Chapter Text
Taehyung’s first day of clinicals began with Jimin threatening to throw his white coat off the balcony.
The threat came from the bedroom across the hall, muffled by a pillow but delivered with enough conviction that Taehyung glanced toward the living-room window anyway.
The coat was nowhere near it. It hung from the back of his desk chair beneath the thin plastic cover his mother had mailed from Daegu, freshly ironed and safely separated from the balcony by several meters, one desk, and a stack of anatomy textbooks.
“If you unzip that bag again,” Jimin called, “the coat goes with it.”
Taehyung stood in the gray predawn light with one hand resting on the zipper of his backpack.
“I’m checking my blocker patches.”
“You checked them.”
“I counted them.”
“You counted them twice.”
“What if I counted wrong?”
“Then medical school has made a terrible mistake.”
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint metallic rattle of a delivery scooter passing through the damp street below. Warmth from the heated floor pressed through Taehyung’s socks. On his desk, his new hospital badge lay beside four black pens, one blue pen, a penlight, and the pocket notebook he had reorganized twice the night before.
He opened the front compartment anyway.
Three hospital-approved blocker patches remained lined up beside a packet of tissues, spare mask straps, alcohol wipes, a portable charger, hand cream, and the granola bar Jimin had added after declaring the bag an emergency bunker for one anxious alpha.
Nothing had moved.
Taehyung zipped it closed.
A long, suffering groan came from across the hall.
“You did it again.”
“No.”
“You make a sound when you lie.”
Taehyung left his room and leaned one shoulder against Jimin’s doorway.
“What sound?”
“That one.”
Jimin lay facedown across his mattress with one bare foot hanging over the side. His blond hair had flattened over his cheek during the night, and the comforter had twisted around one leg. A fresh blocker was already secured beneath the collar of his sleep shirt, the only prepared thing about him.
Taehyung picked up the pillow from the floor and dropped it over the back of Jimin’s head.
“You need to get up.”
Jimin’s answer disappeared into the mattress.
Taehyung crossed to the window and pulled the curtains apart. The room brightened from charcoal to a dull November gray, revealing the clothes Jimin had supposedly laid out neatly the night before in a small heap beside the closet.
Jimin rolled over and covered his eyes with both hands.
“You’re cruel.”
“It’s morning.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You wanted the bathroom first.”
“I’ve changed as a person.”
“You said that last night.”
“I changed quickly.”
Taehyung turned toward the hall, but Jimin lowered one hand and squinted after him.
Taehyung had already put on black trousers and a fitted white undershirt. His dark curls were still loose over his forehead, softer before he styled them, and his polished shoes waited near the front door.
Jimin stared at them from across the apartment.
“You did the shoes again.”
“There was something on the left one.”
“They were reflecting furniture yesterday.”
“It might have been dust.”
“Might have been?”
Taehyung folded his arms.
Jimin studied the shoes for another moment, then lifted his eyes back to Taehyung’s face.
“They look nervous.”
“Shoes can’t look nervous.”
“Yours do.”
Jimin pushed himself upright and reached for the water bottle on his bedside table. The first drink missed his mouth, running over his chin and darkening the neck of his shirt.
Taehyung smiled.
“You’re nervous too.”
Jimin stopped wiping his face.
“No.”
“You missed your mouth.”
“The lighting is bad.”
“You sleep here.”
“Exactly. I’m too comfortable.”
Taehyung took the bottle before Jimin could drop it and planted it firmly in the middle of the bedside table.
“You’re going to be late.”
“I’m going to be dead.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m a nursing student. It’s clinical judgment.”
Taehyung left him to shower and returned to his own room.
The white coat still carried the flat stiffness of something new. Its seams had not softened through washing, and there were no ink stains near the pockets, no forgotten alcohol wipes, no crease from leaning over beds or computers. It smelled faintly of detergent and steam from the iron.
He slipped it on.
The cotton settled across his shoulders.
He buttoned it, studied the result in the mirror, then unbuttoned the top two.
From the bathroom, Jimin shouted over the running water.
“If you touch the badge before I come out, I’m calling your mother.”
Taehyung looked toward the badge.
He had not touched it.
Yet.
“That would be childish.”
“She likes me better.”
“That isn’t true.”
“She writes my name first on the snack boxes.”
“She writes your name first because you open them.”
“Exactly. Trust.”
By six, Jimin had emerged in pale blue student scrubs with his blond hair shaped into something deliberately soft around his forehead. Taehyung stood near the front door, fastening his badge to his coat while using the dark microwave door as a mirror.
Jimin stopped in the kitchen.
“Oh, no.”
Taehyung met his gaze in the reflection.
“What?”
“You look eager.”
“I am eager.”
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“People will give you work.”
“That’s why I’m going.”
“You say that because nobody has ever given you hospital work.”
“I’ve worked.”
“You shelved library books for eight weeks.”
“There were a lot of books.”
Jimin opened the refrigerator and removed the final bottle of iced coffee.
Taehyung watched him twist the cap.
“Where are the others?”
“I drank them.”
“There were six.”
“It was a difficult week.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“Exactly.”
Jimin took a long drink while Taehyung adjusted the badge slightly to the left, studied it, and moved it back to its original position.
“You moved it,” Jimin said.
“It was crooked.”
“It was not.”
“It’s straight now.”
“It looks eager.”
“Badges can’t look eager.”
“Everything you own looks eager today.”
Taehyung smoothed the front of the coat.
Jimin’s eyes followed the movement.
“The coat is nervous too.”
“You need new material.”
“I need breakfast.”
“You’re drinking it.”
“This is emotional support.”
Taehyung reached for the bottle.
Jimin hid it behind his back, the corners of his eyes creasing with quiet satisfaction.
“You’re going to wrinkle your coat.”
Taehyung stopped.
Jimin smiled, opened the apartment door, and slipped into the corridor.
“Works every time.”
⸻
Jimin blamed Taehyung for missing the first bus.
Taehyung had been standing beneath the shelter when it arrived.
