mocchii-writes - Tumblr blog

mocchii-writes · 3 days ago

Text

THIS IS SO GOOD THIS IS SO GOOD

Breath of Life

Pairing: chishiya x f! reader

Summary: becoming sick wasn't the plan. doctors not being able to find out what's wrong with you wasn't the plan either. and one specific genius becoming your attending physician and you slowly falling for him was most definitely not the plan

Warnings: angst, fluff, lung disease, hospitalisation, mentions of blood and needles

Word count: ~10k

Requested by anonymous

gif credits

You didn’t notice the breath leave you. Not at first. It slipped away in soft betrayals. Stairs that felt steeper, wind that pressed harder, mornings that demanded more air than your lungs could find. Breath, once an unnoticed rhythm, had become a fragile thread, tugged tighter with each passing day. And yet, you smiled, you walked, you spoke as if your chest wasn’t quietly drowning in silence.

The world didn’t stop when your lungs forgot the shape of fullness. It kept turning, indifferent, as you measured life in half-sips of air.

First, you went to the doctor’s office. A quiet room with beige walls and cold metal instruments that smelled faintly of antiseptic and resignation. They pressed a stethoscope to your back and said your lungs sounded clear. Probably just a virus, they told you. Something seasonal. Drink fluids, rest, take these antibiotics just in case. You nodded, grateful for an answer, even a vague one. But deep down, you already knew something was wrong. You could feel it in the way your chest refused to rise the way it used to, how the air felt thinner, even when it shouldn’t.

Weeks passed. The shortness of breath grew worse. You climbed stairs like they were mountains. Lying down felt like sinking. You went to the hospital. A walk-in. Different doctors each time. Faces that blurred together. They said it might be asthma. Gave you an inhaler. "Use it when it gets bad."

But it didn’t get better. The wheeze wasn’t the sharp whistle of asthma. It was something else. Something deeper. The inhaler was a blue lie that fizzled uselessly in your lungs.

You tried not to panic. You told yourself you were being dramatic. But then came the night you couldn’t catch your breath sitting still.

You went back to the hospital. Again. The fluorescent lights stung your eyes. The waiting room smelled like fear and old coffee. You sat there wrapped in your coat, trying not to look like you were gasping. A nurse called your name.

And then he came in.

Dr. Shuntaro Chishiya walked in like he didn’t want to be there. Blond hair swept with casual precision. Eyes unreadable. Cold. Detached. Like someone who saw the world through glass. You immediately decided he wouldn’t help you. Another doctor, another dismissal. Hope had become a kind of cruelty by now.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t ask how you were feeling. He scanned your chart with the indifference of someone reading a menu. Then he looked at you, really looked. Something changed. Just a flicker. Barely there. But enough.

He asked about the medications. You told him about the asthma diagnosis. About the inhaler. His expression didn’t shift but something sharpened in his posture. He got his stethoscope and asked you to breathe. Listened again. Tapped your ribs. Measured your oxygen. Silent.

Then he said, almost to himself, “This isn’t asthma.” And for the first time in weeks, someone believed there might actually be something wrong.

Chishiya didn’t say much after that first sentence, just asked to run some tests. Routine blood work. Chest X-ray. Pulmonary function test. You followed, dazed, still unsure whether to hope. The machines hissed, clicked, lit up with numbers you couldn’t read. You watched the lines rise and fall on the monitor like your own breath, delicate and unpredictable.

Hours passed. He came back with papers in hand, brow furrowed, that same cold calm masking something sharper beneath it. He tapped a finger on one of the charts and said, almost absently, “Your oxygenation is too low for the scan to look like that. Something isn’t adding up.” Still no diagnosis. Still no answers. But he didn’t walk away. When his shift ended, he didn’t leave.

Later that evening, in the corner of a hospital corridor humming with the low buzz of fluorescent light, Chishiya stood before his superior Dr. Haneda, a grizzled internal medicine chief with a fondness for protocols and a deep mistrust of improvisation.

“You are a paediatrician. You shouldn’t be managing adult walk-ins, Chishiya. You’re here because Dr. Takano called in sick. That girl is not your responsibility.” Chishiya didn’t flinch. “No one else seems to want it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“She’s getting worse.” A pause. “And the pattern doesn’t fit. Something is being missed.”

Dr. Haneda sighed, skeptical. “She’s had clear X-rays, mostly normal blood work and no sign of infection. She says she can’t breathe, but no wheezing. No fever. It’s vague.”

Chishiya handed over the folder without a word. Haneda flipped through the case file, scanning the test results, and frowned. “No inflammation markers. Lungs sound clean. No asthma response to bronchodilators.” Another page. Another. Then he stopped. “You’re right. This doesn’t make sense.”

A silence passed between them, then he asked, “You really want this case?”

“I already took it,” Chishiya said, turning. Haneda let him go.

The next morning, you were called back. Your lips had taken on a bluish tint by then. You were dizzy from the simplest movements, your heart pounding like you’d sprinted a mile.

Chishiya met you at the door. No smile. No small talk. But he led you through another round of tests. CT scan, arterial blood gas, more detailed lung imaging. One after the other, results came back with confusing contradictions. Your lungs looked mostly normal, but your oxygen levels were quietly crashing.

“We’ve ruled out pulmonary embolism, pneumonia, asthma. Even heart failure. But…” he murmured, half to himself, reviewing a chart. “You’re not getting enough oxygen. That’s a fact.”

“Then what is it?” you asked. His eyes lifted and for a moment, the cold expression cracked, just barely. He didn’t have an answer yet. And that terrified you more than anything else.

That night, your breathing worsened. You collapsed trying to stand. The ER team rushed you in. Monitors screamed. Oxygen was pushed through your nose in cold, forced streams. A nurse said something like “hypoxemia”. You were admitted.

By morning, you were tethered to oxygen tubing in a sterile white room with too many blinking lights and not enough sleep. Every breath felt like borrowing something fragile that might be taken back without warning. And Chishiya, still technically a paediatrician, still out of place, was now your lead doctor.

The morning light bled weakly through the blinds, casting pale stripes across your bed like prison bars. Machines beeped in quiet rhythm beside you, measuring the breath you couldn’t quite hold. It was early, before the world had fully stirred, when you heard footsteps. Sharp, quick, purposeful. Then the door opened.

Dr. Chishiya swept in, white coat unbuttoned, stethoscope already in his hand. His hair was slightly mussed. He went straight to your chart at the end of the bed, eyes scanning the notes from the night team. Pulse ox readings. Respiratory rate. Ventilation settings. His mouth tightened when he saw the numbers.

