“I know that too.”
Jaewon lowers his voice. “Do you hate me for it?”
“No,” Kang-hyuk says, taping down the bandage carefully. “I just hate that we’re pretending this doesn’t mean something.”
Jaewon swallows hard. Doesn’t answer.
Kang-hyuk stands. The air between them crackles.
He touches Jaewon’s cheek—barely. A thumb at the edge of his jaw, a heartbeat too long.
Then he walks out.
---
2050 | Diagnostics Office
Min-jae has paused the footage mid-frame.
Kang-hyuk’s thumb on Jaewon’s jaw.
Jaewon’s face—shattered.
Min-jae: “You guys. YOU GUYS. THIS IS—”
Agnes: “The slowest burn in history?”
Min-jae: “They’re gonna combust.”
Agnes: “Or emotionally implode.”
Min-jae: “Same thing.”
---
2025 | On-Call Room | 3:13AM
The rain is biblical.
Flood warnings. Hospital lockdown. Everyone stuck inside.
The backup generator powers only essential systems. No lights in half the building.
Which is how Kang-hyuk ends up standing in the dark on-call room doorway, soaked to the bone, holding a half-broken umbrella and glaring at the single twin bed.
Jaewon already claimed it. Curled in a ball. Still in scrubs. Awake.
Kang-hyuk sighs. “Scoot over.”
Jaewon doesn’t move. “It’s tiny.”
“So are you.”
“Rude.”
“Jaewon.”
“…Fine.”
They lay back-to-back. Neither moves for a while. Rain beats the windows. Thunder rumbles. A flash of lightning makes both of them flinch.
Kang-hyuk mutters, “You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He sighs, peels off his hoodie, and tosses it over Jaewon’s head.
“…Is this your attempt at flirting?”
“No. It’s my attempt at not watching you freeze to death before we figure our disaster of a situation out.”
Jaewon goes quiet. Then: “What situation?”
Kang-hyuk doesn’t answer.
But then Jaewon says it. Barely a whisper, like he’s not even sure it’s allowed.
“…Sometimes I wish we weren’t doctors.”
Kang-hyuk stills.
“Because maybe then,” Jaewon continues, “I could stop pretending I don’t fall in love with you every time you hold a scalpel or yell at interns.”
A pause.
“You think I don’t notice,” Jaewon breathes, “but I do.”
Kang-hyuk’s voice is hoarse. “You’re not supposed to say things like that and then go to sleep.”
“I’m not asleep.”
“Good.”
They don’t touch. Don’t turn to face each other.
But Jaewon reaches behind him, fingers searching until they find Kang-hyuk’s hand under the blanket.
Their fingers tangle in silence.
Thunder roars. Neither of them lets go.
---
2025 | On-Call Room | 6:49AM
The rain has stopped. Light filters in through the tiny frosted window.
Kang-hyuk wakes up first.
Jaewon is still asleep beside him, face smushed against the pillow, wearing Kang-hyuk’s hoodie like he owns it. Their fingers are still linked. At some point in the night, Jaewon must’ve shifted closer. Now he’s tucked into Kang-hyuk’s chest like it’s normal.
Kang-hyuk doesn’t move.
He just stares at Jaewon like he’s memorizing every inch—his sleep-creased cheek, his mess of hair, the slight part in his lips.
And then Jaewon shifts. Eyes cracking open.
Kang-hyuk’s still staring when Jaewon meets his gaze.
“…Morning,” Jaewon whispers.
“Hi,” Kang-hyuk says back, like it’s the first time.
Neither moves.
It feels too intimate. Like they crossed a line but forgot how to walk back.
Jaewon shifts again, still half-asleep. “…Did I say anything weird last night?”
Kang-hyuk’s lips twitch. “Define weird.”
Jaewon groans and buries his face in the pillow. “Kill me.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
They fall into silence again.
Then Kang-hyuk says, too softly: “You didn’t say anything I haven’t been thinking too.”
Jaewon goes still.
Kang-hyuk sits up, rubbing his face. “Come on. Let’s not be late for rounds. That’ll really start the gossip.”