Jimin had been inside the convenience store buying another coffee.
These facts did not affect Jimin’s position.
“You distracted me,” he said when they boarded the next one.
“I was outside.”
“I knew you were waiting.”
“That isn’t distraction.”
“You were there spiritually.”
The bus was already crowded with early commuters. Taehyung and Jimin wedged themselves near the rear doors between a woman protecting a white bakery box with both arms and a middle-aged alpha asleep upright against a pole.
Wet umbrellas crowded the floor around everyone’s shoes. Condensation fogged the edges of the windows, softening the city outside into gray buildings, red brake lights, and blurred shop signs beneath a low sky.
Jimin looked down.
“Your shoes are still too shiny.”
Taehyung shifted his bag higher on his shoulder.
“Stop checking.”
“They keep catching the light.”
“What floor are you assigned to?”
“Six South.”
Taehyung turned.
“That’s my floor.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“You said internal medicine.”
“Six South is internal medicine.”
“You left out the important part.”
“You were organizing your notes by color.”
“I can listen and organize.”
Jimin’s brows lifted.
“What color is nephrology?”
“Blue.”
He looked disappointed.
“That wasn’t the point.”
“It’s still blue.”
The bus swayed around a turn. Jimin caught the overhead strap with one hand and kept his coffee level with the other.
Taehyung glanced at the pale blue clinical jacket beneath Jimin’s coat.
“You have your own instructor?”
“Instructor Hwang.”
“The terrifying one?”
“She has standards.”
“You used the word terrifying.”
“Both can be true.”
“And your cohort?”
“Yuna is normal. Minseo thinks asking questions will make him look unprepared.”
“That seems counterproductive.”
“I told him.”
“What did he say?”
“He’d think about it.”
Taehyung nodded.
“Promising.”
Jimin took another drink, watching him over the rim of the bottle.
“You have Bogum, Seojoon, Dami, and Soojin.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“We’ve had classes together for two years.”
Jimin made a small sound and turned toward the window.
Taehyung looked over.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It sounded exactly like nothing.”
Jimin drank his coffee with the weary expression of somebody burdened by information he had no ethical way to explain.
They reached the hospital at six thirty-seven.
The old building rose above the street in long rows of square windows, many already lit against the dim morning. The sliding lobby doors opened onto warm air smelling of floor polish, damp wool, coffee, and the faint medicinal sharpness that belonged to hospitals no matter how often they were cleaned.
Taehyung checked his phone as they crossed the lobby.
Jimin saw.
“We’re early.”
“I know.”
Taehyung checked again while they waited for the elevator.
Jimin sighed.
“Time has not escaped.”
“I wasn’t checking the time.”
“You tilted the screen away from me.”
The elevator arrived. They stepped inside just as the doors began closing, only for a hand to shoot through the gap.
The doors reopened around Jungkook and an empty wheelchair.
Jungkook backed it inside, planted one sneaker against the brake, and looked Taehyung over from his polished shoes to the untouched white coat.
His grin appeared before he said anything.
“You look ridiculous.”
Taehyung glanced down at himself as though the coat might have changed during the elevator ride.
“Good morning.”
Jungkook was eighteen, a high-school senior, and had been following Taehyung and Jimin around since he was old enough to escape whichever adult had been watching him. Their mothers traded side dishes, holiday photographs, and complaints in the same family group chat. Jungkook knew where Taehyung’s parents kept the spare key and which cupboard Jimin’s mother hid the expensive snacks in.
Being younger had never made him respectful.
It had only given him more time to collect information.
“Your mother sent my mother a picture,” Jungkook said, leaning back against the wheelchair handles.
Taehyung’s head came up.
“Of what?”
“The coat.”
Jimin lifted his coffee.
“Before or after he spent twenty minutes deciding where to put the badge?”
“It was not twenty minutes.”
Jungkook’s dark hair fell farther into his eyes when he tipped his head.
“My mother said twenty-five.”
Taehyung looked between them.
“You’re both deeply disloyal.”
Jungkook’s gaze dropped to the shoes.
“You’re going to get something on all of that.”
“I’m aware.”
“You look like you’re not.”
Jimin eyed the wheelchair.
“Who escaped?”
“No one.”
“Then why are you moving so fast?”
“I work here.”
“You work part-time.”
“The patients don’t become lighter after three.”
Jungkook released the brake and pressed the button for six. His hospital badge was turned backward against the maroon Transport polo hanging slightly loose through his shoulders.
Jimin reached over and flipped it around.
Jungkook slapped his hand away.
“Stop touching my things.”
“You came into my house last week and ate half my cereal.”
“Your mother offered.”
“She wasn’t home.”
“She has offered historically.”
Taehyung looked toward the ceiling.
The elevator stopped on three. Two nurses stepped inside, already deep in conversation.
“He pulled the catheter out himself,” one said.
“Why?”
“Said it interfered with his dignity.”
“What happened to the dignity?”
“It was on the floor beside the catheter.”
The second nurse laughed.
Taehyung looked over before he could stop himself.
Jimin nudged his ribs.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m listening.”
“That’s staring with ambition.”
“They’re discussing a patient.”
“They’re discussing his dignity.”
“That’s clinically relevant.”
Jungkook covered his mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking.
When the nurses left on five, Jimin pointed at Taehyung with his coffee bottle.
“You’re going to make that face all day.”
“What face?”
“The one where everybody becomes a lecture.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re unsettling.”
The elevator opened on six.
Jungkook backed out first.
“Left.”
Jimin turned right.
Jungkook caught the back of his clinical jacket and pulled him around.
“Your other left.”
“I knew.”
“You were walking toward Surgery.”
“I was making room.”
“For the wall?”
Taehyung followed them out.
Before both of his polished shoes had cleared the elevator, a nursing assistant pushed a linen cart between him and Jimin without slowing.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“It’s fine.”
The cart rattled toward the east corridor, one sheet trailing from the top until a nurse caught it and tucked it back into place.
The floor was already moving at full speed.
