Chapter Text
There are things you learn to keep alive
not because they deserve to be saved
but because letting them go feels worse
—Myrelinth
📧
Subject: Appointment Confirmation – Co-Principal Investigator, CryoBridge Organ Preservation Trial
To: Dr Kim Geonwoo
Department of Cardiothoracic Surgery
Seoul National University Hospital
Seoul, South Korea
---
Dear Dr Kim,
We are pleased to confirm your formal appointment as Co-Principal Investigator for the CryoBridge Clinical Trial, a joint initiative by the Seoul National University Hospital Transplant Innovation Board and the National Biomedical Research Council.
Your surgical record and expertise in advanced thoracic interventions were key factors in your nomination. We believe your leadership will be essential to the success of this next phase.
As outlined in the revised trial protocol, we are pleased to inform you that your co-investigator for this phase of the project is Dr He Xinlong (Department of Transplant Surgery, SNUH). His background in ex vivo organ viability and perfusion modelling was evaluated as highly compatible with your expertise in thoracic surgical outcomes and procedural innovation. Following final deliberation, the committee determined that this pairing represented the most effective combination of clinical and academic strengths from the candidate pool.
Project components include:
- Joint oversight of Phase II–III warm perfusion trials for cardiac, renal and hepatic organs
- Direct surgical supervision during ex vivo viability testing and simulated transplant procedures
- Publication and authorship of the CryoBridge multi-phase outcome report (Q4 deadline)
- Institutional presentations and internal symposium panel (dates TBA)
An initial orientation will be scheduled this week with the Biomedical Research Office. Full access to grant documentation, schedules, and Phase I reports has been attached to this packet.
We look forward to your continued contributions to medical advancement and collaborative leadership at SNUH.
Warm regards,
Dr Lim Seohyuk
Director of Surgical Research Initiatives
Seoul National University Hospital
Geonwoo doesn’t move for a full ten seconds after he finishes reading the email. The screen glows faintly, creating a dull smudge of light across his desk, his hands, and the pale crease of his white coat where it folds at the elbows. The faint smell of antiseptic clings to his sleeves, layered over the ghost of cauterised flesh from the morning’s case. His coffee’s gone cold on the corner of the desk. He hasn’t touched it in hours, and now the scent turns his stomach.
He’s read the message line for line. It's coherent and professionally ecstatic, yet his mind keeps stumbling on the same sentence over and over.
"Your co-investigator will be Dr He Xinlong."
His grip jerks violently off the mouse without meaning to. He hadn’t even realised his hand was shaking until it thudded back down on the desk gracelessly.
He stares again, as though rereading it might change something and expose a mistake, a name swap, a bad joke, anything. But it stays and doesn’t change, doesn’t blur, vanish, or correct itself into someone—anyone—else.
Xinlong.
For a moment, all he hears is static, the distant shuffling of feet, laughter near the post-op nurse station down the hall, and his own pulse roaring between his ears like a flat line just missed.
His cursor blinks beside the sentence: “...background in ex vivo organ viability and perfusion modelling was evaluated as highly compatible…”
Compatible. Like they’re a matched set. Like this is still med school, and someone’s pushing them together for surgical synergy and cute headlines.
It’s been five years, give or take. Long enough to pretend he doesn’t remember what it felt like to share an apartment with him. To share a bed, a toothbrush, and a life he thought they were building together. For a long while, he trained himself not to react to that name, or flinch whenever it showed up in research citations or echoed through a conference panel.
He’d known the selection process for the CryoBridge trial would be confidential (everything anonymised until the final confirmation). That’s how they kept bias out, at least in theory. It was meant to be merit-based and impersonal.
But this? This is a sabotage dressed in praise.
His mouth tastes like paper. He’s breathing shallow, like there’s a hand clamped over his chest, even though no one else is in the room. He doesn’t remember standing, he just knows he’s pacing now; three steps to the bookshelf, three back to the desk, shoulders locked tight beneath the collar of his coat. There's a steady, bitter, metronome pause in his throat, and every cell in his body is screaming a question he can’t answer.