Jaewon pulls the blanket over his head. “Too late.”
Kang-hyuk chuckles—and then grabs the blanket and yanks it off in one motion.
Jaewon yells. “Hyung!”
Kang-hyuk tosses the blanket aside. “If I have to suffer, so do you.”
---
2025 | ER Nurses’ Station | 7:23AM
Nurse Agnes takes one look at them walking in side by side—with matching exhaustion, identical disheveled hair, and Kang-hyuk’s hoodie still on Jaewon.
She sips her coffee.
“Mmhm.”
Min-jae catches sight of them and chokes on his water.
“YOU SPENT THE NIGHT TOGETHER?!”
Kang-hyuk: “Power outage.”
Jaewon: “Only one bed.”
Agnes: “That’s what they all say.”
Min-jae: “I AM LIVING. I AM ALIVE. THIS IS EVERYTHING.”
Kang-hyuk pinches the bridge of his nose.
Jaewon mutters, “I want to disappear.”
Agnes: “Too late, sweetheart. You're trending on internal gossip group chats.”
---
2025 | Trauma Bay 3 | 11:47AM
It’s chaos again.
A multi-vehicle crash. Blood everywhere. Screams. The ER is pure hell, but Kang-hyuk is running like he always does—controlled, fast, lethal.
Until he hears it:
“Yang Jaewon, pressure’s crashing!”
Time slows.
Jaewon’s on the floor, trying to stop the bleeding from a patient’s femoral artery, but he’s covered in blood—too much blood—and his hands are trembling.
The moment Kang-hyuk sees Jaewon sway, sees that Jaewon’s sleeve is soaked in his own blood—
Something breaks.
“MOVE!” Kang-hyuk bellows, shoving a junior out of the way and dropping to Jaewon’s side. “You're bleeding.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not! You’re bleeding through your scrubs and your hands are shaking and what the hell were you thinking, Jaewon?!”
“Thinking about saving someone—what else?”
“You think I care more about them than you?!”
Jaewon blinks at him.
Everyone is staring now. The trauma bay is frozen.
Kang-hyuk doesn’t stop.
“I told you not to do something reckless alone.”
“You don’t get to order me around!”
“I get to care if you die in front of me.”
Silence.
Jaewon’s voice drops. “You care?”
Kang-hyuk looks like he’s about to snap. “I’m in love with you.”
Dead silence.
Nurse Cheon drops her pen.
Dr. Han walks into the room and immediately walks back out.
Agnes just mutters, “Finally.”
Min-jae screams somewhere in the distance.
Jaewon—blood-soaked, dazed, lips parted—just stares at him.
“You’re in love with me?”
“I’ve been in love with you since you called me a stone-faced, self-righteous bastard in the break room.”
“You were being one.”
“I still am one.”
Jaewon exhales a laugh. “Say it again.”
“I’m in love with you.”
“Good.” Jaewon grabs the front of Kang-hyuk’s bloodstained coat and kisses him—hard, reckless, messy, and right in the middle of Trauma Bay 3.
Someone cheers.
Someone faints.
Min-jae yells, “I CALLED IT, I CALLED IT, I KNEW IT!”
---
2025 | Rooftop | 2:02AM
Min-jae stands in the cold, blinking up at the moonlight like he’s memorizing it. The ER below is still buzzing with the aftermath of the chaos—and the confession.
He should feel victorious.
Instead, he feels… heavy.
There’s a low hum behind his ears. A pulse.
The same sound he heard the night he arrived here.
Time is pulling him back.
He pulls out the tiny medallion he never told anyone about. The thing that slipped into his coat during the first time jump.
He clutches it tight and whispers: “I got them together, didn’t I?”
Behind him, someone yells his name.
Jaewon. Breathless. “Min-jae! Where the hell have you—”
The rooftop starts glowing faintly around Min-jae’s feet.
Jaewon’s eyes go wide. “No. No, no, no. What’s happening?”
Min-jae smiles, eyes glassy. “Guess I ran out of time.”
“Wait—wait! What does that mean?! You’re—what are you—”
Kang-hyuk bursts onto the rooftop behind Jaewon just as the light surges.