“They increased your oxygen overnight,” he murmured. “And your CO2 levels spiked again.” He closed the chart. Then, for the first time, he looked at you, not through you, not like a puzzle or a case file, but at you. “How are you feeling?”

You stared at him, throat dry. The question shouldn’t have felt like a kindness. But somehow, it did. No one had asked. Not really. Not since this all began. Something cracked.

It was quiet, like the snap of old glass beneath the weight of something too heavy. The words came out brittle, trembling, like you’d been holding your breath for weeks and could finally exhale.

“It feels like I’m slowly drowning. But the water’s inside me. I keep trying to rise, to catch something, air, hope, anything and it just… slips. When you can’t breathe, nothing else matters. You can’t dream, or speak, or laugh. You can’t even be afraid properly. You just fight for the next inhale. And then the next. And somewhere in that fight, I think I lost the part of me that used to believe this would get better.”

You didn’t look at him as you said it. You stared at your hands, pale and useless in your lap. It was easier than watching his face remain blank.

But he didn’t speak right away. He stood still, silent for just long enough that you felt the air shift in the room. When you dared glance up, his expression hadn’t changed. Not really. Still cold, still unreadable. But his eyes held something softer. Something listening.

He didn’t tell you it was going to be okay. Instead, he said, “I’m going to stabilise your levels. Today.”

And he did.

Later that afternoon, after reviewing scans for the third time and re-reading old lab reports others had overlooked, Chishiya adjusted your oxygen delivery and added a rare nebulised treatment. A surfactant wash that wasn’t standard, not for your diagnosis, but it worked. It bought you time.

Your oxygen climbed, slowly, but steadily. You could breathe again. Not deeply. Not freely. But enough to stop the panic. Enough to rest.

He came back that evening, still without a smile, still with that surgical coolness. But his tone was gentler, his words deliberate. “You’ll need to stay here. We’re not finished yet.”

You nodded. Not because you wanted to, but because you no longer had the strength to pretend you could walk out of this on your own. As he turned to leave, you whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t answer. But his hand paused on the door. And in that moment, you knew something in him had shifted, too.

Chishiya had just finished his shift. The hallways of the paediatric unit buzzed with the usual soft chaos. Muffled cries, cartoon voices on waiting room TVs, the scent of antiseptic clinging to everything like memory. He signed off, hung up his coat and stepped out into the cooler quiet of the general hospital. He should have gone home.

He told himself he was tired. Told himself he had no reason to circle back. But as his feet carried him past the elevators, through the long white artery of the main corridor, he already knew where he was going. It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t duty. It was something else. That same sharp tug in his chest he felt when he read your chart the first time. A whisper that said: You’re missing something.

As he crossed toward your unit, a nurse passed him, clipboard in hand, smile too bright, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw him.

“Dr. Chishiya,” she said, tone playful. “Still here? You’re off the clock, aren’t you?” He didn’t stop walking. “Didn’t think you were the type to do overtime.”

She lingered behind him for a few steps, watching, hoping. He could feel it in the pause. The small, deliberate silence. She’d been watching him for weeks. Always a little too eager to speak to him, always smiling at nothing in particular. She knew his schedule, he wasn’t surprised about that. But he didn’t care. He hadn’t cared the last dozen times she smiled that same way. And he didn’t now. He didn’t even bother to reply.

The hallway leading to your unit smelled like bleach and weary sleep. It was quieter here. The world had slowed. He passed two nurses chatting near the station, one of them handing off a clipboard. He didn’t make eye contact.

He reached your room, pausing at the door.

Maybe it was professional instinct. Maybe it was curiosity. But somewhere beneath that, buried under the clinical calculations and medical logic, something quieter stirred. The image of your voice from that morning echoed back to him “It feels like I’m slowly drowning.”

You were still up when he walked in, the pages of a worn paperback resting lightly between your fingers. The overhead lights were dimmed, casting soft shadows across the pale blue walls and for a moment, you thought he might be a dream or a ghost, slipping silently into the room like breath. You looked up, startled. He wasn’t in his usual attire.

Gone was the stark white coat, the polished formality of his professional shell. In its place, a soft, beige-and-grey cardigan hugged his frame. His blond hair, usually tied back in a ponytail, was down. Long, loose and slightly mussed, catching the dim light in quiet strands of gold. You noticed how beautiful he looked. Not for the first time, but this time, without shame.

“You’re not on duty,” you said, voice catching slightly.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the monitor beside your bed, then flicked over to your face. For the briefest second, something like relief passed over his features. You were stable. No new alarms, no crashing vitals. But the relief was buried quickly under that same sharp, unreadable expression.

“You haven’t gotten worse,” he murmured.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this week,” you smiled faintly. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. I feel a little better today.”

He didn’t smile back. His arms crossed, but not in defence, in irritation. With himself.

“Not good enough,” he said. “You shouldn’t just be not worse. You should be improving. We still don’t know what this is.”

There was more behind the words than frustration. Something about the unsolved nature of your condition gnawed at him. It bothered him more than he wanted it to, more than he could explain.

He glanced at the tray beside your bed: untouched soup, half a roll, a wilted leaf of lettuce pretending to be salad.

“You need to eat,” he said, bluntly. “Your body needs energy to keep fighting.” You scrunched your nose. “It’s hard to eat when everything tastes like regret and wet cardboard.” Something flickered across his face, something dangerously close to a smile.

“Cheese sandwich?” he asked. Your eyes widened, hopeful. “God, yes.”

Without a word, he opened his backpack and pulled out a neatly wrapped sandwich in wax paper. The scent hit you immediately, sharp cheddar and something toasted.

“It was supposed to be my lunch,” he said, placing it gently in your hands. “Didn’t have time. I’ll grab something from the convenience store.”

You looked down at the sandwich like it was a piece of the outside world you’d forgotten existed. “Thank you,” you said, genuine. “I miss that. Grocery shopping. Cooking. Things people do when they’re not… here.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there while you took your first bite. You ate slowly, like you didn’t want to waste it. Like it was the last good thing you might get for a while. Then, instead of leaving, he pulled the chair closer to your bed. Sat down. Hands in his lap, posture still guarded but he stayed.

“A nurse told me something,” you said between bites. “She said you’re actually a paediatrician.” He looked at you, eyes steady. No flicker of surprise, he probably expected word would spread.

“Is that true?” you asked, softer now. “Why did you take my case?” He was silent. You waited.

Then, finally, he said, “I find you fascinating.” A beat passed. “Your condition,” he added quickly, gaze shifting.

But it was too late. The slip hung in the air between you, and though his voice remained cool, you knew, he knew, there was more to it than that.