When did Xinlong come back?
The last time Geonwoo checked (he had kept track, obsessively and recklessly, for longer than he’ll admit), Xinlong was halfway across the world for an elite fellowship, some cutting-edge transplant program that made medical journals coo with praise. He was the rising star. The one who left.
Eventually, he’d stopped looking. He had to for his sanity, because it hurt too much, because each article and each line of credentialed brilliance felt like a scalpel to the ribs.
So what the fuck is he doing back in Korea?
And how is he working here, at this hospital, under this roof, on this same trial without a single whisper of warning?
Geonwoo would’ve heard, should’ve heard, if someone like him transferred into the transplant department. Someone with his profile, his accolades, his… name. There’s no way it wouldn’t have reached him.
Unless Xinlong had been avoiding him too?
Geonwoo swallows hard as his brain goes through a centrifuge of emotions.
Did he transfer quietly? Get fast-tracked through faculty channels? Why didn’t anyone tell him? How had he not seen him around? Seoul National isn't a small hospital, but it isn't a fucking continent.
He doubles over the desk and runs a hand through his hair slowly, the strands falling back into place neatly. He hates this. Hates that even now, his body refuses to fall apart properly. He’s supposed to be good under pressure; that’s what they always said: steady mind equals steady hands. Except now, both are useless.
There’s a knock on the door that his brain processes really slowly.
Outside, a nurse calls his name gently, reminding him about the recent surgery report briefing in twenty minutes. Tells him the biomedic supervisor will be waiting in conference room six.
He nods out of instinct even though she can’t see him, then sits back down and clicks the email closed, like it hasn’t just reopened everything he spent years burying.
After that, he leans back slowly in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give him oxygen.
His hands are still trembling when he presses them flat against his thighs, like he’s trying to pin himself back into the present.
He doesn’t know how to handle this.
He doesn’t know if he can.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Ten years ago – Seoul National University Hospital
Geonwoo woke up late on his first day of residency.
Not catastrophically late though, just enough that his morning routine became a frantic blur of half-buttoned collars and coffee he didn’t have time to drink. He burned his tongue trying to sip it anyway, swore under his breath, and bolted out the door, with his tie askew and his coat clutched in one hand, hair still a little damp from the world’s fastest shower.
His car, a rickety old Toyota Corolla that had technically been his uncle’s before it mysteriously became his, wheezed its way into the hospital parking lot, protesting every incline like it resented being driven. The thing barely survived the hills; still, it was faster than waiting for the bus at dawn in winter.
The lot was already packed, a dense tangle of cars glinting under the early sun. He coasted into a spot with seconds to spare, only to realise he’d parked at a terrible angle. The driver’s door was wedged too close to the car beside him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, jamming the gear into reverse.
But before he could, the backseat window of the other car rolled down, and a head popped out, someone his age, maybe a little younger. Brown hair, wire-framed glasses perched low on his nose, and a neutral expression that made it clear Geonwoo was making his morning inconvenient.
“You might want to park properly,” the stranger said mildly.
Geonwoo startled, then winced. “Right. Sorry. I’ll fix it.”
He pulled out and parked properly this time, aligning the wheels with exaggerated caution like it might redeem him. When he climbed out, he offered a sheepish half-bow.
“Sorry again. Wasn’t paying attention.”
The boy stepped fully out of the car, adjusting his coat quickly. Up close, he was slightly shorter, slim and nerdy but with one of the most striking faces Geonwoo had ever seen. His eyes flicked to the Corolla, then back to Geonwoo.
“No worries,” he said, smiling politely. It was a soft sort of smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but didn’t seem fake either.
Geonwoo glanced at the car now that he could get a proper look. Glossy black, streamlined, luxury badge on the hood. Not flashy, just expensive. One of those polished imports that probably cost more than his entire med school tuition.
“Nice ride,” he said and meant it.