Phones rang beneath the brighter chime of call bells. Rubber wheels clicked over the joins in the polished floor. A television played too loudly inside one room while somebody farther down the hall demanded to know why breakfast contained porridge after they had specifically requested anything except porridge.
The corridor divided around a broad central station crowded with computers, chart racks, phones, printers, and stacks of forms old enough to have survived previous administrations. A green line ran along the floor toward the conference room. A blue one disappeared in the direction of Imaging.
Hospital neutralizers hummed overhead, thinning the designation scents of patients, staff, and visitors into something orderly and faint. Stress still collected in pockets: a worried omega pacing near the family lounge, an older alpha speaking too sharply to his wife, the brittle edge of fear escaping through a half-open patient-room door.
Taehyung drew his cedar close without thinking.
At the center of the desk sat an older beta woman with tiny reading glasses low on her nose.
A dark blue knitting bag rested beneath her chair, one silver needle protruding through the zipper. Both hands were occupied for now—one moving across the keyboard while the other held a telephone against her ear.
Her gaze passed over Taehyung’s coat, the tightly clipped badge, the polished shoes, and finally his face.
“Medical?”
Taehyung bowed.
“Third year. Kim Taehyung.”
She pointed toward the green line beneath his feet.
“Conference room.”
Then she looked at Jimin.
“Park Jimin.”
Jimin stopped.
“Yes?”
“Instructor Hwang has been looking for you.”
“We’re early.”
Mrs. Moon pushed her glasses higher with one knuckle.
“Not anymore.”
The voice on the phone resumed speaking.
She glanced at the bed board on her monitor while one hand shuffled a stack of admission forms into order.
“I can see that the room is clean. Nurse Kang is tied up with a patient, and I cannot accept the admission for her.”
She listened, mouth flattening.
“Have your charge nurse call ours in ten minutes. Yes, the charge nurse—not you.”
Mrs. Moon hung up before the person downstairs could continue and immediately picked up a second ringing line.
Jungkook leaned one elbow on the wheelchair handle.
“Mrs. Moon likes you.”
The unit assistant looked at him over her glasses.
“I know where you go to school.”
Jungkook straightened.
“I’m leaving.”
“Good.”
He pushed the wheelchair down the west hall.
Jimin watched him go.
“You brought us here.”
Jungkook walked backward for two steps.
“That was friendship. The rest is a paid service.”
He turned and disappeared around the corner.
A patient-room door opened near the east hall, and Seokjin emerged carrying an empty breakfast tray and a pair of reading glasses. His dark green scrub sleeves were pushed above his wrists. His hair had been swept away from his forehead at some point and was already falling back into it.
Jimin brightened.
“Seokjin hyung.”
Seokjin stopped, looked at Jimin, then tipped his head toward the clock.
“You’re late.”
Jimin checked the time.
“I’m early.”
“You were supposed to meet your instructor ten minutes before shift.”
“She said five.”
“She met you and revised the policy.”
Jimin smiled and reached for the untouched triangle of toast on Seokjin’s tray.
Seokjin slapped his wrist without loosening his hold on the tray.
“You have your own family.”
“They aren’t here.”
“I’m not adopting you either.”
Jimin took the toast anyway and backed out of reach.
“You just fed me.”
Seokjin looked at Taehyung.
His eyes passed over the new coat and polished shoes before settling on Taehyung’s face.
“You’re Tae.”
Taehyung bowed again.
“Kim Taehyung. Third-year medical student.”
“I know. Jimin has shown me pictures.”
Taehyung turned.
“What pictures?”
Jimin took a bite and avoided his eyes.
“Normal ones.”
“That means they weren’t normal.”
Seokjin stepped closer and shifted Taehyung’s badge by less than a centimeter, smoothing one thumb over the edge of the clip.
“There.”
Taehyung looked down.
“What did you do?”
“Made you employable.”
“It was straight.”
“It was eager.”
“Badges can’t look eager.”
Seokjin’s mouth twitched. He glanced at the shoes too.
“You’ll learn.”
A woman in navy scrubs came briskly from the medication room with a strip of labels looped around one wrist. Her dark hair was caught in a low ponytail, and she was speaking into the phone trapped between her shoulder and cheek while peeling one label from the roll with her thumbnail.
“Yes, Namjoon, I sent it.”
She listened and stopped beside the printer.
“No. Check again.”
Another pause.
“I’m not walking down to Pharmacy to point at the fax machine.”
She hung up, slapped the label neatly onto a specimen bag, and looked toward the group.
“New students?”
“Medical,” Mrs. Moon said from the desk. “Nursing is misplaced.”
Jimin pointed toward himself with the stolen toast.
“I’m not misplaced.”
A compact woman in navy scrubs and a white clinical jacket appeared behind him with two nursing students in pale blue uniforms.
Her dark hair was cut neatly along her jaw, and her expression suggested she had started assessing everyone’s deficiencies before reaching the station.
“Park Jimin.”
Jimin lowered the toast.
“Good morning, Instructor Hwang.”
Her gaze moved from his face to the half-eaten breakfast in his hand.
“Your cohort is waiting.”
“I was getting breakfast.”
Seokjin lifted the empty tray.
“He was committing theft.”
The beta student beside Instructor Hwang lowered her face to hide a smile. Round glasses sat neatly on her nose, and a tidy braid fell down her back.
The other student, Minseo, laughed openly, then pressed his lips together when Instructor Hwang looked at him.
Jimin pointed at both of them.
“This is not teamwork.”
Instructor Hwang handed him an assignment sheet.
“Yuna and Minseo found the correct hallway without childhood supervision.”
Jimin looked toward Taehyung.
Taehyung lifted both hands.
“I said left.”
“You said nothing.”
“Jungkook said left.”
“Exactly. Abandoned.”
Instructor Hwang turned.
“Come.”
Jimin started after his cohort, then walked backward for three steps. He looked at Taehyung, glanced around the floor, and looked at him again.
Taehyung narrowed his eyes.
Jimin smiled.
