BookJade @nougatjade - Tumblr Blog

Mar 16

Room 307

Lee Minho x f!reader

wc: 8.7k

Summary: Dr. Lee Minho has one rule: don't get attached to patients. Then he meets the girl in room 307, terminal, sharp-witted, and completely alone. What starts as coffee runs and late-night conversations becomes something neither of them expected: a love story with an expiration date. Because in the hospice wing, time is borrowed, goodbyes are inevitable, and the hardest part isn't saying "I love you."

It's learning to live after.

genre: Angst / Hurt/Comfort / Medical Drama / Slow Burn / Romance / Tragedy / Bittersweet / Emotional Hurt

Warnings: character death, terminal illness, grief/loss, hospital setting, emotional distress, death scene, mentions of estranged family,

Author note: omggg I’m nervous to post this cause it’s my first non smau fic😭😀 i really hate this I feel like it’s just repetitive and boring so I think I’ll just stick to smau😭😭 Also not proof read at all

The first thing Minho notices is the laugh.

It stops him mid stride, his hand frozen on the door handle to room 307. He checks his watch, 9:47 AM. According to the chart in his hand, the patient inside is a terminal case. Pancreatic adenocarcinoma, stage 4, prognosis measured in months rather than years. By now, Minho has been an attending physician at Seoul National University Hospital for four years. He’s done his residency, completed his fellowship in oncology, and stood at enough bedsides to know what that diagnosis does to people.

It doesn’t usually make them laugh.

He looks down at the chart again. Kim y/n, age 25, no known allergies, emergency contact: mother, deceased. Emergency contact: father, estranged. Emergency contact: none.

None. The word stares back at him, clinical and cold. No one to call. No one to sit in the waiting room. No one to hold their hand except the rotating cast of nurses and doctors who will clock in and out of their life like shifts at a factory.

Minho has learned over the years not to let details like that get to him. You can’t do this job and carry every patient's loneliness on your shoulders. You’d collapse under the weight.

But the laugh, bright and unguarded and completely out of pace in a hospice wing, making him pause.

He pushes open the door.

The room is one of the better ones. Corner location, two windows, morning light spilling across the floor in golden rectangles. The bed is positioned to face the window, and in it propped up against a mountain of pillows, is you.

You’re not what he expected.

Most of his patients in the wing are older, worn down by years of treatment, their faces carrying the exhaustion of battles fought and lost. You’re young, younger than him, with hair fanned out against the pillow and sharp eyes that snap to him the moment he enters. You’re wearing a faded hospital gown, but someone has draped a cream cardigan over your shoulders, and there’s a half empty cup of what looks like tea on the bedside table.

“You’re not Mina” you say.

Minho blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Mina. My nurse. She has really good skin and she always brings me extra pudding.” You tilt your head, studying him. “You have good skin too, but you look like you haven’t slept since 2018. Are you a doctor?”

“I am.” He steps further into the room, automatically falling into the professional ease he’s polished over years of bedside manner. “Dr. Lee. I’m the attending physician for this wing. I’ll be overseeing your care.”

“My care.” You say it flatly, without inflection. The. You smile, and it’s sharp and knowing and it makes something in his chest pull tight. “That’s a polite way of saying ‘making sure I die comfortably. Right?”

The words land like a slap. Not because they’re harsh, Minho has heard worse, but because of the way you say them. Like you’ve already made peace with it. Like you’re stating a fact.

“Your chart says-“ he starts.

“I know what my chart says.” You gesture at the stack of papers on the bedside table. “Terminal. Three to six months, maybe less if the pain gets worse. They gave me the whole speech when I got admitted. Very sympathetic, very professional, one of them even cried.”

Minho glances at the chart in his hands, then back at you. “Did you want a different doctor? Someone-“

“You’re fine.” You wave a hand. “You look like you won’t cry, which is already an improvement. What’s your name again?”

“Dr. Lee.”

“No, your actual name. The one your friends use.”

He hesitates. It’s a small thing, but it feels significant, like giving you that inch means giving you more than he should. “Minho.”

“Minho.” You try it out, rolling the syllables on your tongue. “Minho. That suits you. You look like a Minho.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you look like you have strong opinions about the way people load the dishwasher and you probably have a cat.” You pause. “Actually, no. Multiple cats. You’re a multiple cat person.”

Minho just stares at you.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The morning light shifts, crawling across the floor, and somewhere down the hall a machine beeps steadily. You’re looking at him with those sharp, knowing eyes, and Minho has the unsettling feeling that you’ve just read his entire personality in the space of thirty seconds.

“I have three cats,” he says finally.

Your face splits into a grin, wide and genuine and so unexpectedly bright that it makes something ache behind his ribs. “I KNEW it. Okay, what are their names?”

“Shouldn’t we discuss your treatment plan?”

“That’s boring. Cat names first, then then treatment plan.”

Minho has never had a patient negotiate with him like this. Most of them are too scared, too sad, too exhausted to joke. But you’re looking at him like he’s the most interesting thing in the room, like you have all the time in the world, like you’re not lying in a hospital bed with a terminal diagnosis and no emergency contacts listed on your chart.

“Soonie, doongie and Dori.” he hears himself say.

You press a hand to your chest. “Stop. Those are PERFECT. Which one is the troublemaker?”

“Dori. He chewed through my stethoscope last week.”