“Thanks,” the boy replied. “My dad thinks I’ll scratch it on a parking meter, so he got me a driver.”
“I wish I had that problem.” Geonwoo laughed awkwardly, gesturing towards the hospital entrance. “Anyway, I should go.”
He gave a small wave, then jogged toward the staff entrance with his bag bouncing against his hip and his coat flapping open behind him. He didn’t think twice about the random stranger with an expensive car. Didn't ask for a name either.
Geonwoo didn’t know he’d just met the person who would change everything and ruin every piece of calm he ever had.
.
.
.
Minutes later, they saw each other again.
Orientation was being held in a long, low-ceilinged auditorium that smelled faintly of floor polish and nerves. Rows of new residents filtered in, white coats still too stiff, tapping their ID badges or flipping through welcome packets.
Geonwoo took a seat near the front, second row, quietly relieved that he wasn’t the latest one to arrive. Barely a second later, movement caught his eye as someone slid into the seat just behind him.
“Hey,” a voice said lightly. “You again.”
Geonwoo turned just as the boy from the parking lot raised a hand in greeting, glasses pushed up higher this time, tie straighter, smile faint but present.
He blinked, surprised. “Guess it’s going to be one of those days.”
The boy laughed under his breath. “You have no idea.”
They didn’t speak again during the presentation. Department heads rotated through the mic, rattling off numbers, expectations, dire warnings about sleep deprivation. Somewhere in the middle of a particularly grim chart on surgical errors, Geonwoo glanced back and caught a glimpse of the boy behind him, doodling something in the margin of the welcome packet.
A heart, he realised. Anatomical, with labelled valves and all.
When the session ended, they met again in the hallway outside the auditorium, caught in the same slow stream of bodies.
“Didn’t know you were a resident too,” the boy said, offering his hand this time. “I’m He Xinlong.”
“Kim Geonwoo,” he replied, clasping it.
The handshake was brief and neutral with just the right amount of eye contact. But Geonwoo noticed the warmth of his palm lingered an extra beat before they let go.
“You’re in transplant?” Xinlong asked, adjusting his ID card holder around his neck.
“Cardiothoracic.”
“Ah.” Xinlong nodded. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“Guess so.”
Then Xinlong pulled out his phone, holding it up between them. “Want to swap contacts? Might be nice to know someone who’s just as confused as I am.”
Geonwoo hesitated for a split second, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
They exchanged numbers with the professionalism of two people trying to survive the same fire.
After that, they drifted apart with the rest of the crowd. Xinlong said he had to find his attending. Geonwoo nodded like he had somewhere urgent to be. They both walked in opposite directions.
Neither of them knew it yet, but that would be the first of a thousand small choices.
And none of them would ever be as simple again.
.
.
.
Later that night, Geonwoo had just gotten out of the shower when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, expecting spam or some department update. Instead, it was Xinlong.
Xinlong: You parked better than you introduced yourself.
He stared at it for a second, towel still hanging loose around his shoulders. Then snorted, thumb already hovering over the reply.
Geonwoo: You’re the one who snuck up on me in the auditorium.
Xinlong: Fair. I’ll take half the blame.
Xinlong: He Xinlong, by the way. In case your contacts are as disorganised as your parking.
Geonwoo: I saved it. No need to roast me twice in one day.
Xinlong: Just making conversation. First day was… a lot.
Geonwoo: Yeah. My brain’s still somewhere in that lecture about error rates.
Xinlong: Or the part where they basically said, “good luck sleeping, ever.”
Geonwoo: Iconic welcome to hell.
Xinlong: Want to grab lunch tomorrow? Maybe keep each other from melting down.
Geonwoo: Sure. I owe you for not keying my car.
Xinlong: I’m not that petty.
Geonwoo: You seem like you'll be that petty.
Xinlong: …maybe a little. Lunch tomorrow. I’ll find you.
Geonwoo: Goodnight, Xinlong.
Xinlong: Night, Kim. Or Geon.
