The hospital at night feels like it's holding its breath.
Monitors beep faintly in the distance. Footsteps echo down long, quiet hallways. The lights are dimmed, and most of the world outside is asleep — just like I almost was.
I jolted upright at the nurses' station, the folder I'd been reviewing slipping from my hand.
"You planning to nap through the shift?"
I blinked, and there he was — Dr. Hayashi — looming over the counter, looking down at me like I was an expired prescription.
"No," I lied instantly, sitting up straighter. "I was... reading."
"Uh-huh."
He reached out and flicked a post-it note off my forehead.
"You snore when you're concentrating?"
I flushed. "I don't snore!"
He didn't even crack a smile — just shook his head, clearly amused despite himself. "Try not to fall asleep on a patient."
"I won't," I mumbled. "Unless they're super boring."
That earned a glance. One brow raised. "Cute."
My heart tripped.
Before I could think of a comeback, the intercom crackled to life:
"Code Red. Cardiac emergency incoming. ETA three minutes. All hands prepare."
His smirk vanished.
And just like that, the real night began.
The moment the intercom crackled, everything snapped into motion.
Dr. Hayashi was already halfway down the hall, his white coat slicing through the dim light like a blade. I scrambled after him, my heart pounding — from the adrenaline or from being near him, I couldn't tell.
The ER doors burst open as paramedics wheeled in a man gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, hand clutched to his chest.
"Fifty-seven-year-old male, chest pain onset thirty minutes ago, blood pressure dropping!" one paramedic shouted.
Dr. Hayashi's voice cut through the chaos like steel. "Set up an ECG. Oxygen, stat. Start IV access. Nurse Aoi, you're with me."
I nearly dropped the clipboard I was holding. "R-right!"
I fumbled with the ECG leads, trying to remember the correct placement while my fingers trembled. One stuck to my glove instead of the patient's chest. Another tangled in my hair.
Behind me, Dr. Hayashi sighed audibly.
"Newbie, are you trying to kill him with stickers?"
"I'm trying, okay?" I whispered, cheeks burning.
"You said that like it's comforting."
The patient groaned, and I snapped out of it. "Sir, please try to relax — we've got you." My voice shook, but I managed to meet his eyes and hold steady. I reached for the IV, finally got it in, and somehow didn't stab myself or anyone else in the process.
"BP's dropping. We need to move," Dr. Hayashi muttered, eyes scanning the monitor. "You — come here."
He pulled me to the opposite side of the bed, pointing. "Hold this. No, not there. That's a vein, not a joystick."
I glared at him, flustered, but obeyed.
As the crash team arrived, the tension thickened — but he never lost focus. Watching him work — smooth, efficient, precise — was hypnotic. He barked instructions with complete command of the room. Even through the whirlwind of alarms and voices, he never wavered.
Then, finally, the patient stabilized. Heart rate steady. Breathing less strained.
Everyone let out a breath.
I slumped back, heartbeat in my ears.
"You didn't faint," he said suddenly.
I looked up, confused. "What?"
He glanced at me. "Progress."
Was… was that his version of a compliment?
Afterward, we stood outside the ER, the night air cold against my skin.
"Good work in there," I said.
He glanced at me. "You did alright, newbie."
"…That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"I'm sure you'll survive."
And before I could stop myself, I said softly, "Five years ago… that woman you saved on the street — that's when I decided I wanted to do this."
He froze.
Then: "I still don't remember it."
"I know," I smiled. "I remember enough for both of us."
He looked at me — really looked — for a beat too long.
Then walked away.
"Don't be late tomorrow."