“And you still love him anyway.”

“Unfortunately.” Minho jokes.

You laugh again. That same bright sound he heard through the door, and Minho realises two things simultaneously.

One: he’s been standing here for seven minutes without discussing a single medical detail.

Two: he doesn’t want to leave.

———

The weeks that follow are…unexpected.

Minho tells himself he’s just being thorough. That’s why he stops by room 307 every morning, even on days when you’re not technically his patient. That’s why he lingers, why he answers your ridiculous questions, why he lets you rope him into arguments about the TV shows you watch to pass the time.

“You’re telling me” you say one afternoon, pointing at the screen, “that he cheated on her with her SISTER and she’s supposed to forgive him because he brought her soup when she was sick? Soup doesn’t fix betrayal, Minho. Soup is just broth and vegetables.”

“It’s a drama” he points out the obvious. “They need conflict.”

“They need THERAPY. And a restraining order.”

He hides his smile by looking down at your chart. Your vitals are stable, stable as they can be, given the circumstances. The pain seems manageable today, based on the nurses notes. You’ve been eating, sleeping, participating in your own care. By the clinical metrics, you’re doing well.

But Minho finds himself looking beyond the numbers now. He notices the way you tense up when the afternoon light fades away, how you always turn on the TV before the room gets dark. He notices that you never mention visitors, never get phone calls, never have anyone’s name to give when the social worker asks about discharge planning.

He notices that you flinch sometimes when nurses touch you without warning. He doesn’t mention any of this. It’s not his place. He’s your doctor, not your friend, not your family, not anything.

But he starts knocking before he enters. Just a soft tap, enough to give you warning. And he notices that you relax, just slightly when you see it’s him.

———

“Minho.”

It’s late, nearly 11pm, long after his shift ended. He should be home. He should be feeding his cats and falling into bed and not thinking about room 307.

Instead, he’s standing in your doorway like an idiot, still wearing his white coat, because he told himself he was just doing one last check before leaving.

You’re sitting up in bed, the TV muted, your eyes reflecting the dim glow of the nightlight. You look smaller at night, he thinks. Softer. Like the darkness lets you drop the armor you wear during the day.

“You’re still here.” You say.

“I was about to leave.”

“Liar.” There’s no heat in it. Just a quiet acknowledgement, like you see right through him and don’t mind what’s on the other side.

Minho steps into the room. He doesn’t turn on the overhead light, just moves to the chair by your window, the one that’s become familiar to him over the past weeks. The one that fits the shape of him now, like he’s sat in it enough times to leave an imprint

“Can’t sleep?” He asks.

“Can you ever sleep when you know you only have a few months left to live?”

The question hangs in the air. Minho doesn’t have an answer. He’s never been the one in the bed. He’s always been the one standing beside it, holding the chart, offering the clinical detachment that’s supposed to protect him from moments like this.

“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I could.”

You look at him for a long moment. Then you smile, smaller than your usual grins, softer, like something you’re not sure you should show.

You’re weird, Minho.” You joke

“Weird how?”

“Weird for a doctor. You’re supposed to be all professional and distant. You’re supposed to tell me about treatment options and then leave.” You pause. “You’ve been here for twenty minutes and you haven’t mentioned my blood work once.”

“Should I go get your blood work results?”

“No.” Your voice is firm. “Stay. Tell me about your cats instead. Tell me about the stupid things they do that make you love them anyway.”

So he does.

He tells you about Soonie, who sleeps curled against his chest every night and purrs so loud it wakes him up. He tells you about Doongie, who’s terrified of the vacuum cleaner and hides under the bed for hours afterward. He tells you about Dori, the troublemaker, who learned how to open cabinets and once trapped himself in the linen closet for an entire afternoon.

You laugh at that one, a real laugh, bright and unguarded, the kind that makes your whole face light up.

“I wish I could meet them,” you say, and something in his chest cracks, just a little.

“Maybe,” he starts, then stops. Because you can’t. You’re in a hospital room with a terminal diagnosis. You’re not going anywhere.

But you just smile, like you know what he was going to say, like you’re giving him permission to pretend.

“Tell me more,” you say. “Tell me everything”

———

The first time you touch him, it’s an accident.

Minho is adjusting your IV, a routine thing, something he’s done hundreds of times, when your hand brushes against his. Just the barest contact, skin against skin, there and gone in seconds.

But you both freeze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Minho’s hand hovers in the air, inches from yours, and he can feel the warmth of you still lingering on his skin. You’re looking at him with those sharp eyes, and there’s something in them now that wasn’t there before. Something questioning, something wondering.

“Sorry.” You murmur.

“Don’t be.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended.

He finishes adjusting the IV. He steps back. He tells himself to leave, to go see his other patients, to put distance between himself and room 307.

Instead, he sits in the chair by your window and stays until visiting hours end.

———

It’s Mina who notices first.

She corners him in the break room one afternoon, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between concern and curiosity.

“You’re in 307 a lot.” She questions him.

Minho focuses very intently on his coffee. “She’s a complicated case.”

“She’s terminal, Minho. The treatment plan is palliative care. There’s nothing complicated about it.” Mina pauses. “I’ve been a nurse for twelve years. I know what it looks like when a doctor gets too attached.”