Xinlong: I can totally call you Geon, right? Or GW?
Geonwoo: Anything works.
When the conversation ended, the silence of his room felt strangely full like the echo of laughter in an empty corridor. Geonwoo set his phone down on the nightstand, screen still glowing softly beside him. He lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling, the scent of clean soap still clinging to his skin.
He hadn’t expected anything from today except survival. But now, Xinlong had promised to find him tomorrow, and somehow, that felt like enough.
.
.
.
One lunch turned into two, then three, then five. Then it stopped being something they planned and started being something they just did. Routine slipped into ritual before either of them noticed.
It didn’t matter that they were assigned to different departments, different rotations, and different wings of the same floor; somehow, they always found each other. In the cafeteria, in the residents’ lounge, out by the vending machines when both of them needed caffeine more than dignity.
They’d eat standing sometimes, backs against the same stretch of tiled wall, stethoscopes still around their necks. Other times they'd find a quiet corner with takeout containers balanced on their knees, half-laughing about some attending’s impossible standards or an intern who mispronounced “sternotomy.”
There was comfort in their sameness, in the exhaustion, the late hours, and the dry jokes traded like currency.
Most of it was ordinary. That’s what made it dangerous.
They learned about each other in pieces. Xinlong lived with his parents—two towering figures in the medical world, both surgeons with international reputations and reputations even larger at home. He never brought it up himself, but eventually it came out in a story about being quizzed on pharmacokinetics at dinner.
Geonwoo told him things too. What it was like growing up in Jeonju. Working part-time jobs to help with tuition. How much he hated writing personal statements, even though he always ranked first. He shared pieces of himself, and Xinlong listened like he wanted to know all of it.
Somewhere between coffee runs and mounting tasks, they made friends too. Friends who pulled them out for drinks on weekends and whispered gossip during morning rounds. Friends who noticed, before they did, just how much time they spent together.
People started teasing, lightly and harmlessly.
“Your shadow’s here,” someone would mutter whenever Xinlong showed up five minutes after Geonwoo.
“Get a room,” someone else said once, when they were arguing about clamp pressure and standing way too close.
They brushed it off. They always brushed it off. But the truth settled between them anyway.
Some nights, Geonwoo would be walking back to the call room, dead on his feet, only for his phone to buzz with Xinlong’s name: still awake? I’m grabbing tea.
He’d go, of course. Every time. Sleep never seemed as important as seeing him again.
And some days, when Geonwoo got flustered with charts or snapped at an intern, Xinlong was always there with a hand on his elbow and a reassuring glance. Sometimes he offered silence, sometimes a stupid joke, but always something.
It took nearly a year, almost exactly to the month they met, before Geonwoo let himself acknowledge what he already knew.
He didn’t want to go a day without seeing him or hearing his voice. Without knowing for certain that Xinlong was there.
So one night, at the start of spring, after a long shift and a dinner they didn’t even pretend was casual, they sat side by side on the steps outside the hospital. The sky was the colour of wet stone, and the air smelled like cherry blossoms just starting to open.
Geonwoo stared straight ahead when he said it.
“I like you.”
Xinlong didn’t say anything at first. He blinked, then looked down at their hands, resting too close on the concrete between them.
“Is this—” he began, then stopped.
“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” Geonwoo said quickly. “I just. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
Xinlong turned to him, his expression softening. “I’ve been thinking about it too,” he said. “For months.”
“Be my boyfriend then,” Geonwoo said, the words coming out fast, breathless, and a little too direct. “I mean. If you want.”
Xinlong’s smile came slowly, but it stayed.
“Yeah. Okay.”
And just like that, they weren’t just residents anymore, they were each other’s.
.
.
They went on actual dates after that.
Not many, because time was scarce and shifts were brutal, but they carved it out where they could. Late dinners at hole-in-the-wall noodle shops, coffee walks in the early hours of the morning, stolen hours in the dark corners of Seoul where no one would recognise them in scrubs and half-buttoned coats. They kissed on rooftops, in call rooms, and in the quiet space between certainty and exhaustion.
