Chapter Text
Tyme stepped into his office, bracing himself for the usual grind of a long hospital shift. He stopped short the moment he saw the box sitting on his desk.
It was a luxury chocolate set—a limited edition gold-foil box he’d only ever seen in glossy online ads. It was the kind of decadence he’d never dream of buying for himself. His brows knit as he searched the packaging for a card, a name—anything.
“So,” a voice drawled from the doorway. Den, his best friend and colleague, leaned against the frame with a knowing smirk. “It happened again?”
Tyme sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. It wasn’t here when I left last night.”
“Your stalker is a strange breed,” Den said, walking in to inspect the box. “Most people get heavy breathing or creepy letters. You get high-end catering, a maid service, and a desk so organized it looks like a showroom. You’re lucky, honestly.”
“I don’t know about ‘lucky’,” Tyme murmured, though he didn't pull his hand away when he touched the velvet casing of the box. “But it’s probably safe to eat. These are my favourites.”
Den chuckled, pulling up a chair. “I doubt they’re trying to kill you. If they wanted you gone, they’ve had a dozen chances to do it by now, right?”
Tyme couldn’t argue with that. He had spent hours reviewing the CCTV footage, only to find frustrating gaps where the feed had been professionally looped or deleted. Yet, every morning, his office was spotless. His pens were lined up like soldiers, his prescription pads were perfectly stacked, and there was always a fresh vase of flowers.
The gifts were becoming more personal, too. He reached for the high-end stethoscope draped around his neck—a gift from three weeks ago. His name was engraved in the metal in elegant, flowing script. Even his ancient, sputtering coffee machine had been replaced by a top-of-the-line model that made a perfect espresso.
His life had become objectively easier since the "secret admirer" started appearing. His schedule felt lighter, his workspace was serene, and strangely, the usual influx of clingy patients or persistent admirers had completely dried up. It was as if an invisible wall had been built around him.
“Want one?” Tyme offered, holding the box out to Den.
“Well,” Den teased, reaching for a dark truffle. “If we get poisoned, at least we’ll go out together.” He popped the chocolate into his mouth and hummed in appreciation. “So, what’s the damage today? You buried in charts?”
“Not today,” Tyme said. “Mostly follow-ups. No surgeries or major traumas scheduled.”
Den grinned. “Perfect. Movie night at my place later? We can finally start that new series you’ve been eyeing.”
“You’re on,” Tyme laughed.
Later that evening, the two walked toward the parking lot, the cool night air a welcome change from the sterile hospital scent. Den glanced at Tyme sideways. “Any closer to figuring out who your secret admirer is?”
Tyme shook his head. “Nothing. I’d like to, though. Even if it’s just to say thank you.”
Den’s expression soured. “You know, maybe don’t. It’s still creepy, Tyme. If they actually liked you, they’d ask you to have coffee like a normal person, not break into a secure wing of a hospital to leave you truffles.”
Tyme shrugged, looking at his reflection in the car window. “They seem kind, in their own way.”
Den stopped in his tracks, staring at him. “Wait… do you actually like having a secret admirer? Do you like the mystery?”
“What? No,” Tyme replied instantly. Then he paused, his voice trailing off. “I mean… what if it’s a woman? Or just someone who’s really shy?”
Den groaned, throwing his hands up. “Oh my God. You’ve been watching way too many of those dark romance dramas. You’re actually romanticizing a security breach!”
“I am not romanticizing it, Den!”
“Sure, sure,” Den muttered, unlocking his car. “Keep telling yourself that while you use your custom-engraved stethoscope. You’re a goner.”
******
The following morning, Tyme arrived to find the familiar scent of toasted spices lingering in the air. On his desk sat a steam-vented container. He pressed his palm against the lid; it was still warm.
He quickly stepped out of the room and scanned the area for anyone suspicious, but there was no one. The only people around were young patients, elderly people waiting for checkups, and nurses who looked completely normal and unsuspecting.
So he went back to his desk and started eating the food, clearly happy as he did. While eating, an idea suddenly came to him—to leave a note for the stalker, hoping that somehow he could finally get to know who they were.
Tyme grabbed a sheet from his notepad and began listing the questions he wanted to ask:
Please tell me you’re a guy.
Are you a nurse or a doctor?
How do you know my favorite food and drinks?
The first thing you gave me was that mango sticky rice, right?
Should I be scared of you?
Can we meet properly instead of this?
Are you rich?
He laughed softly at the last one. Between the high-end medical gear and the premium supplies appearing on his desk, he felt a twinge of guilt. He wasn't used to being spoiled, especially by someone he’d never met. The sheer cost of the items suggested someone who viewed money as no object, yet they knew his professional needs with startling precision.
He pinned the note to the corkboard, right where the secret admirer would have to see it when they came to organize his space.
The day was a blur of sterile lights and steady hands. Tyme assisted in two surgeries—one a grueling four-hour procedure that left his back aching. By the time he walked back to his office, the hospital had shifted into its quiet, nighttime rhythm.
He stopped at the door. The privacy curtain, which he usually left pulled back, had been tucked slightly to the side.
Stepping inside, he found his note. It was no longer on the corkboard; it was sitting dead-center on his desk. Beside it sat a soft, plush dog with fur so high-quality it felt like a cloud. A small tag was tied to its neck: “If you’re tired, you can hug me.”
Heart hammering against his ribs, Tyme grabbed his list. The secret admirer had written his replies in a precise, elegant hand.
Please tell me you’re a guy. — yes, correct my Tyme.
Are you a nurse or a doctor? —
The first thing you gave me was that mango sticky rice, right? — yes, you remember?
Should I be scared of you? —
Can we meet properly instead of this? — in perfect time.