He looks up at that. “I’m not-“

“I didn’t say you were.” Her voice softens. “I’m just saying…be careful. Okay? She doesn’t have anyone. That makes it easy to feel like you need to be that person. But you can’t save her, Minho. No one can.”

The words land like stones in his chest. Heavy. Cold. True.

“I know.” He says quietly.

Mina studies him for a moment longer, then nods. “Good. Just…don’t forget to take care of yourself too.”

She leaves. Minho stares at his coffee, watches the steam rise and disappear, and thinks about our laugh. Your smile. The way you said his name like it meant something.

He knows he should pull back. He knows he’s crossing lines that doctors aren’t supposed to cross. He knows how this ends, it always ends the same way in his wing. With empty rooms and silent monitors and families crying in hallways.

Expect you don’t have family. You don’t have anyone.

You have him.

And Minho doesn’t know when that happened. Doesn’t know when you stopped being just another patient and started being the person he thinks about when he should be sleeping. Doesn’t know when your laugh became the best part of his day.

He only knows that it’s too late to go back now.

———

“Minho?”

It’s 2am. His shift ended hours ago. He’s sitting in the chair by your window, and you’re awake, watching him with those eyes that see too much.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He frowns and tilts his head slightly. “For what?”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then you say, softly. “For staying. For knocking before you come in. For not looking at me like I’m already gone.”

Minhos throat tightens at your words. He wants to say something, wants to tell you that he sees you, really sees you, not as a diagnosis or a chart or a room number. Wants to tell you that you’re the most alive person he’s met in years, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

But he can’t say any of that. So instead, he reaches out and takes your hand.

Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel your fingers curl around him, warm and real and here.

“You’re not gone yet,” he says quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at him, small, sad and beautiful, and Minho realises with a certainty that settles deep in his bones, that he’s already lost.

Not to death. Not yet.

But to you.

———

One month, thirty one days, seven hundred and forty four hours.

Minho has stopped counting. That’s what he tells himself anyway. He’s stopped counting the days since you were admitted, stopped tracking how many times he’s sat in that chair by your window, stopped noticing the way his feet carry him to room 307 before he’s even consciously decided to go there.

He’s lying, of course. He knows exactly how long it’s been. He knows because thirty one days ago, he walked into a hospital room and heard a laugh that rearranged something in his chest. He knows because every morning since, he’s woken up and thought thirty two, thirty three, thirty four. Like h everyday is borrowed time.

Because it is. It always was.

———

“You look terrible.”

Minho looks up from your chart to find you watching him with that familiar sharpness, head tilted, lips curved in something that’s not quite a smile.

“Good morning to you too.” He says dryly.

“I’m serious. Your eyebags have eyebags. When’s the last time you slept?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t, because the truth is that sleep has become elusive lately, fragmented hours filled with restless dreams he can never quite remember, waking up with his heart pounding and your name on his lips. He’s started drinking more coffee, started arriving earlier, staying later. Started using every excuse to be near you.

“I sleep,” he says finally.

“You lie.” You pat the edge of your bed. “Come here.”

He hesitates. It’s one thing to sit in the chair by the window, that’s professional distance, technically. The bed is different. The bed is yours, your space, your sanctuary in this sterile room.

“Minho.” Your voice is soft but firm. “Sit.”

He sits.

The mattress dips under his weight, bringing him closer to you. You’re wearing that cream cardigan again, the one someone must have bright you, he never asked who, and you never offered, and your hair is slightly mussed from sleep. There’s a flush of colour in your cheeks today, more than usual and for a moment he lets himself pretend it means something good.

“When’s your next shift?” You ask.

“I’m off in two hours” he answers truthfully.

“Good. You’re going home, feeding your cats and sleeping for at least eight hours. Doctors orders.” You say in a fake stern voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re not a doctor.”

“No, but I’m a very persuasive patient.” You grin. “Also, I’ll know if you don’t. I have psychic powers.”

“You do not.”

“I absolutely do. I knew you had three cats within thirty seconds of meeting you. That’s not normal Minho. That’s magic.”

He snorts, actually snorts, like an embarrassed teenager, and the sound makes your grin widen into something radiant, it’s the kind of smile that could power cities, he thinks. The kind that makes him forget, for a moment where he is and why he’s here.

“You’re ridiculous.” He says.

“You like it.”

The words hang in the air between you, lighter than they should be, heavier than he expected. You like it. You like me. The implication hovers unspoken, and Minho watches your expression shift, just slightly, just enough as you realise what you’ve said.

“I meant-“ you start.

“I know what you meant.”

Silence. The monitor beeps steadily in the background. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles past. Minho is acutely aware of how close you are, of the warmth radiating from your body, of the way your hand rests on the blanket inches from his.

“I should go.” He says p, but he doesn’t move.

“Yeah,” you agree. “You should.”

Neither of you move.

———

It becomes a pattern.

Minho stops before rounds, after rounds, between patients. He brings you coffee, the way you like it, sweet with a splash of oat milk, because he asked once and you told him and he never forgot. He brings you little things: a book he thought you might like, a small plant for the windowsill and a ridiculous keychain of a cat that made him think of you.

“It’s not a keychain,” you point out, holding it up. “I don’t have keys. I’m in a hospital.” You laugh out.

“It’s for moral support.”

“You’re giving me moral support in the formq of a plastic cat.”

“He’s judging you. Look at his face. He thinks you should drink more water.”

