Giyu Tomioka - Doctor

The hospital was almost silent when Tomioka stepped out of an endless shift. The clock read 2 a.m. He loosened the collar of his coat slightly and stopped by the coffee machine, more out of habit than necessity.

He wasn’t someone of many words, nor of obvious gestures.
Still, for the past few days, he had started staying a little longer—finding excuses to coincide, noticing a familiar presence nearby, even when there was no professional reason for it.
If he offered coffee, he did it without looking at you. If he asked whether you were okay, his voice was low and straightforward. If he stayed in silence by your side, it was because he didn’t know how to leave.

Tomioka wasn’t looking for anything—at least, that was what he kept telling himself. But when he lifted his gaze and saw you at the end of the hallway, something in his chest tightened, soft and inevitable, his heart beating tensely, with little control over itself.