They made love slowly the first time. Neither of them said it, but both knew exactly how long they’d been waiting for that moment.
They didn’t publicise the relationship. Not formally. Their closest friends and coworkers knew. Junseo teased them relentlessly, Jiahao started coordinating their shift schedules ‘accidentally’, and eventually, their circle began to pair off into relationships too, like something in the air had made connection feel possible again.
But to the rest of the hospital, it was obvious anyway. In the way they circled each other, the way their lockers always opened and closed within minutes of each other, and the way Geonwoo would stay an hour longer in his department just to walk out beside Xinlong at the end of the night.
The relationship was good. Better than good, most days. Blissful, even. There were hard days from long surgeries, patient deaths, and department politics sometimes, but nothing they couldn’t weather. Not when they had each other to lean on. They built small rituals: midnight ramen after double shifts, forehead touches before rounds, and the occasional shared silence that said more than words ever could.
By the end of their second year, Geonwoo had saved enough for a better apartment that was closer to the hospital, more ambient, with morning light that spilt into the living room. He sat on the idea for nearly a month before bringing it up, practised the words endlessly in his head, and almost choked on them when they finally came out.
“Move in with me. Full time,” he’d said one night, while they were brushing their teeth side by side.
Xinlong didn’t hesitate. He spat out fluoride, wiped his mouth, and said with so much glee, “Of course.”
Just like that, it became a shared space. Two toothbrushes in the holder, shared groceries, chore lists taped to the fridge, half-finished textbooks on every flat surface. Xinlong started leaving notes in the margins of Geonwoo’s case files, and Geonwoo started learning how to fold laundry the way Xinlong liked it.
They adopted a kitten on a whim after rescuing her from behind the hospital cafeteria. She was tiny, all bones and eyes, and for some reason, they named her Haemoglobin.
Their friends were horrified.
“Why would you name her that?” Jiahao asked.
“It’s too strange and clinical,” Junseo muttered. “You two are freaks.”
But they didn’t care. Haemoglobin stayed. She slept curled between them on winter nights and knocked over pill bottles for fun. They had no good reason for the name. They just laughed about it and carried on with their life.
Sometimes, when Geonwoo woke up in the middle of the night, Xinlong would already be awake beside him, watching the ceiling, lost somewhere in thought. He’d reach out, fingers brushing his arm, and Xinlong would always turn toward him, smile faintly, and whisper, “Go back to sleep.”
He always did, because back then, it still felt safe to.
And for a really long while, it was the most fulfilling thing Geonwoo had ever known.
Until it wasn’t.
_ _ _ _ _ _
A knock on the door jolts Geonwoo, snapping him out of his drowning thoughts.
“I’ll be out soon,” he calls, projecting his voice to sound steadier than he feels.
He exhales slowly, trying to ground himself—three seconds in, four seconds out—but it doesn’t help much. The dam’s already broken, and the memories keep bleeding through the cracks like fluid in the lungs. Still, he pulls himself together, grabs his coat, adjusts his glasses, and loops his stethoscope around his neck. By the time he steps into the conference room, his expression is back in place, like he hadn’t just spent the last thirty minutes regurgitating old wounds.
He takes his time during the briefing, walking the supervisor through the details of his most recent procedure. His voice stays even, hands gesturing animatedly, but somewhere beneath it, he can still feel the dull ache from earlier beating behind his ribs.
When it’s finally over, he doesn’t head home.
Instead, he drives across town to a barbecue joint where Junseo and Jiahao have been blowing up his phone with increasingly chaotic messages about drinks and “celebrating his academic slay.” Apparently, the CryoBridge trial announcement has already hit the medical forums. Someone even linked it in a news thread. His name is trending in niche circles where cardiac data and machine perfusion get more clicks than celebrity gossip.