Instructor Hwang caught his sleeve and turned him forward without interrupting her explanation of the west-side assignments.
The nurse with the labels watched them go before looking at Taehyung.
“Jieun.”
“Kim Taehyung.”
“I know. He talks.”
“What did he say?”
Jieun continued sorting labels while a smile gathered around her eyes.
“Nothing actionable.”
“That sounds worse than damaging.”
A call bell lit above room twelve.
Jieun tucked the labels into one pocket and pulled a pair of gloves from the box mounted beside the desk.
“Follow the green line. Don’t stand in doorways. Don’t touch equipment unless somebody asks. And don’t leave food where Jimin can see it.”
She headed down the corridor before Taehyung could answer.
From the west hall came a woman’s firm voice.
“I understand the patient has been waiting. I still don’t have a nurse for him.”
A seasoned alpha in burgundy scrubs crossed the far end of the station with a staffing sheet tucked beneath one arm and a phone pressed to her ear. Silver threaded the dark hair pulled away from her face. She listened for several steps, jaw set, before stopping beside the medication cart.
“A clean room does not create staffing. Keep him downstairs until I call your charge nurse back.”
She ended the call and immediately unfolded the staffing sheet.
Mrs. Moon lowered her glasses.
“Nurse Kang,” she told Taehyung. “Move when she tells you.”
Taehyung nodded.
“Understood.”
Mrs. Moon looked at his shoes again.
“They’ll be gray by lunch.”
“They’ll clean.”
She returned to her keyboard, dismissing both him and the shoes.
“Medical students.”
A man’s voice came from the conference-room doorway.
Five white coats turned.
Dr. Choi held a folder beneath one arm and a paper cup in the other. He looked to be in his late twenties, an alpha symbol printed beside his name on the badge clipped to his shirt. His dark hair had been pushed carelessly away from tired eyes, and the collar at his throat sat high enough to conceal the skin beneath it.
He looked over the group, paused briefly on Taehyung, then checked the clock.
“Conference room.”
Taehyung followed the green line.
Behind him, Mrs. Moon picked up another call.
“Six South, Mrs. Moon speaking.”
She listened while locating something on the bed board.
“Nurse Kang is busy. Leave your number, and I’ll have her call you.”
Taehyung smiled as he rounded the corner.
He had been on the floor for less than five minutes and had already been redirected by four different people.
He suspected that number would rise.
⸻
The conference room had one narrow window, six mismatched chairs, and a whiteboard that had been cleaned so often the previous week’s handwriting lingered beneath the surface like a faint haunting.
Someone had abandoned an empty yogurt cup beside the computer.
Dr. Choi looked at it.
Then at the students.
“We’ve been here thirty seconds,” Dami said.
“I know.”
“It isn’t ours.”
“I know.”
Seojoon sat nearest the cup. He followed Dr. Choi’s gaze, then lifted both hands.
“I don’t eat yogurt.”
Bogum picked it up and dropped it into the bin.
“Resolved.”
They settled around the narrow table.
Bogum sat beside Taehyung with his notebook, handbook, and pen arranged in a straight line. Seojoon took the chair nearest the door, his coat hanging open and his coffee balanced close enough to the edge to make Taehyung uncomfortable.
Dami sat across from them, short hair tucked behind one ear, already annotating the orientation packet before anyone had been told to open it.
Soojin lifted the packet she had placed on the chair beside her.
“I saved this seat.”
“Thanks.”
Taehyung sat.
Her brown hair had been tied into a low ponytail, exposing the neat omega blocker behind her ear. The cream blouse beneath her coat remained immaculate despite the rain.
Her gaze lingered for a second on Taehyung’s clothes.
“You dressed up.”
“It’s the same coat everybody has.”
“I wasn’t talking about the coat.”
Taehyung looked at her.
Soojin smiled and smoothed her thumb over the corner of the orientation packet.
He smiled back because she had smiled first.
Across the table, Dami lowered her gaze to her notes. Seojoon glanced at Bogum, but Bogum was already opening his notebook.
Soojin placed a canned coffee beside Taehyung’s hand.
“I bought an extra.”
“Thank you.”
Her shoulders eased slightly as Taehyung opened it. He took one sip, blinked at the sweetness, and offered the can to Bogum.
“Want some?”
Bogum accepted it without hesitation.
Soojin’s fingers remained around her own unopened can. Her smile did not disappear, exactly, but she looked down and smoothed the same bent corner of the packet until it lay perfectly flat.
Dr. Choi set his folder on the table.
“Morning.”
They answered together.
He looked around at five upright students, five open notebooks, and Seojoon’s aggressively large coffee.
“You’re all too awake.”
Seojoon lifted his cup.
“We can fix that.”
Dr. Choi pointed toward him.
“Park Seojoon.”
Seojoon lowered it.
“Yes.”
“I read your orientation notes.”
“What did they say?”
“That you ask follow-up questions at inappropriate times.”
Bogum bowed his head, hiding his face behind one hand.
Dr. Choi passed census sheets around the table.
“Six South is general medical-surgical. You’ll see pneumonia, COPD, renal injury, postoperative patients, infections, diabetes complications, confused older adults, and families who have read three internet articles and now want to direct care.”
Seojoon uncapped his pen.
“Do we correct the families?”
“You listen first.”
“And then?”
“You continue listening.”
Seojoon’s pen stopped halfway to the page.
Dr. Choi met his eyes, the tiredness in his face settling into something more serious.
“Sometimes people are frightened, not foolish. Learn the difference before you speak.”
The answer landed more quietly than the joke.
Seojoon nodded and wrote it down.
Dr. Choi turned toward the patient list projected on the whiteboard.
“This is an old hospital. The rooms are small, the hallways are crowded, half the equipment has a personality, and the staff know exactly how long it takes students to become inconvenient.”
Dami rested an elbow on the table.
“How long?”
“We’ll find out.”
He clicked to the assignment slide.