You didn’t press. Instead, you let the silence stretch gently, like the space between waves. Comfortable. Trusting.

“Well,” you said finally, “I find you fascinating too.” He looked at you then, really looked. And in the quiet, something began to shift, not in words, not in gestures, but in the very weight of the air around you.

You spoke more about small things, things that weren’t medical or clinical or wrapped in diagnosis codes. You talked about your favourite foods. You mentioned your favourite film and he, of course, had never seen it. You offered to describe the entire plot. He rolled his eyes. You kept going anyway.

Each word pulled the two of you closer, not physically, not obviously, but in a way that mattered more. In the rare, fragile space where being seen feels more vital than oxygen.

By the time he stood to leave, it was late. Later than he’d intended. You were half-asleep, the sandwich wrapper crinkled in your hand. He didn’t say goodnight. He just stood there for a moment longer, watching you breathe.

And when he left, you smiled quietly into the dark. Because somehow, despite everything you no longer felt like you were drowning alone.

It became a quiet routine, one neither of you ever discussed but both came to rely on.

Chishiya started stopping by during his breaks. At first, under the pretense of “checking your chart,” then under none at all. Sometimes just five minutes before his shift. Sometimes fifteen after. Eventually, he began packing two lunches instead of one. Never said anything about it. He’d simply unwrap the second sandwich or bento box, hand it over wordlessly and sit in the chair by your bed as you dug in gratefully.

It was the most normal part of your day. The only one that made the hospital walls feel less suffocating.

A smile always found its way to your face when he walked in, no matter how tired, how breathless, how bruised your lungs felt. It was reflex now. Like breathing used to be.

And though Chishiya never returned the smile fully, not the way most people do, something in his eyes warmed. He looked forward to those conversations more than he ever would have admitted. And not just because they distracted him from his frustration with your case.

He enjoyed the sound of your voice. The way you thought aloud. How you didn’t fill silences with unnecessary noise. You talked about real things like books, philosophy, life before sickness, little moments you missed and big dreams you hadn’t given up on yet. He answered in measured doses, but every time, just a little more of himself slipped through the cracks.

But then, after a few good days, your oxygen dipped again. Slightly. Not dangerously. But enough. You felt it before the machines did, the heaviness creeping back in. The breathlessness returning like a shadow.

He noticed immediately. And it bothered him. Not in the clinical, intellectual way most things bothered him. No, this was different. There was tension in his shoulders all day. He snapped at a nurse who misplaced your lab results. Spent an extra hour reading and rereading your chart as if the numbers might confess something they’d hidden before.

Still, he said nothing to you. Not yet. He didn’t want to worry you. But that night, long after the hospital had quieted and the city beyond the windows had dissolved into neon stillness, Chishiya lay in bed, eyes wide open, sleep a distant concept.

He tossed and turned. Shifted the pillow. Tried to force his mind to silence. But all he could think about was you. Not just the case. Not anymore.

You. The way you laughed softly at your own dry jokes. The way your voice dropped to a whisper when you described your favourite memories. The way you smiled even when you were in pain.

He didn’t want to see you there anymore, not hooked to machines, not gasping quietly between words. He wanted to sit with you on a park bench, drinking terrible coffee. He wanted to walk next to you through a supermarket while you debated which brand of bread was superior.

He didn’t want to solve you. He wanted to know you, outside this place. And that terrified him. So he got up.

The clock blinked 2:11 a.m. as he padded to his bookshelf, dragging down every medical text he hadn’t opened in years. Textbooks, rare journals, internal medicine volumes thick with dust. He poured over them at his kitchen table, highlighter in one hand, tea forgotten beside him. Hours passed.

Then something clicked.

A line in a rare pulmonary volume: Pulmonary Alveolar Proteinosis (PAP).

He read on. Milky fluid in alveoli. Breathlessness disproportionate to lung imaging. Common misdiagnosis: asthma. Poor response to bronchodilators. Subcategory: Autoimmune PAP caused by anti-GM-CSF antibodies.

Chishiya sat back, eyes locked on the page. Every symptom. Every failed treatment. Every unexplained reading. It fit.

“…This might be it,” he whispered into the empty room. He looked down at the book again, jaw tense.

There was still testing to confirm. Still procedures to prepare. But for the first time in weeks, something aligned. He stood up, eyes dark with focus.

And for the first time in too long, he felt something sharp beneath the weariness:

hope.

You woke up to the familiar beeping of the monitors and the gentle hum of the oxygen flow. Morning light slanted through the half-closed blinds, drawing stripes across your sheets like quiet brushstrokes. You blinked slowly, but even before the haze of sleep had fully left your body, your mind was already waiting for him.

It had become your favourite part of the day. No longer the food deliveries or the occasional visits from friends or nurses trying too hard to be cheerful. It was him.

Knowing he’d appear, sometimes early, sometimes late, always quiet but always there, made waking up feel less like a battle and more like a beginning. The days no longer blurred into each other quite so much. There was a rhythm now. A reason to comb your fingers through your hair, sit upright in bed, wait with a book half-read and a half-smile already forming on your lips.

He made the walls feel less sterile. The tubes less invasive. He made the silence bearable.

And more than anything, knowing he was out there, turning over every page, every chart, every possibility, not giving up on you, gave you strength. Even on the days you could barely breathe, you clung to the quiet knowledge that someone brilliant was fighting for you.

You thought back to the man who had first walked into that exam room. Blond, cold, impassive. Like his heart had been locked behind an iron wall, tucked away with surgical precision. You hadn’t expected kindness. You certainly hadn’t expected him. And yet, somehow, slowly, softly, you’d chipped away at that façade.

Now, you didn’t just see the doctor. You saw the man who made extra lunch for you. The one who lingered longer than he should. The one whose silences had changed from avoidance to presence.

And then the door opened.

Chishiya stepped inside, earlier than usual. His white coat was slightly rumpled, his steps more rushed than usual. Dark circles clung to the skin beneath his eyes like bruises of exhaustion. You opened your mouth to ask if he was okay.

“I need to draw your blood,” he said, abruptly, something urgent in his voice.

You blinked. “You’re drawing it yourself?” He was already rolling up his sleeves, pulling supplies from a tray near the wall. “Yes. I don’t want to wait for the nurse. I want this run immediately.”

You stared. This was new. “Chishiya, what’s going on?” He didn’t look up until the needle was ready. His eyes met yours, sharp but alive. “I think I know what’s wrong.”

He said it like it cost him something, like he’d been carrying the weight of the unknown too long and had finally found a crack of light in the dark.

Your breath caught, not from your lungs this time, but from something deeper: Hope.

He gently tied the tourniquet around your arm, cleaned the skin and inserted the needle with deft, practiced hands.