You laugh, that laugh, the one that does things to his chest. He sets the cat on your bedside table next to the growing collection of small gifts he’s brought you and a handwritten list of terrible puns he found online and copied onto hospital stationery.

Mina noticed, of course. Mina notices everything.

“You’re bringing her gifts now?” She asks one afternoon, falling into step beside him in the hallway.

“They’re not gifts. They’re….morale boosters.”

“Mmhm.” Her tone is deeply unimpressed. “And the coffee? Also a morale booster?”

“Patients appreciate small comforts.” He shrugs.

"Minho." She stops walking, forcing him to stop too. Her eyes are kind but serious, the way they get when she's about to say something he doesn't want to hear. "I'm not going to tell you what to do. You're the doctor, I'm the nurse, and honestly? She's the brightest spot in this whole miserable wing. But I need you to hear me when I say this."

He waits.

“She talks about you constantly. When you’re not here, she’s asking about when you’ll be back. She lights up when you walk in.” Mina pauses. “She’s falling for you Minho. And you’re falling for her. And I don’t know how this ends, but I know it doesn’t end well.”

The words settle over him like a weight. Heavy and true.

“I know.” He says quietly.

“Then what are you doing?”

Minho looks down the hallway, toward the corner room with the good light. Toward you. Toward the person who’s become the centre of his attention in ways he never anticipated.

“I don’t know.” He admits. “I just..I can’t stay away.”

Mina sighs. “I know, honey. That’s what scares me.”

———

That night, Minho dreams of you.

It’s not a complicated dream. Just you, sitting up in bed, looking at him with those sharp eyes. But in the dream you’re well. Your cheeks are full of colour, your hair is shiny, your hands are steady when you reach for him. You’re wearing normal clothes instead of a hospital gown, and when you smile it’s not tinged with the sadness that’s started creeping in during waking hours.

“Come here,” you say and he does. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of your bed, lets you take his face in your hands. “I’m not sick,” you tell him. “It was all a mistake. I’m staying.”

And in the dream, he believes you. In the dream, he lets himself have this, lets himself lean into your touch, lets himself imagine a future where you exist outside these walls. Where he can take you to dinner, introduce you to his cats, fall asleep next to you without counting the hours until morning.

Then he wakes up.

The clock on his nightstand reads 3:47am. His cats are curled around him, Soonie on his chest, Doongie by his feet and Dori somehow crammed onto the pillow next to his head, and for a long moment he just lies there, breathing.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

But the ache in his chest feels terribly real.

———

The next day, you’re worse.

Minho knows it the moment he walks in. The colour is gone from your cheeks. Your hands tremble slightly when you reach for the glass of water. There’s a new medication drip attached to your IV, and your chart shows increased pain scores throughout the night.

“Minho.” You smile, but it’s tired. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” He sits in the chair by your window, closer than he should, farther than he wants. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck. A small one. Maybe a minivan.” You pause. “Is that funny? I can’t tell anymore.”

He wants to tell you it’s funny. He wants to make you laugh, wants to see your face light up the way it did weeks ago, wants to pretend everything is fine. But the words won’t come.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

You look at him for a long moment. Then you pat at the edge of your bed, the same gesture from before, but heavier now. Slower. “Come here.”

He goes.

This time, when he sits, you reach for his hand. Your fingers are cold, thinner than they were a month ago, but your grip is still strong. Still you.

“I know I’m getting worse,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to pretend I’m not.”

“Y/n-“

“It’s okay. I’m not stupid. I can feel it.” You look down at your joined hands, tracing patterns on his skins with your thumb. “The pain is worse at night now. I don’t tell the nurses because I don’t want anymore drugs. They make me sleepy and when I’m sleepy, I can’t talk to you when you visit.” You huff out a small laugh.

Minho’s throat closes and he grips your hand tighter.

“You come every night,” you continue. “Even when you think I’m sleeping, even when you’re exhausted. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I-“ he starts but gets cut off.

“You stay in that chair until you think I’m asleep. And then you leave, and you come back the next morning, and you do it all over again.” You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart stutter. “Why, Minho?”

The question hangs between you. Simple. Devastating.

Because I can’t stay away. Because you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I sleep. Because I’ve stopped pretending this is professional. Because I’m falling in love with you, and it’s the most terrible, beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

You smile. Small and sad and knowing. “Liar.”

Before he can respond, you lift your free hand and touch his face. Just like in his dream. Your fingers trace his jaw, his cheekbones, the dark circles under his eyes that you noticed days ago.

“You should sleep more,” you murmur.

“So should you” he turns it back onto you.

“Touché.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Your hand is still on his face, warm despite everything, and Minho finds himself leaning into it. Just slightly. Just enough.

“I’m scared.” You whisper.

The words crack something open in his chest. He’s heard his patients say this before, dozens of them, hundreds, in various languages and various ways. But none of them have ever sounded like this. None of them have ever been you.

“I know.” He says, and his voice breaks on the words. “I know.”

“Stay?”

“Always.” He can never deny you.

———

Three weeks have passed.

Three weeks of good days and bad days, of laughter and silence, moments so painfully ordinary they feel extraordinary. Three weeks of Minho sleeping in the chair by your window more than often his own bed, of his cats giving him betrayed looks when he finally makes it home, of Mina sighing and bringing him coffee without being asked.

Three weeks of failing, deeper and deeper, until he can’t remember what life looked like before you.

