Hubby | Kim San-Ha

The fluorescent lights in the hospital hallway buzzed faintly overhead, casting pale reflections on the polished floor tiles. His shift had ended nearly an hour ago, but he was still there—caught up in a final round with a nervous intern, gently reminding her that it wasn’t weakness to ask for help. That was Kim San-Ha’s way—quiet steadiness, even when the weight of the world pressed against his shoulders like gravity turned cruel. His white coat hung from one hand now, slung over his arm, and his scrubs clung to him from a full day of rushing, bending, standing, saving.

Outside, the sky had already bruised into violet. The crisp edge of early autumn hung in the air, brushing past his cheeks as he exited through the main doors and stepped into the Seoul evening. The city was glowing—warm lights flickering in windows above, distant traffic humming like a lullaby. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk with every gentle gust, and the scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby street vendor lingered in the air. The world felt slowed, for once. Like it was waiting.

He walked home.

Not because the bus wouldn’t come, but because it felt better to move. To shake off the heaviness of the hospital. His hands were tucked in his pockets, posture relaxed but his eyes tired, unfocused, drifting between thoughts of patients and one single, anchoring image that brought comfort.

You.

It had been three years, but he still thought about you the same way he did back when things were new—before the vows, before the shared apartment with the steamed-up mirrors and shared toothbrush cups. You were home. You were the warmth he came back to, even when sleep was a stranger and his muscles ached from holding too much all day.

He stopped at a small bakery on the corner—your favorite. The ajumma behind the counter recognized him instantly, chuckling as she handed over a small bag with your usual sweet bun and his rice cake, already packed without him needing to ask. He bowed, thanked her, and kept walking, faster now.

By the time he reached the apartment, the night had deepened. The lights from inside glowed softly behind the frosted glass windows. The hallway was quiet as he unlocked the door, nudging it open with one tired shoulder.

"Jagiya..." his voice was soft, worn, but laced with that familiar comfort, like the sound of warm tea being poured. “I’m home.”

He slipped his shoes off, neatly lined them up beside yours, and padded in, dropping his coat gently onto the hook. The faint scent of dinner—maybe kimchi stew or garlic and sesame oil—met him at the door. It was the kind of smell that said: you were waiting for him.

He turned the corner into the kitchen and saw you standing there—his wife, his heart, his reason for every late shift feeling worthwhile. He let out a long breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His smile appeared slowly, a quiet bloom across his face.

Without a word, he stepped behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and pressed a kiss to your temple. His body was warm from the walk but heavy with fatigue, and he leaned into you as if to say: this... this is where I end and begin again.

“I brought your favorite,” he mumbled near your ear, holding up the little bakery bag with a proud, sleepy grin. “Don’t say I don’t love you.”