“I’m running a test to detect antibodies, specifically anti-GM-CSF antibodies. They attack a signaling protein in your lungs that helps remove excess surfactant.”

You frowned faintly. “Surfactant?”

“It’s a substance your lungs produce to keep the air sacs from collapsing,” he explained, slowly, clearly, his eyes flicking between the vial and your face. “But too much of it, or more precisely, the inability to clear it, can block oxygen from entering your bloodstream. Think of it like your lungs filling with foam. It looks clean on scans. But you’re slowly suffocating.”

He removed the needle, placed gauze on your arm. His fingers lingered for half a second longer than needed.

“It’s called autoimmune pulmonary alveolar proteinosis. aPAP. It’s rare. Most doctors won’t think of it unless they’re specifically looking for it.”

You sat in stunned silence. Not because it was frightening, though it was. But because something about what he said made sense. It fit the way your body had slowly betrayed you. The missing puzzle piece. “And if it’s that…?”

“There’s treatment,” he said. “It won’t be easy. But it’s manageable. And it’s not a death sentence.”

The air between you stilled. “You really think this is it?” you asked. He met your gaze, unwavering. “I think it could be. And I’m going to find out.”

You smiled then, full and quiet, something blooming in your chest. Not just because of the hope in his words but because of what they meant:

He hadn’t just been visiting you out of obligation. He cared. Deeply.

Chishiya had just sealed the blood vial, already halfway to the door, urgency radiating off him like heat. But before he could disappear into the hallway, your voice slipped through the air, soft, barely more than a breath. “Chishiya…”

He stopped instantly and just stood still, like the sound of your voice alone was enough to hold him there.

“What… what happens next?” you asked gently. “What if the test is positive? What does the treatment look like?”

He raised one hand and said, without looking back, "Hold on. Give me one minute.” And then he was gone.

You watched the door click shut behind him, your heart caught somewhere between hope and fear. His absence made the room colder again.

In the corridor, Chishiya moved like a man with a mission. He spotted the nurse standing in the corridor. She smiled the moment she saw him.

“Dr. Chishiya,” she said, her eyes shining a bit too bright. “Already here? You must really-"

“Get this to the lab. Immediately.” He handed her the vial, firm and direct. She blinked, surprised. “Of course, but are you okay? You look like you haven’t slept. Maybe you need some-"

“It’s urgent,” he snapped, tone clipped. “Please.” Her smile faltered. She opened her mouth again, but he was already turning away, already walking back to you.

The door opened and he was back, a little breathless but composed. His usual detachment was still there, but it was different now, he wasn’t guarding himself from you. He was guarding you from everything else.

He pulled the chair to your bedside, sat down slowly.

“If the test confirms it’s autoimmune PAP,” he began, “there are several treatment options. The first is something called a whole lung lavage.” You tilted your head, listening intently.

“It means we’ll flush out the excess surfactant from your lungs, essentially washing them. One lung at a time, under general anaesthesia. It’s invasive, but in many cases, effective. Some patients only need it once. For others, it becomes a routine procedure.”

You blinked. “That… sounds terrifying.”

“It’s not pleasant,” he admitted, gaze steady. “But it works. And there’s more. There are experimental treatments, subcutaneous GM-CSF therapy. It involves injecting the very protein your immune system is targeting, retraining it to stop attacking your lungs.”

You watched his face closely. There was a tightness around his eyes, not from fear but from care. From knowing what it meant for someone like you to hear words like invasive, procedure, experimental.

“You said it’s not a death sentence,” you whispered.

“It’s not.” His voice didn’t waver. “It’s difficult. It’s rare. But it’s survivable. Especially if we caught it early enough.”

You let out a long, shallow breath, one hand gripping the edge of your blanket. “So you really think… this could be it?” He nodded, slowly. “Everything fits. Your symptoms. Your scans. Your response, or lack of one, to asthma meds. If it’s not this, I’m missing something huge. But…” He paused, eyes on yours now. “I don’t think I am.”

You stared at him, studying every line of his face. The shadows under his eyes. His knuckles, still faintly red from handling too many files. Something in your chest tightened but it wasn’t fear this time.

It was the overwhelming sense that you weren’t alone anymore. “Thank you,” you murmured.

"Don’t thank me yet,” he replied. “Let’s wait for the results.” But his voice had softened. And for a moment, he didn’t look like your doctor at all.

He just looked like Chishiya. Exhausted, brilliant and quietly terrified of how much he wanted to see you healed.

The day passed quickly. Chishiya had a lot of work in the paediatric unit. He was glad when his lunch break finally approached, knowing he'd see you soon.

The corridor outside your unit was louder than usual. Rushed footsteps, clipped voices, the sudden whirl of a monitor alarm. Chishiya paused mid-step, a cold weight pressing down in his chest.

Then he saw them. Nurses moving quickly in and out of your room. His heart dropped like a stone. The paper bag with your lunch slipped from his hand. He didn’t ask what happened. He ran.

Pushing the door open, his breath caught the moment he saw you. You were sitting upright in bed, but only barely. Your lips were tinged with blue, your eyes unfocused, gasping through the nasal cannula like you were drowning in air that wasn’t helping anymore. Your skin was far too pale.

“What the hell happened?” he snapped, eyes locking onto the nurse, not the same one from earlier.

She flinched. “Her breathing suddenly worsened. We called the ER team, but-"

“Where are the blood results I asked your colleague to send this morning?”

Her eyes widened. “I- I don’t know. I thought-"

“She never sent them, did she?” His voice was low now, deadly calm. “Call the lab. Now.”

She hesitated for half a second too long.

“Now!”

The nurse bolted from the room.

Chishiya was already at your side, pulling his stethoscope from his neck with shaking hands. He pressed the cold metal to your chest, closing his eyes as he listened, laboured breath, thick with obstruction. He could hear it. The surfactant. The build-up. It was progressing fast.

You tried to lift your hand, but even that seemed too much now. Your eyes met his. And something inside him cracked.

He pulled the stethoscope off and leaned down, searching your face. There was a kind of stillness in your expression that terrified him. Like you were fading. And he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, let that happen.

The nurse returned, breathless. “The blood never made it to the lab. They don’t have anything from this morning.” For a moment, there was silence.

Then Chishiya stood, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. “Draw more blood,” he barked. “Now. And prep subcutaneous GM-CSF therapy.”

Another nurse looked at him, hesitant. “Doctor, without confirmation, do you really think that’s wise?”

Chishiya’s voice was razor-sharp. “Do you see her? She doesn’t have time to wait. If I’m wrong, she dies. If I’m right and we delay, she still dies.”