On the good days, you watch TV and argue about plot holes. You make him tell you stories about his cats, about his residency, about the time he accidentally walked into the wrong operating room and got yelled at by a surgeon. You laugh, not as brightly as before, but still real, still you. Minho hoards those laughs like treasure.

On the bad days, you’re too tired to talk. You lie in bed, holding his hand, and he reads to you from whatever book is on your table. Poetry, sometimes. Stupid articles he finds on his phone. The ingredients list from your juice carton, if that’s what makes you smile.

On the worst day, you look at him with those sharp eyes and say, “Tell me something true.”

He thinks for a moment. Then, “I haven’t slept in my own bed in two weeks.”

“That’s not true. You go home every night.”

“I go home. I don’t sleep.” He pauses. “I lie awake and think about you.”

Your eyes widen, just slightly. “Minho…”

“I know.” He squeezes your hand. “I know I shouldn't say that. I know I’m your doctor. I know how this ends.” His voice wavers. “But you asked for something true, and that’s the truest thing I know.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you tug on his hand, pulling him closer, and when he’s close enough, you press your forehead to his.

“I think about you too.” You whisper. “All the time. When you’re not here, I’m waiting for you to come back. When you are here, I’m counting the minutes until you have to leave.”

“Y/n-“

“I know.” Your breath is warm against his skin. “I know we can’t… I know this isn’t…but Minho. If I only have a little time left, I want to spend it with you. Even if it’s just like this. Even if we never say the words. Even if it ends.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. The sharpness in your eyes, softened now by something he’s afraid to name. At the curve of your smile, smaller than before but still beautiful. At the person who changed everything without meaning to.

“Okay!, he says. “Then I’ll stay.”

You smile, really smile, the kind that reaches your eyes, and Minho realises that this moment right here is one he’ll carry forever.

No matter what comes next.

———

But what comes next is worse

———

It starts with a fever.

Low grade at first, nothing concerning. Then it spikes, your body, already weakened, starts to fight itself. The palliative team increases your medications, adjusts your fluid, monitors your vitals around the clock.

Minho doesn’t leave.

He’s not supposed to be there, he has other patients, other responsibilities, but Mina covers for him. She doesn’t ask questions, just brings him coffee and squeezes his shoulder and leaves him alone with you.

You’re asleep most of the time now. When you’re awake, you’re groggy, confused, reaching for him with hands that don’t always know where they are.

“Minho?” You mumble one night, voice thick with fever.

“I’m here.”

“Minho.” You say his name like a prayer. Like he’s the most solid thing in a world that’s slipping away. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

He presses his lips to your forehead, the first time he’s done anything like it, the first time he’s let himself be that close, and whispers, “I promise.”

———

The fever breaks three days later.

You’re weaker. Thinner. The colour hasn’t fully returned to your cheeks. But you’re awake, you’re lucid, and when you see Minho sitting in his usual spot, you smile.

“You’re still here.”

“I promised.”

You reach for him, and he takes your hand, and for a while neither of you speaks. The silence is comfortable, the kind that doesn’t need filling, the kind that says everything important without words.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say eventually.

“Dangerous.” He teases with that infamous smirk, while reaching to play with the ends of your hair.

“Shut up.” But you’re smiling. “I’ve been thinking about what I’ll miss.”

Minho's chest tightens. “You don’t have to-“

“I want to.” You squeeze his hand for reassurance. “I’ll miss my favourite TV shows, I’ll miss bubble tea, I’ll miss the way the light comes through these windows in the morning.” You pause. “I’ll miss you

“Y/n…” his fingers pause at your hair.

“I’ll miss you finding excuses to stay last your shift. I’ll miss you bringing me coffee exactly how I like it. I’ll miss the way you look at me like I’m not just a patient, like I’m…” you trail off, swallowing hard. “Like I’m someone worth staying for.”

Minhos eyes burn. He blinks rapidly, refuses to let the tears fall.

“You are,” he says, and his voice cracks. “You’re worth everything.”

You look at him for a long moment. Then you tug on his hand, and he leans closer, and when your lips brush against his cheek, just barely, just softly, he forgets how to breathe.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his skin. “For everything.”

———

That night, Minho drives home at 3am, feeds his cats, and cries for the first time in years.

He doesn’t know how much time you have left. Weeks, maybe. Days, possibly. The doctors on the palliative team have stopped giving estimates, it’s too variable, too unpredictable, too cruel to put a number on something so precious.

All he knows is that every moment with you is borrowed. Every laugh is a gift. Every touch is a memory in the making.

And he’d do it all again. Every second. Even knowing how it ends.

Because loving you, even like this, even in secret, even with an expiration date; has been the most real thing he’s ever felt.

———

The beginning of the end starts on a Tuesday.

Minho knows this because he remembers every detail of that morning. The way the light slanted through your windows, the particular shade of pale your skin had become, the sound of your voice when you said his name. Hell remember it for the rest of his life, he thinks. The Tuesday when everything shifted from soon to now.

He arrives at 7am, earlier than usual, because he couldn’t sleep. Again. His cats had given up on him entirely. Soonie now sleeps in the living room instead of on his chest, and Dori has stopped trying to steal his pillow. They know, so,show. Animals always do.