“More importantly, the nurses and aides know these patients better than you do. A white coat does not make you too important to listen. If a nurse says someone has changed, something changed. If an aide says a patient is weaker than yesterday, pay attention. If Nurse Kang tells you to move, move.”
Nurse Kang’s voice carried past the closed door.
“Six liters and hourly neuro checks are not appropriate for this floor.”
Everyone looked toward the hallway.
Her footsteps stopped nearby.
“No, twenty minutes off pressors is not enough. Call me after he’s been stable long enough to prove it.”
The footsteps continued.
Dr. Choi looked back at the students.
“That was Nurse Kang.”
Bogum wrote move in the margin.
Seojoon leaned over to read it.
“You need that written?”
“I like surviving.”
Dr. Choi continued.
“You each get one patient today. One. That is not an insult to your intelligence. It is an act of mercy toward the staff.”
Taehyung straightened.
Dr. Choi noticed.
“Kim Taehyung.”
“Yes.”
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
Dami glanced at his chest.
“Technically.”
Dr. Choi handed him the sheet for room fourteen.
Kwon Sungho. Seventy-eight. Beta. Dehydration, dizziness, urinary infection.
“Kim and Bogum, room fourteen. Mr. Kwon is pleasant, cooperative, and currently attempting to reorganize several people’s personal lives.”
Taehyung looked up.
“Is that medically relevant?”
“It will become relevant to you.”
Bogum smiled.
“Dami, room twelve with me. Soojin, room ten. Seojoon, eighteen.”
Seojoon looked at the screen.
“Why am I alone?”
“You’re not. I’ll review your work.”
“That sounded like mistrust.”
“That was experience.”
Dr. Choi handed out the remaining papers.
“Introduce yourselves. Take a history. Perform an exam. Do not promise discharge. Do not change oxygen. Do not feed anyone without checking the diet order. Do not disappear with an ultrasound stretcher.”
Taehyung looked up.
“Has someone done that?”
Dr. Choi placed the last sheet in front of him.
“You don’t need inspiration.”
⸻
Mr. Kwon looked pleased to have visitors.
That was the first warning.
He sat upright in bed with a folded newspaper across his lap and rectangular silver glasses low on his nose. His white hair had been combed neatly away from his forehead. A soft brown cardigan rested over the hospital gown despite the room being warm enough that Taehyung had already begun regretting the undershirt beneath his coat.
A cup of barley tea sat beside the water pitcher, steam still clouding the plastic lid.
Mr. Kwon smiled as the students entered and folded his newspaper before either of them had finished bowing.
“Medical students.”
“Yes. I’m Kim Taehyung, and this is Park Bogum.” Taehyung pulled the visitor chair away from the wall. “Dr. Choi asked us to speak with you and examine you before rounds.”
“Sit. Both of you.” Mr. Kwon waved toward the chairs with one thin hand. “You look uncomfortable standing there.”
Taehyung drew the visitor chair closer while Bogum took the stool near the computer.
Unlike the patients who objected to being asked the same questions repeatedly, Mr. Kwon answered with good humor. He knew when the dizziness had started, which antibiotic had made him nauseated, how much water he had drunk the previous day, and exactly how many times he had gone to the bathroom overnight.
He also knew his nurse’s name, the aide’s name, the breakfast worker’s name, and which physician had promised to review his results.
“Any pain?” Taehyung asked, resting his notebook against one knee.
“My hip.”
“New?”
“Nineteen ninety-eight.”
Taehyung paused with the pen above the page.
Mr. Kwon’s eyes crinkled behind the glasses.
“Not related.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m trying to help you learn.”
“Very considerate.”
“I like students.”
Bogum looked up from the computer.
Mr. Kwon nodded toward him.
“Quiet one.”
Bogum’s mouth lifted into a small smile.
“I’m listening.”
“Good habit.”
Then the older beta turned his attention to Taehyung. His gaze moved from Taehyung’s face to his shoulders, down the front of the white coat, and finally to the polished shoes beneath the chair.
“Alpha.”
Taehyung touched the edge of his blocker.
“Yes.”
“Good control.”
“Thank you.”
“My grandson is an omega.”
Bogum lowered his face toward the computer.
Taehyung smiled politely.
“That’s nice.”
Mr. Kwon waited.
Taehyung waited back.
“He’s twenty-three.”
“Oh.”
“Studies architecture.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“He likes it.”
“That’s good.”
“He’s handsome.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“Very handsome.”
Taehyung nodded.
Mr. Kwon adjusted the blanket over his knees, his movements unhurried.
“He likes tall alphas.”
Bogum made a small sound.
Taehyung looked over.
Bogum coughed into his fist and turned toward the screen.
Taehyung faced the patient again.
“I hope he meets one.”
Mr. Kwon stared.
Taehyung held his gaze.
The older beta’s expression shifted—not disappointment, exactly. Assessment.
Then his smile broadened.
“Good family?”
Taehyung blinked.
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“My parents are in Daegu. I have two older brothers.”
“Career?”
“I’m a medical student.”
“I can see that. Plans?”
Taehyung glanced toward Bogum.
Bogum had lowered his forehead into one hand.
Mr. Kwon continued smoothly.
“Cook?”
“Yes.”
“Drink?”
“Sometimes.”
“Smoke?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Taehyung’s pen stopped moving.
“Are these part of the urinary-infection history?”
Mr. Kwon lifted his brows, perfectly innocent.
“Whole-person medicine.”
Bogum laughed.
Understanding finally arrived.
“Oh.”
Mr. Kwon’s smile warmed.
“He’s a good boy.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“No pressure.”
“You’ve conducted an interview.”
“I’m gathering information.”
“That is pressure with paperwork.”
Mr. Kwon laughed, delighted rather than offended. The sound carried through the room and woke the patient behind the curtain, who muttered something about people enjoying themselves before noon.
Taehyung smiled despite himself.
“I’m looking out for my grandson,” Mr. Kwon said, settling back against the pillows.
“I know.”
“He works too much.”
“So do I.”
“Shared values.”
Bogum looked toward the ceiling.