The staff looked to one another, uncertain, but obeying. Orders were given. Supplies gathered. And then, one by one, they filed out to make preparations, leaving the room in momentary silence.

He stayed. He stood beside you and for once, there was no clinical detachment in his eyes. Just fear. Pure, human fear.

Then he lifted his hand to your cheek, gently brushing his knuckles along your skin. You were so cold. Too cold. “Hey,” he whispered. “Don’t fall asleep.”

You blinked at him slowly. It took effort. "You… look scared,” you managed, voice dry and broken.

He gave a quiet, bitter laugh under his breath. His eyes shimmered, not quite tears, but close enough. "Of course I’m scared. I’m terrified.”

You tried to say something else, but he stopped you, his hand resting gently against your cheek.

“You have to stay strong. Just a little longer. You’re going to get better soon. I’ll make sure of it. But right now, I need you to fight. You can’t give up. You can’t just leave me like that." He paused, his throat tightening. “You told me you missed the little things. Grocery shopping. Cooking. Walking around like a normal person.”

He leaned in a little closer, his voice low, cracking ever so slightly, "I want to do those things with you.”

You stared at him, something soft flickering behind the exhaustion in your eyes.

“I want to argue with you over bread brands. I want to stand in a crowded supermarket while you debate which fruit is ripe enough. I want to cook with you, burn the rice and have you pretend it still tastes good.”

He exhaled slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours now.

“I want more than hospital rooms and charts and goodbyes. I want you.”

The door opened behind him, and the nurse signaled everything was ready. He looked back once more before standing up, his hand still in yours.

“But for that to happen, you have to live. Promise me.” You barely nodded. But it was enough. It had to be.

As they began setting up for the emergency injection, Chishiya stood just outside your room, arms crossed, gaze locked on the sterile floor beneath his feet. His body was tense, his face unreadable, but inside, chaos raged.

He didn’t look like someone on the brink of losing control. He never did.

But he felt it. And that was new.

His mind slipped back, not long ago, but it felt like another life.

One of the first times he brought you lunch.

You were sitting cross-legged in the hospital bed, IV line wrapped loosely near your elbow, sunlight warming your blanket. He had handed you a neatly packed sandwich in wax paper and you lit up like he’d handed you the moon.

“You pack these yourself?” you’d asked with a teasing grin, unwrapping it.

“Obviously,” he had replied dryly.

You took a bite and exaggerated a dramatic pause before nodding in approval. "This is shockingly good. You might have a fallback career.”

He’d sat stiffly in the chair by your bed, watching as you launched into a tangent about how underrated grocery store bakeries were, how you used to pick bread by smell, not price, how cereal aisles overwhelmed you, how you secretly judged people based on their tea choices. Mundane and random but somehow endearing.

He didn’t remember most people’s voices. Not their names. But he remembered yours. The rhythm of it. Soft, unfiltered, alive.

And then, in the middle of a half-rant about how hospital jello might actually be a government conspiracy, you’d stopped, smiled, and said:

“You know… you’re kind of amazing.”

He looked up from his coffee, brow slightly raised.

“I mean it,” you’d continued, shrugging like it was nothing. “Becoming a doctor at your age. Being this sharp. I know you try to hide it behind that glacier-cold face of yours, but it’s impressive.” He almost smiled at that. Almost. Not that he let it show. He never did.

But inside something cracked open.

A warmth he hadn’t invited crept into his chest and settled there. He’d heard compliments before. Thousands. From professors. Colleagues. Patients. He’d been called brilliant, genius, gifted. He knew his worth.

But none of it had ever made him feel anything. Until you.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way you said them. Like you didn’t need anything from him. Like you saw him, not the title, not the reputation, him.

And that was the moment it hit him, quietly, almost imperceptibly: You weren’t just another patient. He had let you in.

Somewhere along the way, and he couldn’t say exactly when, you had become more. And he had let it happen.

He knew it was wrong. Knew the lines shouldn’t be crossed. But still, every day, he packed two lunches.

Still, every evening, his feet carried him to your room without thinking. Still, right now, the thought of losing you made it hard to breathe.

He blinked, pulled from memory by the nurse calling his name. "Everything’s ready. Are you absolutely certain about that?"

He nodded once, sharp and silent and stepped back into your room.

You were struggling to keep your eyes open now, but you turned your head toward him the second he entered.

He approached quietly, stood beside your bed, then waited patiently as they began prepping the injection. You felt his presence. Trusted it. Even now.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

And as the medication entered your body, his silent vow echoed somewhere deep inside:

You are not leaving me.

Not like this.

Not ever.

The quiet beep of your monitor filled the room, steady now, stable. Chishiya's hand held yours, reassuring he was there.

You were still weak, your breathing shallow but improving. There was colour returning to your lips. A flicker of strength in the way your fingers curled slightly around his.

That’s when the door opened. A nurse stepped inside holding a slim folder, breathless from the pace of the day. "Doctor Chishiya?”

He stood, carefully letting go of your hand and accepting the report. She lingered for a moment, unsure if he wanted a summary. But he already knew. He opened the file, scanned the numbers and markers. There it was. Positive for anti-GM-CSF autoantibodies. Confirming what he’d already acted on.

He closed the folder with a click. No flicker of surprise crossed his face, just a quiet, tight nod. He wasn’t wrong.

But still... He exhaled. Relief wasn’t an emotion he allowed himself often. But today, he let a whisper of it settle over him.

Ten minutes later, he was summoned. Chishiya stepped into the office of his superior, still holding the report in one hand.

The older man looked up from his desk, face unreadable. "Take a seat, Dr. Chishiya.” He didn’t.

"I’ll be brief,” Dr. Haneda continued. “You’re off the case.”

Something shifted, not visibly, not to anyone who didn’t know him. But inside, Chishiya’s world swayed slightly. Before he could speak, his superior continued. "We’re transferring the patient to Dr. Kano. He’s one of our best pulmonary specialists.”

Chishiya’s voice came out flatter than usual, laced with an edge of protest. "She’s responding to the treatment I started. My diagnosis. My plan.”

His superior raised an eyebrow, the flash of emotion in Chishiya’s tone didn’t go unnoticed.

“And why now, Chishiya? Since when do you care about who takes over a case?” Silence. Chishiya looked to the side, jaw flexing.

Dr. Haneda leaned back slightly, studying him. “One of the nurses reported… you’re too involved. That you’ve grown emotionally compromised.”

Chishiya rolled his eyes. He didn’t have to ask which nurse. Of course it was her. “She’s alive because I acted. That treatment couldn’t wait.”