You’re awake when he walks in. That’s the first sign that something’s different, you’ve been sleeping later lately, your body conserving energy for the things that matter. But you’re sitting up, propped against your pillows, watching the door like you’ve been waiting.

“You came,” you say, and your voice is softer than before. Thinner.

“I always come.” Minho walks further into the room.

You smile and pat the bed. He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Doesn’t pretend to consider the chair. He sits on the edge of your mattress and takes your hand, and it’s become so natural that he can’t remember when it started feeling this way.

“I had a dream about you,” you tell him.

He leans in, “yeah?”

“Yeah. We were at your apartment. Your cats were everywhere, and you were trying to cook something, and you kept yelling at Dori to get off the counter.” You let out a soft and breathy laugh. “It was so ordinary. So normal. I woke up and I was sad that it wasn’t real.”

Minhos eyebrows furrow and his lips go into a straight line. “Maybe someday-“

“Minho.” You say his name gently, like you’re letting him down easy. Like you know something he doesn’t want to accept. “We both know there isn’t a someday.”

The words land like stones in his chest. He wants to argue, wants to tell you that someday exists, that he’ll find a way, that medicine advances everyday and maybe, maybe, maybe…

But he’s a doctor. He knows the statistics. He knows your charts better than anyone. And he knows, with a certainty that makes him want to scream, that you’re right.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” He says quietly.

“I know.” You sound saddened. “So let’s talk about something else. Tell me something I don’t know.”

So he does . He tells you these small, stupid, wonderful things, and you listen like they're the most important stories in the world.

Halfway through a story about Dori learning to open the refrigerator, your eyes drift closed. Your grip on his hand loosens, but doesn’t let go completely.

Minho stops talking. He sits there, holding your hand, watching you sleep and pretends his heart isn’t splintering into a thousand pieces.

———

Three days later, you stop eating.

It happens gradually, first just picking at your food, the. Pushing it around the plate, then not pretending at all. The nurses try everything. Different meals, different textures, different encouragement. Nothing works.

“You have to eat,” Minho tells you, frustrated, terrified and trying not to show either.

“Why?” You look at him with tired eyes, still sharp even now, when everything else is fading. “What’s the point?”

“The point is-“ he cuts himself off. Swallows and starts again. “The point is I’m not ready to let you go.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you reach for him, and he comes to you like gravity, like he has no choice, like he never had a choice at all.

“I’m scared.” You whisper abasing his shoulder. “I’m so scared, Minho.”

“I know.” His arms wrap around you, careful of the tubes and wires, holding you like you’re made of glass and starlight. “I’m scared too.”

“Will you stay? When it happen’s?”

“Nothing could make me leave.”

“And after?” Your voice is smaller now, fragile in a way he’s never heard. “What will you do after?”

Minho closes his eyes. He thinks about it constantly, the after. The world without you in it. The empty chair by the window, the coffee he’ll stop making, the cats who will never get to meet you.

“I don’t know.” He admits truthfully, because he doesn’t know. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Loved someone like this. Lost someone like this.” The words slip out before he can stop them, and for a moment the world goes still. Loved. He said loved.

You pull back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are wet, but you’re smiling, that smile. The one that started all of this.

“You love me?”

“God help me,” he whispers. “I do.”

You reach up and cradle his face, like you’re memorising him. “I love you too,” you say. “I think I have since you walked through that door and when you argued with me about my bubble tea.”

Minho laughs, actually laughs, broken, wet and real. He presses his forehead to yours. “I didn’t argue. I made a valid point about sugar intake.”

“Same thing.” Your thumb traces his cheekbone. “Minho?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For loving me. For staying. For making this..." You pause, searching for words. "For making this feel like living, even at the end."

He can't speak. Can't form words around the sob building in his chest. So he just holds you, and you hold him back, and the monitor beeps steadily in the background, counting down time neither of you has.

————

The last week is both everything and nothing.

Everything, because every moment is saturated with meaning. Every glance, every touch, every whispered word carries the weight of this might be the last. Minho memorises you, the exact shade of your eyes, the way you hum in your sleep, the specific curve of your smile when he says something stupid. He catalogs these details like a man building a museum, preserving what he can against the coming dark.

Nothing, because no amount of memorisation is enough. No amount of time could ever be enough. He wants decades. He wants anniversaries and arguments and mornings waking up next to you. He wants to introduce you to his family and cats, watch you fall in love with them. He wants to grow old, and he wants you there.

But wanting doesn’t matter. Not here. Not now.

On Wednesday, you ask him to bring Dori.

“I know it’s against the rules,” you say, and your voice is so faint now, barely above a whisper. “But I want to meet him. Just once.”

Minho should say no. Should be professional, should protect his career, should maintain the boundaries he’s already demolished. Instead, he shows up at 2am with Dori stuffed inside his jacket, purring indignantly.

You light up when you see him, really light up, the way you haven’t in days. You hold out your thin arms, and Minho places Dori on your chest, and the cat aka the little traitor immediately curls up and starts purring like he’s known you his whole life.

“He’s perfect,” you breathe, stroking Dori’s fur with fingers that tremble. “He’s so perfect, Minho.”

“He likes you. He doesn’t like anyone.”

You laugh, soft and breathy but real, and Minho thinks he would break every rule in existence to hear that sound again.

“You’ll take care of them right?” You ask, not looking away from Dori. “After?”

“Of course.”

“And yourself?”