Taehyung continued the examination before Mr. Kwon could request blood work.
By the time they finished, they had established that his urinary symptoms were improving, the dizziness had eased after fluids, and there was no new pain.
They had also established that his grandson was an omega architecture student who cooked, disliked cigarettes, preferred tall alphas, and allegedly looked excellent in blue.
Taehyung was unsure which facts belonged in the presentation.
He shifted the call bell within reach.
“Do you need anything before we go?”
Mr. Kwon nodded toward the tea.
“More of that when somebody has time.”
“I’ll tell your nurse.”
“Good nurse.”
“Who?”
“Nurse Min.”
The name meant nothing yet.
“Sharp tongue,” Mr. Kwon added. “Good hands.”
Taehyung smiled.
“Okay.”
“And Student Kim?”
Taehyung paused at the door.
“Yes?”
“My grandson is visiting later this week.”
Bogum slipped into the hall without him.
Coward.
Mr. Kwon smiled.
“No pressure.”
Taehyung bowed.
“Of course.”
Outside the room, Bogum had made it three doors down before stopping against the wall. He pressed his lips together for one second, failed, and began laughing.
Taehyung approached.
“What?”
“He interviewed you.”
“He was making conversation.”
“He asked whether you smoke.”
“That’s health-related.”
“He asked whether you cook.”
“Nutrition.”
“He described his grandson’s preferred alpha body type.”
Taehyung opened his mouth.
Nothing arrived.
Bogum patted his shoulder.
“Never mind.”
Seojoon came out of the opposite room holding a chart against his chest and wearing a wounded expression.
“My patient asked whether I’m old enough to shave.”
Bogum looked at his jaw.
“Are you?”
“This is intentional.”
“What is?”
“The absence of a beard.”
Dami and Soojin joined them from farther down the corridor.
“What happened?” Soojin asked, shifting her chart beneath one arm.
“Mr. Kwon offered Taehyung an omega grandson,” Seojoon said.
“He did not.”
Soojin’s eyebrows lifted.
“Did he show you a photograph?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Taehyung looked at her.
“Why?”
Her thumb moved along the edge of the chart.
“No reason.”
Dami’s eyes flicked between them, but she only adjusted the pen tucked behind her ear.
Taehyung opened his notebook.
Near the bottom of the page he had written:
Grandson—architecture.
He crossed it out.
Bogum saw. His shoulders began moving again.
Taehyung shut the notebook.
“I’m going to find the chart.”
“It’s under your arm,” Dami said.
Taehyung looked down.
It was.
Seojoon pressed one hand to his chest.
“Excellent first day.”
Taehyung walked away before any of them could improve it.
⸻
By midmorning, the hospital had stopped feeling like one building.
The conference room belonged to residents and abandoned coffee. The patient rooms belonged to whoever was loudest inside them. The central station belonged to Mrs. Moon, regardless of what administration believed.
Taehyung had already walked the wrong direction twice, discovered three supply closets where no supply appeared to live, and learned that the oldest computer on the floor logged people out whenever they became emotionally invested in finishing a note.
He liked it.
That was the inconvenient part.
He liked the noise and motion. He liked the way each answer created another question. He liked how a patient’s face changed when somebody finally sat down instead of speaking from the doorway.
He even liked Mr. Kwon.
The grandson campaign remained under review.
Taehyung stood outside room fourteen with Bogum when a shout came from the west hall.
Furniture scraped. A monitor alarm began shrilling behind the closed door of room twelve.
The people around the station reacted before Taehyung fully understood what had happened.
Mrs. Moon’s hand moved to the call system. Jieun set down the phone she had been holding. Seokjin came out of room nine already pulling gloves from his pocket.
Dr. Choi turned toward the noise.
“Move.”
Taehyung moved.
They reached room twelve as an older omega patient swung one leg over the side of his bed. The green blanket had twisted around the other ankle. His oxygen tubing stretched taut beneath his nose, pulling at one ear, and the IV pump rocked on its pole beside him.
A young nurse stood near his shoulder with both hands raised, trying to stop him without grabbing.
“Mr. Baek, please sit down.”
“I have to catch the bus.”
His adult son, a broad alpha in a dark business suit, hovered at the foot of the bed. Fear had pushed through the edges of his failing blocker, bitter and forceful in the cramped room.
“I told you to stay down, Appa.”
Mr. Baek struck at his hand.
The IV pole tipped.
Taehyung caught it.
One wheel rolled over the polished toe of his right shoe.
Jungkook had been correct.
Taehyung had no time to resent him.
Seokjin moved toward the tangled blanket, one hand already reaching for the bed control.
“Sir, step back.”
“I’m his son.”
“And you’re crowding him.”
The man’s scent sharpened.
Mr. Baek pulled harder at the tubing. The monitor alarm rose another pitch, turning the small room into noise and bitter alpha distress.
Then a low voice came from the doorway.
“Hyung.”
Nobody shouted.
The room still heard it.
Taehyung turned.
A nurse stood inside the door with a chart tucked beneath one arm.
He was shorter than Taehyung by enough to register immediately, his frame slender beneath graphite scrubs and a fitted black shirt covering his arms to the wrists. Straight black hair brushed his shoulders, shifting against his collar when he looked from the patient to the son.
A white surgical mask covered the lower half of his face.
Most of it, really.
This should have helped.
It did not.
Pale skin showed above the mask and around the dark hair framing his face. A small silver hoop caught near one ear. His brown eyes were narrow at the outer corners, steady as they swept through the room once and seemed to understand all of it.
Taehyung’s mind emptied so thoroughly it felt recently cleaned.
The nurse looked at the alpha son.
“Fix your blocker and wait outside.”
The man turned.
“I’m his son.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t call me hyung.”
The nurse did not move. His fingers tightened once against the edge of the chart, but his voice stayed level.
“Your scent is making him worse.”
The man’s jaw hardened. Bitterness thickened the room.
Taehyung felt his own cedar stir beneath the pressure and drew it in immediately, holding it close beneath the blocker at his neck.