“You didn’t have confirmation-”

“There was no time to wait. Had we waited, she would’ve suffocated in her own lungs by now.” The words were sharp. Unapologetic. But still controlled.

His superior folded his hands together on the desk. "And what if you’d been wrong? What if you caused organ failure, or worsened her condition with a treatment meant for a completely different pathology?” Chishiya didn’t flinch. “But I wasn’t wrong.”

“No,” the man admitted, his voice quiet. “This time… you got lucky.” He leaned forward, his voice lower, more pointed now. "You’re a brilliant doctor, Chishiya. One of the finest I’ve seen in my entire career. And because of that, because of your value, I’m choosing to see this as a lapse in judgment. Not an act of recklessness.” A pause. Heavy.

“But don’t mistake that for approval. You crossed a line. You let yourself get attached. And if I let you keep treating her and something goes wrong you won’t forgive yourself. And neither will anyone else.”

Still, Chishiya didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The cold in his eyes deepened, not because he disagreed, but because part of him knew Dr. Haneda wasn’t entirely wrong.

But that didn’t matter. Not when you were lying in that room, clinging to every breath.

His superior sighed, voice softening ever so slightly. "I’m not punishing you. I’m protecting you. And her. This is kindness, even if you can’t see it now.”

Chishiya stood there in silence, fists clenched at his sides. Then, finally, he turned for the door. He didn’t slam it. He didn’t argue again. But as he walked away, the report still in his hand, one thing was clear in his mind: He wasn’t done. Not with you.

Chishiya had no reason to return to your unit. His break was over. His shift resumed. On paper, you were no longer his patient. Officially, he should’ve let go. But he couldn’t.

All day, while treating children with fevers, coughs, fractured wrists, and anxious parents clinging to his every word, you hovered in the back of his mind, like a fragile flame he couldn’t risk letting go out.

Still, his hands didn’t falter. His focus never slipped. Not once did his scalpel waver, nor his advice lose clarity. He was still Chishiya. Clinical, brilliant and controlled.

But every time he glanced at the clock, it was a countdown. Every second ticked toward the only moment he really cared about.

When his shift finally ended, he didn’t stop to change. Didn’t even shrug off his white coat. He just walked, fast and silent, through the hospital halls until your room came into view.

And there you were. Propped upright against the pillows. Tired but undeniably alive.

And for the first time in days, your smile wasn’t weighed down by the effort of breathing. It reached your eyes, soft and warm.

He stopped in the doorway. Just for a moment. Just to take it in. And then, as your smile lingered, something remarkable happened: Chishiya smiled back. It was barely there, the ghost of a smile, the kind you could almost mistake for nothing at all. But it was real. It softened the cold line of his mouth, sparked the faintest warmth in his otherwise impassive face.

You noticed it. Of course you did.

"How are you feeling?” he asked, voice quiet. Before you could answer, the door opened again behind him.

Dr. Kano, tall, broad-shouldered, in his late forties with calm, seasoned eyes, stepped in, holding a clipboard. He looked up at the sight of Chishiya. “Well, this is unexpected,” he said, polite but sharp. “Didn’t expect to find you here, Dr. Chishiya.”

Chishiya didn’t blink. "I’m off the clock,” he replied coolly. “Just checking in on my treatment.”

There was no defensiveness in his voice. No aggression either. Just a quiet claim. A truth he wanted acknowledged.

Dr. Kano raised an eyebrow but said nothing at first. He stepped past him and approached your bed, glancing at your chart.

You looked between the two men, sensing the invisible weight between them. After a brief pause, Kano nodded, impressed. "Your vitals have stabilised. Response is strong. Breathing volume has increased slightly. That’s good.”

He looked over at Chishiya.

“Not bad. Most physicians wouldn’t have thought of aPAP, especially not this early on.”

A pause. Then, perhaps reluctantly Dr. Kano said, "Smart call. You probably saved her life.”

Chishiya didn’t respond. Not outwardly. But the subtle lift of his chin, the flash of certainty in his eyes, it was enough.

You smiled again, watching him as if you were trying to burn this moment into memory. Kano closed the chart, turning back to you. "We’ll continue monitoring closely. Let me or the nurses know if your symptoms shift.”

He gave a quick nod to both of you and left the room, his presence already fading behind the soft click of the door.

For a few heartbeats, there was silence. You looked at Chishiya. "He complimented you.”

"It wasn’t necessary,” he said, brushing it off. But you could tell it mattered. Not because of the praise. Because it confirmed that you were going to be okay.

Chishiya pulled a chair close and sat beside your bed, still in his paediatric coat and scrubs, still looking like he hadn’t rested in days.

You tilted your head, gently. "Did you come straight from work?”

He nodded once. "I needed to see how you were doing.” Something stirred in your chest, quiet and deep. "You didn't share lunch with me today." It wasn't a complaint and he knew it. It's not like you had been physically able to eat anyway.

“I’ll bring another one tomorrow,” he said simply. And even though he didn’t smile again, his voice was different now. Warmer. A little less guarded. And you knew: he’d be back. Not because of the case. But because it was you.

Chishiya stayed a little longer. The room had slipped into that soft twilight, when hospital walls turned a cooler shade of grey and the world outside blurred into indigo. Machines hummed gently in the background and the silence between you wasn’t awkward, just calm. Steady. Like the rise and fall of your breathing, which, for the first time in days, didn’t sound like a struggle.

Your hands wrapped around the warm tea a nurse had brought earlier, though it had long gone cold. Chishiya was leaning back in the visitor chair, legs stretched out. The light from the hallway cast a faint glow across his face, softening his sharp features.

He made a sarcastic remark, something dry and perfectly timed, as usual, and you laughed.

And then you stopped, blinking in quiet surprise. "It doesn’t hurt,” you said, eyes wide with realization.

“Laughing doesn’t feel like dying anymore.”

You looked at him with something between awe and disbelief. Like he’d performed a miracle. Like he was a miracle. He didn’t say anything. But something flickered behind his eyes. Just a moment of softness.

Because even if he didn’t show it, even if he couldn’t, he had decided, somewhere along the way, that your laugh was his favourite sound. The kind of sound that made the chaos of the world feel strangely manageable.

You leaned back against the pillow, letting your eyes drift shut. Your breathing was almost normal now, still a bit shallow, but it didn’t have that haunted, gasping edge. For Chishiya, that alone felt like victory.

He stayed until you were asleep. And even then, he didn’t want to leave. He sat there, quietly watching your chest rise and fall, the corner of his jaw clenched slightly, like letting his guard down might undo everything.

But eventually, he pulled himself away from you.