He parks outside the restaurant, kills the engine, and steps out into the cool evening air. Inside, the smell of grilled meat and soju hits him immediately. The noise is relentless, laughter spilling between tables, music leaking through the walls. It’s loud, alive and nothing like the silence of his office or the ghost of Xinlong still clinging to the back of his mind.
“Geonwoo!” Junseo shouts, one hand already in the air, waving him over.
For a moment, just one brief moment, Geonwoo lets himself forget. He’s meeting his friends for drinks and dinner, and he's going to be present in mind and body, instead of obsessing over something he can't control.
The lady who runs the place sets up their table, laying out marinated meats, banchan dishes, tongs, and scissors. The grill sizzles as the first cuts hit the hot plate.
“Waaaah, you’ve made it big,” Junseo teases, pouring him a shot of soju before he’s even seated. “You’re a published researcher and a celebrity now. I need to start treating you with more respect.”
Jiahao rolls his eyes. “He was already insufferable before this. Don’t inflate it.”
“You talk like you didn’t watch me bust my ass for the last ten years of my life,” Geonwoo mutters, grabbing the shot glass from Junseo’s hand and gulping the contents in one go.
They laugh, eat, drink, order more soju, and drift sideways into the familiar comfort of friendship, conversing over grilled meat and shared banchan. They talk about everything and nothing in particular.
At some point, Geonwoo finds himself watching them—Junseo and Jiahao, shoulder to shoulder, reaching for the same cut of beef at the same time. They bicker about it, laugh, then share it anyway. They look even more in love than ever.
How long has it been? Eight years? Nine? He can’t really place it, but he remembers they got together not long after he and Xinlong did, back when everything still felt like it was just beginning.
It’s surprising in a way that their love outlasted his.
For a split second, Geonwoo imagines what this night would have looked like if Xinlong were still beside him. If they were still them, and their story had played out differently.
It would’ve been such a complete moment.
He catches himself immediately and mentally dislodges the thought with a slight scowl. He has absolutely no business thinking like that. And he hates how easily the walls crumble whenever it comes to Xinlong. Hates that even now, a shared table and a little soju are enough to crack the seal.
“So…” Junseo starts, and there’s a shift in the air.
He’s looking at Geonwoo like he’s been holding onto something all night, unsure if it’s his place to say it.
“Why didn’t you tell us your partner on the project is Xinlong?”
The question hits like a physical punch to the ribs. Geonwoo doesn’t react at first; he just blinks slowly, exhales, then chugs another shot of soju. The alcohol stings down his throat, sharp enough to hold his thoughts at bay for half a second.
“I didn’t know,” he mutters finally, setting the glass down with shaky fingers that he tries and fails to hide. “About Xinlong, I mean. The candidate selection process was anonymous. I only found out today, just like the rest of you.”
Junseo and Jiahao don’t respond. They exchange a glance instead.
“He wasn’t even in Korea,” Geonwoo continues, slower now. “Last I checked, he was still abroad. So when the hell did he come back?”
There’s silence at the table. A loud, uneasy kind. Junseo and Jiahao exchange another glance, quick and guilty, and something in Geonwoo stills.
His gaze snaps between them, and it clicks.
“You guys knew?” The question comes out flat at first, then sharper as they settle, like a blade catching light. “Wait. You knew he was back?”
Neither of them answers right away, but they don’t have to. Junseo’s eyes flick to Jiahao’s, and the brief pause between them is enough.
“You knew?” Geonwoo asks again, his voice projecting louder than he intends, a mishmash of disbelief and budding hurt.
Junseo shifts uneasily in his seat, guilt written all over him. Jiahao starts to speak, stops, then finally manages, “It’s been a while.”
“How long?”
“Almost three months,” Junseo admits, wincing. “We didn’t plan to lie. We just… ran into him at an academic mixer at Yonsei Severance. After that, he reached out a couple of times.”
For a moment, Geonwoo just stares at them, the words barely registering. Three months. Three months of Xinlong being here, in the same city, breathing the same air, walking the same halls, and no one thought to tell him.