The masked nurse’s gaze flicked toward him.
Something in the dark eyes eased.
Only slightly.
Then he looked back at the son.
“You can be upset in the hallway.”
Seokjin had already untangled the blanket and raised one side of the bed. The son opened his mouth, reconsidered, then looked at his father and stepped outside.
When the door closed, the bitter alpha scent thinned. The neutralizer began pulling the air clean again.
The masked nurse passed Taehyung on his way to the bed, leaving the faintest trace of vanilla behind him.
Soft.
Warm.
Gone almost immediately.
Omega.
Taehyung kept his cedar contained.
The nurse crouched beside the bed, balancing on the balls of his feet so that his face was level with the older man’s.
“Mr. Baek.”
The patient kept pulling at the blanket.
“Mr. Baek.”
The brown eyes held steady until the older omega finally looked at him.
“Nurse Min?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I need the bus.”
“It left.”
Mr. Baek stopped struggling.
“I knew it.”
“There’s another after lunch.”
“They changed the route.”
“They ruin everything.”
The grip around the blanket loosened.
Nurse Min nodded toward Seokjin.
“Bring the bed up.”
Then he looked at the younger nurse. She had gone still near the oxygen outlet, her gloved fingers curled around the tubing.
“You were right to stop him,” Nurse Min said, his voice lower now. “Next time, one person talks. His son was loud enough for everyone.”
The nurse swallowed and nodded, some of the panic leaving her posture.
No humiliation.
No softness that made the correction useless.
Only something she could use next time.
Nurse Min’s gaze landed on Taehyung.
Taehyung forgot the IV pole existed.
“You have the pump?”
Taehyung looked down.
He did.
Excellent news.
“Yes.”
“Keep the line loose while we sit him.”
“Right.”
Taehyung stepped closer and caught the toe of his newly marked shoe against the pole’s base. The pump swayed.
He corrected it before it tipped.
Seokjin saw.
Of course he did.
They guided Mr. Baek into bed. Nurse Min spoke the entire time, not soothing him exactly, only giving the confusion somewhere safer to go.
“The bus is late anyway.”
“It always is.”
“I know.”
“They changed the stop.”
“I’ll complain.”
“You will?”
“Absolutely.”
Mr. Baek allowed Seokjin to free the blanket from his ankle. Taehyung kept the IV line clear while the younger nurse replaced the oxygen tubing.
The monitor settled gradually.
Nurse Min checked the IV site, then pressed two fingers to the older omega’s wrist. His hands were pale and narrow, the knuckles faintly pink from repeated washing.
“You pulled this.”
“It hurt.”
“It hurts more now.”
“You’re not nice.”
“You ask for me every morning.”
Mr. Baek considered that.
“You fix the coffee.”
“I don’t make the coffee.”
“You make them fix it.”
“That’s different.”
The patient let him straighten the blanket.
Taehyung was still holding the IV pole.
Nurse Min looked at his hand.
Then at him.
“You can let go.”
Taehyung followed his gaze.
“Oh.”
He released the pole.
It remained upright.
Impressive technology.
Nurse Min stood. Up close, the mask made his eyes more distracting rather than less. Faint shadows rested beneath them, and a small crease sat between his brows. One strand of black hair had caught against the elastic loop near his cheek.
Taehyung wanted to move it.
He had known this person for less than a minute.
That seemed excessive.
“Medical student?” Nurse Min asked.
“Yes.”
“First day?”
Taehyung glanced at his coat, then at the gray wheel mark across his shoe.
“Is it that obvious?”
The eyes above the mask changed.
Not unkindly.
Taehyung could not see the nurse’s mouth, but he knew he was smiling.
“A little.”
Seokjin lifted the bedrail into place.
“This is Jimin’s friend.”
Nurse Min looked back at Taehyung.
“Which friend?”
“The medical student.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“The one he talks about.”
“Still doesn’t.”
Taehyung bowed slightly because formality seemed safer than whatever his brain had been doing.
“Kim Taehyung. Third year.”
The nurse shifted the chart beneath his arm.
“Min Yoongi.”
Taehyung looked at the badge clipped to the scrub top even though he had heard the name.
MIN YOONGI, RN
A small omega designation sat beside it.
Min Yoongi.
Good name.
Taehyung had no criteria for names.
Yoongi glanced toward the IV line.
“You kept that clear.”
Taehyung looked at it.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
One word.
Taehyung felt absurdly as if he had passed an examination nobody else knew was happening.
Seokjin noticed. His eyes moved from Taehyung to Yoongi and back, and something quietly dangerous began gathering in his expression.
The room door opened behind them.
Dr. Choi entered with his sleeves pushed above his forearms and Mr. Baek’s laboratory sheet folded in one hand. His gaze went first to the patient, then to the oxygen, the IV, and finally to Yoongi.
“How bad?”
“More confused than this morning.” Yoongi held the chart out without checking where Dr. Choi’s hand was. “Tried to leave for a bus. Pulled the line. His son’s scent pushed him over.”
Dr. Choi stepped close enough to read over Yoongi’s shoulder before taking the chart. Yoongi did not move away or make space, as if they had stood like that beside a hundred beds before.
“Fever?”
“None.”
“Urine?”
“Sample’s on the way.”
“You called before I got here.”
“I knew you’d ask.”
Dr. Choi looked at him, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“You always steal my dramatic entrance.”
“Arrive faster.”
The eyes above Yoongi’s mask creased.
Dr. Choi’s smile answered easily.
It was an ordinary exchange.
Probably.
The kind people developed after enough long shifts, difficult patients, and arguments over orders.
Taehyung had no reason to notice how close they stood.
He noticed.
Dr. Choi was an alpha.
Yoongi was an omega.
That meant nothing.
Probably.
Dr. Choi turned toward the bed.
“Mr. Baek.”
The older man opened one eye.
“You missed the bus too.”
“Tragic.”
“You people are useless.”
“Consistently.”
Dr. Choi checked his pupils while Yoongi remained at the other side of the bed, passing him the penlight before he asked for it.