He stepped out of your room, walking the quiet halls of the hospital toward the changing rooms. His pace was slow, his thoughts still full of you, how you smiled tonight, how colour had returned to your face, how the weight in your eyes had begun to lift.

By the time he’d changed out of his paediatric scrubs and was walking toward the hospital exit, night had fully descended.

He didn’t hear her approaching until she was at his side. "Hey, Dr. Chishiya,” said the nurse, her again. The one who always smiled too much, spoke too sweetly, watched him too closely. "I’m just getting off shift too. Want to grab a drink? You look like you could use one.”

Chishiya didn’t even slow his steps. "Not interested.” His voice was flat. Not cruel. Not impolite. Just honest. But she followed anyway, offering a gentle chuckle as if he hadn’t meant it. "Long day, huh? I get it. You’re probably exhausted-" She reached out, placing a hand on his arm.

He froze. Pulled away immediately, as if her touch had burned him. He turned toward her then, gaze sharp and cold in a way that made the hallway feel several degrees colder. "Don’t,” he said, low and clipped. "I’m not interested. At all.”

For a second, the nurse just stared at him, confused, maybe even embarrassed. But Chishiya didn’t wait for a reply. He turned away and walked off without looking back.

The truth was, he was tired. But not in the way she thought. He wasn’t tired from the shift. Or the charts. Or the diagnoses.

He was tired of pretending that what he felt didn’t matter. That he could watch you laugh and not feel something shift in his chest. That he could hold your hand to draw blood and not notice how warm your skin was against his.

He didn’t want drinks. He didn’t want flattery. He didn’t want meaningless distraction. He just wanted you to keep getting better. Because he wasn’t sure what kind of man he was becoming…

But he knew the moment he lost you, he’d never be the same.

Chishiya lay awake again. The ceiling above him was blank, colourless. Just like every other night before. But tonight felt heavier. Not because he was exhausted or even because your condition had been critical. It was because of you.

He didn’t understand it. Not fully. All his life, he had compartmentalised emotions the way he had learned to catalog symptoms: systematically, clinically, without letting them touch him. He was a master of detachment. Until now.

Now, it felt like something in him had cracked open and everything he’d always kept out was rushing in. Worry, admiration, longing. Not just for your health, but for your presence. Your laugh. The spark in your eyes. The way you somehow made him forget the weight of the hospital for a moment, just by being there. It was overwhelming. But strangely, he didn’t want it to stop.

His mind refused to quiet down. His thoughts circled back to you over and over until finally, one idea planted itself so firmly in his chest, he had no choice but to acknowledge it.

I’m taking her out. As soon as she’s well enough. I’m going to take her out.

A date.

The word felt foreign in his head but right. There was still so much he didn’t know about you. Yet, it already felt like he had known you for a lifetime.

And he wanted more. Needed more.

So, before the sun had even risen fully, Chishiya was already dressed and heading to the hospital, long before his shift began.

You were awake, sitting upright in bed, poking at what barely resembled breakfast. A greyish porridge, a slice of cold toast, and some sad, lifeless fruit.

You didn’t notice him right away, but as soon as he appeared at the doorway, your entire expression shifted.

“That’s what they’re feeding you now?” Chishiya asked, brow raised in amusement. "Did you offend someone in the kitchen?” You smiled, rolling your eyes. “I think this might actually be revenge.”

On the opposite side of the bed, a nurse was preparing your morning injection. You barely glanced her way, too busy watching Chishiya pull a wrapped sandwich from his bag and hold it up as a peace offering.

But then something shifted in his gaze. He froze. His eyes snapped toward the syringe in the nurse’s hand and suddenly, he lunged forward. His hand closed tightly around the nurse’s wrist mid-motion.

"What the fuck are you doing?” he snapped, voice sharp enough to cut the air. You jumped in surprise, eyes wide. The nurse flinched, stammering. “W-what-?” Chishiya didn’t release her hand, just snatched the syringe from her grasp and held it up to the light. His jaw clenched.

"This dosage is too high. It could damage her lungs.”

The nurse blinked in confusion. “But- this is the dosage from the chart…”

She reached for the clipboard she’d placed at the foot of the bed, flipping through it quickly.

Chishiya had already beaten her to it. He tore the clipboard from her hands, eyes scanning the numbers. Then he turned back to your chart at the end of your bed. A dark silence fell across the room.

His tone dropped lower, deadly calm. "This isn’t the same dosage.”

The nurse paled, glancing between the two papers. “I- I just grabbed the clipboard from the nurse’s station. I didn’t- oh my god.” She looked horrified now, her hands trembling as she tried to make sense of the error.

But Chishiya already knew. He didn’t have to ask whose clipboard it had been last. That damn nurse again. The one who seemed to watch him more than she watched her patients. The one who hadn’t sent your blood to the lab. Twice now, she had put you in danger.

His voice dropped to a chilling whisper as he shot a glare at the nurse in front of him.

“This dosage could have killed her. You don’t get to make that kind of mistake.”

The nurse was still apologising, still scrambling for excuses, but Chishiya was no longer listening. He had already placed the incorrect syringe aside, preparing the proper dosage himself. His hands were steady, but inside he was burning with rage.

He glanced at you. You were quiet, clearly shaken, trying to steady your breathing again. "I’ve got it,” he said, his tone softening just a fraction.

“You’re safe. I’m not letting anyone screw this up again.”

And in that moment, you believed him completely. He would never let anything happen to you. Not if he could stop it.

After administering the injection himself, Chishiya disposed of the tainted syringe with clinical precision, then snatched up your chart and the incorrect clipboard with one smooth, irritable motion. The nurse hesitated, her lips parting to protest.

“You can’t just take those-" But Chishiya cut her off with a single glance. Cold. Sharp. Final. She closed her mouth immediately.

"Who had this clipboard last night?” he asked, his voice low but edged in steel. The nurse swallowed. “I- I think it was Maiko. Nurse Maiko Asahara.”

Chishiya didn’t say anything in return. He simply turned and walked out of your room with clipped, purposeful strides, the chart and the clipboard tucked tightly under one arm.

It was just after 8 a.m. when Chishiya stormed down the corridor to the administrative wing, ignoring the greetings of passing staff. He didn’t knock when he reached the office door, just pushed it open, hard enough for it to bounce lightly off the wall.

Dr. Haneda, the head of internal medicine and Chishiya’s superior, was sitting at his desk, coffee in hand, clearly having only just settled in. He looked up, surprised. "Chishiya? What the hell-”

“I want Maiko Asahara gone,” Chishiya snapped. “Out. Fired.”

Haneda blinked at him, setting down his coffee. “Is this about her reporting you for being too involved with your patient?” Chishiya scoffed, jaw tight. "This is about her nearly killing a patient after already losing her bloodwork yesterday.”