His heart is thudding, pulse rising, each beat pushing against his ribs like it's trying to claw its way out.
“Three months,” he echoes, his voice thinning at the edges. “And you didn’t think I deserved to know?”
“He asked us not to tell you.” Jiahao blurts in defence, keeping his eyes down.
Of course he did.
Of course, Xinlong would still find a way to shut him out, even after all these years.
Geonwoo exhales a sound that could almost be a laugh, except it isn’t. It cracks halfway out of his throat, too bitter and brittle to hide behind humour. “Of course he did.”
The table feels too small now, the heat from the grill too close, the air thick with the smell of meat and smoke and something acrid he can’t name. Junseo looks like he wants to explain, like there’s an excuse waiting behind his teeth, but Geonwoo doesn’t want to hear it.
He stands abruptly, yanking his coat from the back of the chair, the legs screeching a little against the floor as he pushes it in. From his wallet, he pulls enough bills to cover the meal and drops them onto the table. “This should cover everything.”
“Geonwoo—” Junseo starts, reaching for his sleeves, but Geonwoo pulls back like he’s been burned.
“Don’t,” he says sharply. “Don’t touch me. Enjoy your night.”
He walks out before they can follow, shoving the restaurant door open and stepping into the night like it might actually calm him down. But it doesn’t. The tightness and bitterness in his chest don’t ease. They stay lodged under his skin, pulsing with every breath.
By the time he reaches his car, his hands are trembling. He grips the steering wheel anyway, knuckles whitening as he turns the key. The drive home blurs. Traffic lights change, pedestrians cross, but his focus tunnels. His mind keeps looping back to Junseo’s guilt, Jiahao’s hesitation, and that line: He asked us not to tell you.
His jaw locks as he presses harder on the accelerator.
Three months. Five years.
Three whole months of Xinlong being back. Five years of Xinlong walking out on him without a word and plunging him into darkness.
Three months where everyone else knew. Five years where he had to scrape himself together and pretend he was fine.
The thoughts simmer until they stop feeling like anger and start feeling like something older and fossilised that's been waiting all this time to hurt again.
Geonwoo reaches the red light near the Han River and hits the brakes. The reflection of the city shimmers against the water, and for a long moment, he just stares at it. Then, before he can stop himself, he signals, pulls over to the side, and kills the engine.
Silence rushes in fast, heavier than the noise of the road. His pulse is still racing. His breath catches, and the weight of everything he’s been holding in, the years, the distance, the silence, it all finally caves in on itself.
He presses a hand to his mouth, trying to breathe through it, but the breath breaks before it reaches his lungs. The ache crests.
The first sob slips out small, almost soundless, but too human to swallow back. Then another. And another, until his vision blurs and it all unravels, shuddering through him like recoil.
Outside, the city stays bright and indifferent. Headlights slide across the windshield, washing him in flashes of white before fading again.
And Geonwoo, parked by the river with his headlights dimmed, finally lets himself fall apart again for the first time since surviving that phase five years ago.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Five years ago.
After feeding Haemoglobin and tucking her into her makeshift bed (a recycled blanket in the corner of their room), Xinlong washed his hands, turned off the kitchen light, and padded down the hall. Geonwoo was still at his desk, shoulders curled inward, face lit by the blue of his laptop.
“It’s late,” Xinlong said gently, voice rough from the long day. “Come to bed. We’ve got back-to-back shifts tomorrow.”
Geonwoo didn't argue; he shut the laptop and followed.
The bed was warm, the room dim, the buzz of the city faint through the window. They folded into each other like muscle memory—Xinlong’s leg hooking around his, one hand slipping beneath Geonwoo’s shirt, palm pressed to his spine. It felt safe and familiar.
But the quiet sat differently. Not stifling, just... heavier.
Something had been off between them for months. Small, unspoken things that gathered in the spaces between words. Just enough for Geonwoo to notice, and not quite enough for Xinlong to admit.