Min-jae looks between them, his voice shaking. “Thanks for giving me a home. Both of you.”
Then he’s gone.
---
2050 | Trauma Wing C | 3:15PM
The trauma wing is sleek and modern. Fully automated. Cold, even.
But Kang-hyuk and Jaewon—now older, softer around the eyes but still sharp—are standing in front of a photo on the wall.
It’s of a younger version of them with a boy between them, arms slung over his shoulders. Laughing.
A plaque underneath reads: Dr. Min-jae Baek, Pediatric Surgeon of the Year.
Jaewon smiles faintly. “God, he always looked like you.”
“Which is insane, because he was clearly mine.”
“Delusional.”
They stand there for a second too long.
Then a nurse walks by and says, “Dr. Baek, Dr. Yang—your son left something in the lounge.”
They nod, say “thank you,” and move.
They remember Min-jae perfectly.
His sarcasm. His chaotic energy. His night shifts. His coffee addiction.
But not the time travel.
Not the 2025 version of him.
Just their kid.
And somehow… that’s enough.
---
2050 | Lounge | 8:42PM
Min-jae lingers in the shadows of the staff lounge, watching them.
They don’t see him.
Jaewon is curled up on the couch with his tablet, reading a report, his head resting against Kang-hyuk’s shoulder. Kang-hyuk, for once, isn’t scowling. He’s resting his cheek on Jaewon’s hair, holding a coffee he hasn’t touched in twenty minutes.
They don’t even speak.
But it’s quiet. Peaceful. The air between them feels like home.
Min-jae’s heart squeezes.
When he first left them in 2025, they were barely confessing, still untangling the mess. But here—they’re so settled. So in tune. Their love is obvious, lived-in, like something built carefully over time.
Jaewon murmurs, “You spaced out again.”
Kang-hyuk hums. “You always say that.”
“You always do it.”
“I keep thinking about that intern we had once… the one who reminded me of our Min-jae.”
Min-jae freezes.
Jaewon shifts. “You too?”
Kang-hyuk sighs. “Sometimes I swear I knew him before. Like déjà vu. Or like I forgot something important.”
They fall quiet again.
Jaewon nudges Kang-hyuk’s hand. “Do you believe in time travel?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“…Maybe.”
Jaewon smiles to himself. “Sometimes I think we’re lucky. Like something gave us another chance, and we don’t even know it.”
Kang-hyuk looks at him, soft and sure. “If I did forget something, but it led me back to you like this, then I’m okay not remembering.”
They sit like that for a long time.
Min-jae steps back quietly. His chest aches, but not in a bad way.
They’re happy.
They don’t remember the past the way he does. But they remember each other.
And that’s enough.
---
2050 | Baek-Yang Residence | 9:03PM
There’s dinner on the table. Laughter in the kitchen. Soft music playing from a speaker someone forgot to turn off hours ago.
Kang-hyuk is burning dumplings. Again.
Jaewon is scolding him half-heartedly, poking the fire alarm with a chopstick to shut it up.
Min-jae is sprawled across the dining table with his laptop, pretending to study, but mostly just watching them bicker like a couple who’ve been married for twenty-five years. (They have.)
“Appa,” Min-jae says lazily, “you literally almost burned down the trauma center trying to reheat tteokbokki once. Why are you like this?”
Kang-hyuk shoots him a deadpan look. “That’s genetic. You got it from your other dad.”
Jaewon throws a dishtowel at him. “He got your dramatic flailing. And your brooding.”
“I do not brood.”
“You brooded for six months straight in 2025. Ask literally anyone.”
Min-jae grins at them.
It’s ridiculous. It’s loud. It’s perfect.
There are photos on the wall. Some from the hospital. Some from their wedding. One where Min-jae, age fifteen, is sitting between them with a birthday cake and the widest grin.
They don’t remember 2025 the way he does.
But their lives still led them here.
Together.
Happy.
A family of three.
And Min-jae—Min-jae finally feels like he’s exactly where he belongs.
The past happened. The future is safe. The present is warm.
And that's more than enough.