Again, easy.
Again, familiar.
Taehyung’s fingers tightened around the IV pole before he remembered he had already released it.
Seokjin noticed that too.
Of course he did.
Yoongi looked toward the younger nurse.
“Call the lab and make sure they run the culture. I’ll stay until his son changes the patch.”
She nodded and went to the phone.
Mr. Baek closed his eyes.
“I don’t like students.”
Taehyung looked at him.
“You haven’t spoken to me.”
“Too tall.”
Seokjin tucked the blanket higher.
“You tried to kick me.”
“I missed.”
“You like him,” Yoongi said.
Mr. Baek’s eyes remained closed.
“I don’t.”
The tension in the room loosened.
Taehyung smiled.
Yoongi caught him.
The dark eyes rested on his face for a beat longer than necessary.
Then another call bell rang across the hallway.
Yoongi closed his eyes.
“That lasted.”
Dr. Choi handed the chart back.
“Go. I’ve got this.”
Yoongi took it. Their fingers brushed briefly over the cover, neither of them appearing to notice.
Taehyung noticed enough for everybody.
Yoongi turned toward the door, pulling clean gloves from the wall box as he moved. His shoulder brushed Taehyung’s arm when he passed.
He stopped at the threshold and looked back.
“Don’t stand in doorways.”
Taehyung straightened.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I came inside.”
“Eventually.”
The eyes above the mask creased again.
Then Yoongi disappeared into the next room.
Taehyung watched the empty doorway.
Dami stepped up beside him and followed his gaze. She glanced at him once, then tucked her pen behind her ear without comment.
Soojin arrived with Bogum and Seojoon. Her eyes moved toward the room Yoongi had entered, then briefly toward Dr. Choi.
“Nurse Min?” she asked.
Taehyung looked at her.
“What about him?”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the chart before she adjusted her grip.
“Nothing. I hadn’t met him.”
Jimin reached the hall with Instructor Hwang’s cohort just in time to see the direction Taehyung was facing.
His eyes narrowed with immediate interest.
Taehyung pointed at him before he could speak.
“No.”
Jimin smiled.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Instructor Hwang looked between them.
“Whatever this is, it can wait until after clinical.”
“There is no this,” Taehyung said.
Dr. Choi tapped the edge of Taehyung’s notebook.
“You were supposed to review Mr. Kwon’s intake.”
“Yes.”
“Overnight urine output?”
Taehyung knew it.
He had written it down.
The number sat directly beneath his thumb.
His brain offered him dark eyes above a mask.
Shoulder-length black hair.
A silver hoop.
Vanilla.
The easy way Dr. Choi had leaned beside him.
Min Yoongi saying good.
Nothing about urine.
Dr. Choi waited.
Taehyung looked down at the page.
“Could you repeat the question?”
Jimin’s lips disappeared between his teeth. Seojoon shifted his chart higher to hide a grin. Bogum looked down at the floor.
Taehyung answered correctly the second time.
He could do medicine.
He had merely been distracted by an omega.
A very pretty omega.
Possibly one Dr. Choi knew unusually well.
That was irrelevant.
Probably.
He had only seen half of Min Yoongi’s face.
That should have made the problem smaller.
It did not.
⸻
The bus ride home was quieter.
Jimin sat beside the window with his head resting against the glass. Taehyung stood over him with one hand around the rail as evening traffic crawled through rain-slick streets.
His white coat was folded over his arm.
A gray wheel mark crossed the right pocket.
Jungkook would be unbearable.
Jimin opened one eye.
“How was the first day?”
Taehyung thought about Mr. Kwon’s grandson.
Mrs. Moon sorting admissions without ever leaving her chair.
Seokjin’s stolen toast.
Jieun arguing with Pharmacy.
Mr. Baek’s bus.
Min Yoongi entering room twelve and bringing the noise down without raising his voice.
“Good.”
“Only good?”
“Busy.”
“Mhm.”
Taehyung looked out the window.
Three stops passed.
“How long has Nurse Min worked there?”
Jimin’s other eye opened.
“I don’t know. Almost two years.”
“Oh.”
Another stop.
“Does he always work with Dr. Choi?”
Jimin lifted his head from the window.
Taehyung continued looking through the glass.
“They seemed familiar.”
“They work on the same floor.”
“I know.”
“That generally creates familiarity.”
“I know.”
Jimin watched the side of his face. A smile began slowly, pulling one corner of his mouth upward.
Taehyung looked down.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re about to.”
Jimin’s smile widened.
“Tae.”
“Hm?”
“Were you staring at Nurse Min or Dr. Choi?”
Taehyung looked offended.
“Nurse Min.”
The answer came too quickly.
Jimin’s eyebrows climbed.
Taehyung heard himself.
“He was handling the patient.”
“Of course.”
“And Dr. Choi arrived later.”
“Very thorough.”
Taehyung turned back toward the window.
Jimin leaned closer, his shoulder pressing comfortably against Taehyung’s hip the way it had since they were children.
“Was Nurse Min pretty?”
Taehyung’s ears warmed.
He could lie.
Jimin had known him since they were six. There was no point.
“I don’t know.”
Jimin waited.
“He was wearing a mask.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
Taehyung looked out at the wet city. Streetlights stretched gold across the road, and people hurried beneath umbrellas as the bus pulled away from the curb.
Jimin’s smile grew.
“You’ve wondered what the rest of his face looks like.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I made an observation.”
“About the hidden half of his face.”
“That is not unusual.”
“It’s a little unusual.”
Taehyung ignored him.
He had survived his first clinical day.
The hospital had given him one matchmaking patient, one gray mark on his new coat, and one omega nurse whose face remained half concealed behind a white mask.
There was also Dr. Choi, who knew what Yoongi would hand him before asking and stood close enough to read over his shoulder.
That did not concern Taehyung.
He had known either man for less than a day.
Taehyung was absolutely not going to think about any of it on the way home.
He thought about Min Yoongi for eleven stops.