Are you rich? — rich enough to buy all the things you deserve. *wink
At the bottom of the page, a new sentence had been added: “You did well in surgery today. I love that you’re thinking about me, too. ;)”
A shy, involuntary giggle escaped Tyme’s lips. He sank into his chair, hugging the plush dog to his chest. He was a guy. A guy who knew his schedule down to the minute.
He immediately messaged Den, who appeared in the doorway five minutes later, still in his blue scrubs.
“Well? Out with it,” Den demanded, not even bothering with a greeting. “Did he leave a name? A motive? A confession of where the bodies are buried?”
Tyme laughed, sliding the paper across the desk. Den’s eyes skimmed the notes, his frown deepening with every line.
“Finally, a clue,” Den muttered. He looked up, his expression dead serious. “Tyme, he was in here while you were in the OR. He knew exactly when you were scrubbed in. Only the hospital staff and the scheduling system know that.”
“He seems to know everything,” Tyme said, his smile lingering. “But look at the handwriting, Den. He’s not some monster. He wants to meet me 'in perfect time'.”
Den shook his head, leaning against the filing cabinet. “You’re delusional. Your brain is officially mush from those dark romance series. Aren’t you even a little creeped out that he’s watching your surgeries?”
Tyme looked down at the plush dog in his lap, running a thumb over its soft ears. “I want to know who he is first. I want to look him in the eye... and then I’ll decide if I should be scared.”
******
By the time Tyme finished his rounds that afternoon, his head was throbbing. He decided to stop by the grocery store on his way home, hoping some mundane errand-running would clear his mind.
The store was crowded. He remembered the sensation of two people brushing past him in the cereal aisle—a momentary invasion of space he’d dismissed as typical city rudeness. It wasn't until he reached the checkout counter that the world narrowed down to a single, panicked heartbeat.
His bag was agape. His wallet was gone.
Frustrated and stranded, Tyme had spent the next hour pleading with store security, only to be told their CCTV system was "under maintenance." He’d walked home in a daze, his stomach churning with the violation of it all. He spent the night eating leftovers and filling out police reports online, his mind replaying the "bump" in the aisle over and over.
The next morning, Tyme arrived at the hospital looking like a ghost of himself. His shoulders were hiked up to his ears, and every time someone moved too quickly in the hallway, he flinched.
He pushed open his office door, the fluorescent lights buzzing with a low, irritating hum. At first, everything looked normal. Too normal.
Then he saw it. Sitting dead-center on his desk, as if it had never left his possession: His wallet.
Tyme froze. His brain stalled, refusing to process the leather bifold resting on the wood. Slowly, his hand trembling, he reached out. A small slip of paper was tucked under the edge.
“You lost this, my Tyme.”
His grip tightened on the note, the paper crinkling in his fist. “What the—” he breathed, the words dying in his throat.
He flipped the wallet open. His fingers moved frantically, checking the slots. Everything was there. The cash hasn't been touched. His IDs were all in their places. His credit cards were exactly where he’d left them. It hadn't been stolen for money.
Then his gaze shifted to the floor beside his desk.
A plastic grocery bag sat there. He recognized the logo immediately—it was from the same store. With a mounting sense of dread, he peered inside. Milk. Eggs. Breads The specific brand of coffee he’d reached for before realizing his wallet was gone. The exact items he had intended to buy.
A cold, creeping chill settled into his marrow.
“How?” he whispered to the empty room. “How could he possibly know?”
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The secret admirer hadn't just been at the hospital. He’d been at the grocery store. He’d seen the bump. Or worse—had he been the one who took it? Had he staged the entire theft just to play the hero?
Tyme backed away from the desk, his breathing turning shallow and sharp. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in. He scanned the corners of the ceiling, the shadows behind the cabinets, his eyes hyper-alert.
Just how close are you? Tyme looked at the groceries and then back at the wallet, his mind spinning in a thousand directions at once. The note on the desk didn’t feel like a gift anymore; it felt like a question he couldn't answer. He was lost in a fog of "how" and "when," left with the unsettling realization that a stranger knew his life better than he did.
Later that day, Tyme sat in the hospital cafeteria. He wasn't picking at his food anymore; instead, there was a faint, restless energy in his hands as he folded his napkin. Den sat across from him, eyeing him with curiosity.
“I’m pulling an overnight shift tomorrow,” Tyme said, his tone surprisingly bright, as if he had just found a second wind.
Den paused, his coffee halfway to his mouth. “Tomorrow? I thought you were finally taking those days off. You’ve been at it for ten hours today alone. Shouldn't you be exhausted?”
“There’s a major operation scheduled—a multi-organ transplant,” Tyme replied smoothly. He met Den’s eyes with a steady, almost sparkling gaze, his expression unreadable but calm.
Den gave him a slow, supportive nod, though he leaned back with a hum of suspicion. “Honestly? You look more awake than you have in a week, Tyme. If you’re committed to staying tomorrow night, promise me you’ll at least try to get some real rest tonight. I don't want you bouncing off the walls of the OR.”
“I know,” Tyme murmured. He offered a small, genuine smile—one that looked a little too much like he was sharing a private joke.
But as he leaned back, his gaze drifted to the table. A fresh cup of his favorite coffee was now sitting there, still steaming, even though neither he nor Den had ever left their seats. Tyme didn't flinch or look around in panic. Instead, he let out a tiny, soft breath that was almost a laugh. He looked at the cup, then slowly back toward the crowded cafeteria, his eyes scanning the faces with a quiet, sharp interest.
“I’ll be fine, Den,” Tyme added, his voice carrying a light, melodic hum as his fingers brushed against the office key in his pocket. “I just need to finish what I started.”