He doesn’t answer. You look up at that, meeting his eyes.

“Minho. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I-“

“Promise.” Your voice is firmer now, as firm as it can be. “I need to know you’ll be okay. Not right away, but…eventually. I need to know you’ll laugh again. That you’ll let yourself be happy.”

Minho looks down at the floor not being able to look into your eyes. “How can I be happy without you?”

You smile, sad and beautiful and unbearably gentle. “Because I’ll still be with you. I’m here.” You touch your chest, over your heart. “And here.” You touch his chest, over his. “I’ll be everywhere you go. Every time you laugh at your cats, every time you see something that reminds you of me, every time the light comes through the windows just right. I’ll be there.”

Minho's eyes burn. He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He whispers.

“Neither do I.” You reach for his hand and pull it to your chest, hold it over your heart. “But we’ll figure it out. Together. Until we can't."

————

The last night starts like any other.

Minho arrives after his shift, settles into his usual spot on the edge of your bed, takes your hand. You’re awake which surprises him, you’ve been sleeping more, your body conserving energy for the things that matter. But your eyes are open, clear, focused on him with an intensity that makes his stomach.

“Hi.,” you whisper.

“Hi yourself.” He whispers back.

“Come closer.”

He shifts, moving until he’s right next to you, until there’s no space left between you. Your hand comes up to his face, tracing the lines he knows are there, the exhaustion, the grief, the love he can’t hide even if he wanted to.

“You look tired today.” You say.

“I’m fine.” He lies.

Although you can see right through him. “Liar.” But you’re smiling. “Minho?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not scared anymore.”

His heart stutters. “What?”

“I was. For so long. Terrified, actually.” Your thumb traces his jaw. “But then you came, and you stayed, and you over me, and somehow that made it okay. The being scared part. It’s gone now.”

“Y/n…”

“I’m ready.” You say it simply, quietly, like you’re telling him what you want for dinner. “I’m ready to go.”

The tears come before he can stop them , hot and silent, sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto your hospital gown. You wipe them away with gentle fingers, and your smile doesn’t waver.

“Don’t cry,” you whisper. “Please don’t cry.”

“How can I not?” His voice breaks. “How can I not cry when I’m losing you?”

“Because I'm not lost. I’m right here. I’ll always be here.” You press your hand to his chest. “Forever.”

He can’t speak. Can’t do anything but hold you, feel your heartbeat against his palm, count each precious thump like it might be the last.

“I love you,” he manages. “I love you so much.”

“I know.” You kiss his check, soft and warm. “I love you too. My stupid cat doctor.”

A laugh escapes him, wet and broken, but real. “I’m not stupid.”

“You brought your cat to the hospital at 2am. That’s either stupid or romantic. I’m choosing romantic.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you love me anyway.”

“God help me, I do.”

———

The hours pass.

Minho doesn’t sleep, doesn’t move from your side. He holds your hand and talks to you about everything and nothing, his cats, his childhood, the first time he realised he was falling in love with you. You listen with your eyes closed, a small smile on your face, your grip on his hand steady despite everything.

At 2:39am, your breathing changes.

Minho notices immediately. The way doctors are trained to notice, the way lovers notice without training. It’s shallower now. Slower. Your grip loosens, then tightens again, like you’re fighting to hold on.

“Y/n?” His voice is calm, steady, even as his world crumbles. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your eyes open, just barley, just enough to find him in the darkness. You let out a hum, to let him know you are listening. “Don’t…don’t let go.”

“Never.” He brings your hand to his lips, kisses your fingers, palm and wrist. “I’ll never let go.”

You smile, so beautiful it steals his breath, and your eyes drift closed again.

The monitor beeps. Steady, slowing.

Minho talks more about the life you two could have had. “I would have loved that.” You whisper, so faint he almost misses it. “All of it,”

“We can still-“

You shake your head slightly.

“Please-“

“I’ll be waiting, okay? When it’s your turn. I’ll be waiting.”

The monitor slows. One beep. Another. Longer between each.

“I love you,” he says, because there’s nothing else left to say. Nothing else that matters.

Your lips curve, just slightly, just enough.

Then the monitor beeps one final time, and the line goes flat.

3:47 AM.

Minho will remember that number for the rest of his life. Will see it on clocks and flinch. Will wake up at that exact time every night for months, reaching for someone who isn’t there.

But right now, at this moment, he doesn’t think about any of that.

Right now he holds your hand, still warm, still soft, still yours, and presses his forehead to your chest and lets himself fall apart.

———

The aftermath is a blur.

People come, nurses, administrators, someone from palliative care with gentle eyes and sympathetic words. Minho hears none of it. He sits in the corner, in the chair by your window and watches them prepare your body. Watch them remove tubes, straighten the sheets, close your eyes.

Someone touches his shoulder. Mina.

“Minho.” Her voice is soft. “Come on. You need to leave now.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. I’ll walk you out.”

“I can’t leave her.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. Then she pulls up another chair and sits beside him. “Okay. Then I’ll stay with you.”

They sit there together as the sun rises, as the light floods through the windows they way you loved, as the room slowly empties until it’s just the two of them and the space where you used to be.

———

The days after are worse.

Minho goes home. Feeds his cats. Stares at the ceiling. His phone buzzes with messages from colleagues sending him their condolences, offers of support, requests for him to take time off. He ignores them all.

