When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

(S02) Chapter 45

I sighed, leaning back into the plush chair, watching him wave down the waiter like this was just another dinner. Nothing extravagant. Nothing suspicious.

Nothing like the way he’d acted ten minutes ago.

The waiter came and took our orders—pasta for me, steak for him, and yes, he made a big show about ordering sparkling water this time, because, in his words, “hydration can still sparkle, like us.”

I didn’t even know what to do with that sentence.

The rest of the meal passed… normal. Almost too normal. He told me about Minhwan trying to race him with a scooter and crashing into a trash can. I told him about the resident who passed out in the OR because they skipped breakfast. We joked. We laughed.

But somewhere in the middle of it all, I kept glancing at him.

He was hiding something.

I just didn’t know what.

Still, the food was good, his eyes were warm, and even if my instincts were screaming there’s something more, I let it slide.
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The drive back was quiet.

Not the uncomfortable kind—but the kind where words weren’t necessary, only the music. IU’s soft voice floated through the car like a lullaby, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across his face. He was gripping the wheel with one hand, the other resting near the gearshift, fingers tapping restlessly. He muttered something under his breath once or twice, eyes fixed on the road like it held answers.

I glanced at him from time to time. His jaw was clenched just slightly, like he was lost in a world of thought I couldn’t reach.

Still, I didn’t press. I didn’t ask. Maybe I didn’t want to ruin whatever spell tonight was weaving.

We pulled into the apartment garage, the car humming to a gentle stop. He cut the engine, and the silence that followed was full—heavy, but not unpleasant.

He turned to me then, finally looking into my eyes. “Come on.”

That was all he said, but his voice was soft, a little low. Like he wanted to say something else but couldn't. Or wouldn't.

Inside the apartment, the lights were warm—dimmed just right. Familiar. Safe. The faint scent of his cologne still lingered in the hallway. I slipped off my shoes and was about to head to the kitchen when he suddenly caught my wrist.

“Wait,” he said, pulling me gently toward him.

I turned, surprised—and then his hands were on my waist, his forehead leaning against mine.

“You smell like hospital,” he whispered.

I laughed softly. “That’s what happens when you spend twelve hours sedating people.”

“Still,” he murmured, “you somehow manage to look like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone I want to keep looking at.”

My breath caught.

His lips brushed my forehead, slow and reverent. Then my temple. My cheek. The corner of my mouth.

I felt myself melt into him, my fingers sliding into the collar of his shirt. We stood like that in the soft glow of our apartment, our shadows long against the wall, two people tangled in something wordless and deep.

His kiss was slow, like he had time now. Like there was no rush. No secret.

Just us.

Just this.