He’d asked before. Every time, Xinlong had said he was fine.
He said it again now when Geonwoo murmured, “You sure we’re okay, baby?” fingers threading gently through his hair. “You’d tell me if something was going on, right?”
“Yeah,” Xinlong whispered, though it took a moment to come. “We’re good. I'm Just tired.”
Geonwoo hummed in response and kissed his temple, but the unease lingered.
Then Xinlong asked, voice barely there, “If the email comes and you get picked instead of me… will you still wait? Like we promised?”
Geonwoo blinked, startled by the question. He drew back just enough to see Xinlong's face in the low light.
“Of course I’ll wait,” he said without hesitation. “We made that promise together. I meant it.”
—
Three months earlier, the hospital had announced a rare opportunity: a prestigious international medical fellowship at Harvard. It was a chance to expand beyond borders, to grow past the limits of what they thought possible. But the catch: there was only one spot allocated for SNUH that year.
They both wanted it. And as partners, they both applied.
And to keep the peace of it, to protect what they’d built, they made a promise: if either of them got in, they’d defer. Wait a year. Let the other apply the following cycle so they could go together, hand in hand, just like they’d always dreamed.
It felt foolproof. Like love folded neatly into logic. A pact born from years of shared sacrifice, whispered against tired pillows, both of them believing it was enough.
—
“Will you wait for me too?” Geonwoo asked.
“I will.”
They kissed, turned off the bedside lamp, and drifted into the kind of sleep that comes when you still believe in tomorrow.
Only — Xinlong lied.
The email came. He got the fellowship. And he didn’t wait.
🩺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━🩺
Geonwoo sits in the biometric research office with his back straight, hands folded too neatly on his lap, thumbs twitching every few seconds. The room smells faintly of metal and ethanol wipes, scrubbed clean for today’s orientation. A new nameplate sits on the table beside his, new ergonomic chairs, and a central monitor blinking softly with the welcome screen for the CryoBridge trial. His name is already listed on the digital roster. Beside it, another: He Xinlong.
It’s official now. The CryoBridge trial has begun.
He adjusts his glasses for the third time in two minutes. Not because they’re slipping, but because the motion gives his clammy hands something to do. His pulse is steady on paper, but in his chest the rhythm feels off, like a note struck wrong.
And for all the complicated, aching things he feels, Geonwoo is proud. Proud that out of hundreds, he was chosen to be Co-PI. Proud to be trusted with something this cutting-edge, something that could shift the future of transplant medicine.
But pride and dread can exist in the same breath.
They haven’t spoken since the day Xinlong walked out on him. Haven’t texted. Haven’t even exchanged a neutral email. The system handled all preliminary communication between them, and now, that distance is gone.
For the next six months, they’ll be working side by side. Sharing oxygen and space. Sharing strain, vision and data. And maybe, if Geonwoo slips, if he lets his guard down even once, sharing history too.
The idea makes his jaw tighten.
They were good once. So good, they almost felt invincible. But that was a long time ago. They’re different people now. Older and heavier with what was left unsaid. And this project doesn’t need ghosts in the room.
Geonwoo swallows around nothing, wiping his palm discreetly against the inside of his coat pocket. You can do this, He tells himself. You’re here because you earned it. Focus on the science. Keep it professional. Don’t fall apart.
Before the thought can fully settle, the door swings open.
The Director of Surgical Research Initiatives walks in, flanked by a small entourage of interns and associates. And trailing just a few steps behind him—Xinlong.
His hair is longer than Geonwoo remembers. Shoulders broader. The faint crease still rests between his brows, the one that always appeared whenever he was thinking too hard.
Their eyes meet across the room for a fraction of a second. Nothing more. But it’s enough to punch the air from Geonwoo’s lungs. Then Xinlong looks away.
Geonwoo doesn’t blink. His breath stutters in his throat, nausea rising as he watches Xinlong follow the Director in with a stoic expression, like nothing’s ever been broken between them.