Dori won’t stop sleeping on your cardigan Minho took from the hospital. He doesn't move him. Doesn’t have the heart.

———

The first week, he goes back to work.

Everyone looks at him with pity. He hates it. Hates the way they whisper, the way they avoid mentioning you, the way they treat him like he might shatter at any moment.

He might. But that’s none of their business.

He doesn’t go to room 307. Can’t. He walks past it every day, feels the pull, forcing himself to keep moving. The door is closed now. Someone else is in there. Someone else is now dying in the room where you once laughed, where you once held his hand and where you told him you loved him.

He can’t think about that.

———

The second week, Mina finds him in the supply closet at 2am.

He’s not crying. He’s just…sitting. On an overturned box of gloves. Staring at the wall.

“Minho.” She sits beside him, and doesn't ask questions. “I brought coffee.”

“Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a while. Then Mina says, “I cleared out her things. The ones she left behind. They’re in a box at the nurses station.”

His heart lurches. “What things?”

“The little stuff. The plant you brought, the cat keychain, the smooth stone, a few books.” She paused. “A letter. Addressed to you.”

He looks up at that. “A letter?”

“She must have written it sometime in the last week. Hid it under her pillow. An aide found it when they changed the sheets.” Mina reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I didn’t read it, don't worry. That’s not my place.”

“I can’t-“ his voice breaks as if this was the final straw.

“You don’t have to read it now. But… you should read it. Eventually.” Mina squeezes his shoulder. “She wanted you to have it. That means something.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Mina leaves. Minho sits in the supply closet, holding your last words to him, and pretends he’s not falling apart.

———

The third week, he reads it.

He’s at home, in bed, surrounded by cats. It’s 3am, close enough to 3:47 to hurt, far enough to breathe. Dori is on your cardigan again. Soonie is on his chest. Doongie a

Is at his feet.

He opens the letter.

———

Minho,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m sorry. I know that’s stupid to say it like it’s my fault, like I had a choice. But I, sorry anyway. I’m sorry for leaving you. I’m sorry for making you love me when you knew how this would end. I’m sorry for all the things we won’t get to do.

But I’m not sorry for meeting you. I’m not sorry for any of it.

You changed everything, you know. Before you, this room was just a room. The days were just days, I was waiting for what? I didn't know. Maybe just for the end. Then you walked in with your stupid cat face and your stupid opinions about my bubble tea and your stupid beautiful heart, and suddenly I didn't want to wait anymore. I wanted to live. Even if it was just like this. Even if it was just for a little while.

You gave me that. You gave me laughter when I thought I'd forgotten how. You gave me someone to miss when I was scared of being forgotten. You gave me love…real love, the kind I didn't think I'd ever get to have.

I know you're hurting. I know you're angry and sad and probably not sleeping or eating or taking care of yourself. (Am I right? I'm right, aren't I? Stop that. Feed my favorite cats. Drink water. Exist.)

But here's the thing, Minho. You have to keep going. Not for me, I'm okay now, I promise. I'm not scared anymore. I'm somewhere warm and bright and I'm watching you, and I'll be watching until it's your turn.

You have to keep going for you. For the person you are, the person you'll become, the life you still have to live. For your cats who need you. For the morning light that I loved so much. For the coffee you make too sweet and the arguments you'll have with Mina and all the small, beautiful things that make life worth living.

I'll be there. In all of it. Every time you laugh, I'll be laughing with you. Every time you cry, I'll be holding you. Every time you look at the stars, I'll be looking back.

You're not alone. You'll never be alone.

I love you. I loved you from the moment you walked into my room and argued about my bubble tea. I loved you when you brought Dori at 2 AM. I loved you when you held my hand and pretended not to cry. I loved you when you said my name like it meant something.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Forever yours,

Y/N

P.S. - Tell Dori I said hi. And that he's still my favorite, even if you pretend not to hear me.

———

Minho reads it three times.

The first time, he sobs so hard he can’t see the words.

The second time, he reads it slowly, tracing each letter with his fingers, memorising every line.

The third time, he laughs, wet and broken but real.

Dori meows from your cardigan, and Minho reaches over to scratch his ears.

“She says hi.” He whispers. “You’re still her favourite.”

Dori purrs, and for a moment, just a moment, Minho swede he feels you there. A warmth in the air. A brush of something against his cheek. A whisper of laughter, soft and bright and so perfectly you.

“I’ll be okay,” he whispers to the darkness. “I promise. I’ll be okay.”

———

Six months later.

Minho sits on the balcony, surrounded by cats, watching the sunset. The light is golden, warm, the way you always liked it.

He’s okay.

It took time. Months of therapy, months of grief, months of learning to exist in a world without you. But he’s okay now. He laughs again. He plays with his cats. He drinks coffee that’s probably too sweet and rogues with Mina about nothing and lives his life, one day at a time.

He still thinks about you everyday. Still wakes up at 03:47 sometimes, reaching for someone who isn’t there. He still visits room 307 when it’s empty, just to sit in the light and remember.

But it doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. It’s softer now. More like missing, less like breaking.

He looks up at the sky as the first stars appear.

A breeze stirs, warm and gentle, carrying the scent of something sweet. Flowers, maybe. Or just the memory of you.

Minho smiles.

“I’ll wait,” he whispers. “Not yet. But eventually.”

And somewhere, somehow, he knows you heard him.

———