He stepped forward and dropped both the clipboard and chart onto Haneda's desk with a heavy thud.

Haneda arched an eyebrow, pulling the two files toward him. As he flipped through them, his face slowly shifted from confusion to alarm. His eyes scanned the two conflicting dosages, his lips tightening as he did the math.

“This dosage…” he muttered, “…this could’ve triggered pulmonary hemorrhage. Cardiac arrest." He looked up, brow furrowed.

Chishiya didn’t respond right away. He just crossed his arms and stared him down, unwavering.

“Either she’s gone,” he said, calm but resolute, “or she’s transferred out of the pulmonary unit today. Right now.”

Haneda exhaled sharply, clearly calculating the ramifications. "This could’ve killed her,” he murmured again, more to himself than to Chishiya. Then he stood. "Alright. I’ll talk to the board. Immediately.”

Chishiya gave a curt nod and turned to leave without another word. Because to him, it wasn’t about power plays or politics. It was about you.

And the fact that someone had come that close to taking you away from him? That was unforgivable.

Chishiya returned your chart to the holder at the end of your bed, then turned to leave, clipboard still in hand. His fingers were curled tightly around it, knuckles pale. He looked like a blade drawn too long, sharp, overused, near its breaking point.

“Chishiya.” Your voice was soft behind him, barely more than a breath but it stopped him instantly.

The sound of it washed over him like balm to an open wound, slowing the storm in his chest. When he turned around, the moment felt suspended. You looked fragile, sure, but alive. Radiant in the morning light, your colour returning to something human again.

He exhaled slightly, some invisible weight shifting inside him.

But even then, you noticed it. The way his shoulders remained tight. How his hands trembled just a little too long. His jaw was still clenched, nostrils slightly flared as if adrenaline hadn’t quite let him go.

You tilted your head. “Why are you so out of yourself today?” He didn’t answer right away.

You stood up, getting out of your bed, IV line trailing beside you like a tether, your hand resting lightly on the stand.

“Don’t,” Chishiya said quickly, his voice lower than usual but it wasn’t strict. It was protective.

You took another step forward, the IV pole rolling quietly beside you. “I’ve been wandering around my room all morning,” you admitted with a small smile, “don’t tell anyone.”

Something in Chishiya's face softened.

You only smiled wider. “I feel like I can finally breathe again. Just walking around, it’s like I’m human again. Like I’m really here.”

He watched you for a second longer, then quietly shut the door behind him and moved toward you. His steps were slower now, less rushed. His eyes took you in fully, standing tall, your skin warm again, your chest rising and falling without strain.

You looked up at him, searching his face. "Why are you so stressed?” you asked again, softly. “Is it… about me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand reached up almost involuntarily, fingertips brushing your cheek. The gentleness in the touch was unexpected from him, it felt like a confession.

His thumb rested just beneath your cheekbone, where your skin was no longer clammy or grey. There was colour now. Life.

“I don’t even know,” he murmured. “Why I’m like this. Why it’s you. But I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re everywhere. Even when I’m not here. Even when I try to focus. I… I’ve never had this happen before.”

His words weren’t rehearsed. They weren’t smooth. He was a man used to being composed, clinical, distant and right now, none of those things remained. And yet… he didn’t look like he wanted to change that.

You smiled, hand reaching up to rest gently on his chest. "Perhaps,” you said teasingly, “you do like me a little after all.”

His expression didn’t shift much, but his voice was quieter when he replied. "Perhaps I do.”

Then the door creaked open and Chishiya immediately took a step back, hand dropping to his side.

Dr. Kano stepped inside. His eyes lit up the moment he saw you standing upright.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you out of bed yet,” he said brightly. “Looks like someone’s recovering faster than expected.”

You nodded politely, but your eyes flicked to Chishiya. The specialist turned to him. “Doctor Chishiya. I didn’t know you were still involved.”

"I’m not,” Chishiya replied calmly. “But I administered the morning injection. The nurse had the wrong dosage listed on her clipboard. I corrected it.”

That made the specialist pause. “I see.” He looked between you both. “Good call. Looks like your instincts saved her again.”

There was a short beat of silence before Dr. Kano smiled at you. “We’ll run another lung function test tomorrow. If it looks good, we can start talking about release within the week.”

You blinked, almost not daring to hope. And Chishiya, though he remained silent, allowed himself the smallest breath of relief. Because you were going to be okay. Because he’d finally be able to take you grocery shopping.

And maybe, just maybe, that was only the beginning.

A/N: ahem... i guess i got carried away? and poured my whole heart into this... honestly, thank you for the request. i absolutely loved writing this (pls send me all the requests you have for doctor!chishiya fics)

Also... i feel like this needs a part 2?

152 notes · View notes

mocchii-writes · 1 month ago

Text

Caught in the Fall (Chishiya x Reader)

Summary: “You shouldn’t have come back to my room.” - “You didn’t stop me.”

In the deadly chaos of Borderlands, trust is a luxury no one can afford—especially not with someone like Chishiya.

After barely escaping a brutal game, you find yourselves trapped in a crumbling building, forced to share a single threadbare blanket to survive the cold night.

What starts as necessity soon sparks something unexpected—secret kisses, quiet moments, and small acts of care breaking through the walls you’ve both built to survive

Words: 5925

You don’t even know how you ended up in this situation.

One moment you were both buried under a collapsing building, the next you’re cuddling with a person you swore never to be close with.

It wasn’t part of the plan.

Then again, nothing ever is in the Borderland.

The air inside the ruined structure is still thick with dust. Every breath feels like inhaling static—dry and bitter. Outside, the wind howls through the fractured walls, echoing against broken concrete and twisted rebar. The sky’s gone dark, not from nightfall but from the smoke and ash kicked up by the chaos.

And here you are—pressed shoulder to shoulder with him, under a scratchy emergency blanket salvaged from what’s left of a supply box. You’re both bruised and scraped up, the sharp sting of minor injuries flaring with every twitch. Blood crusts on your temple. You’re fairly sure something in your ankle isn’t right. But none of that compares to the surreal reality of being this close to Chishiya.

Shuntaro Chishiya, the infuriatingly brilliant man who rarely speaks unless he’s dissecting your every move. The man who plays games with people’s lives like he’s playing chess in his head. The one who always made it clear—he doesn’t do attachments. Doesn’t trust anyone. Certainly not you.

And yet... here he is. Lying beside you. Sharing body heat. Letting the silence stretch without breaking it.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He’s on his side, facing the ceiling—or what's left of it. His silver hair is dusted with debris, and a thin trail of dried blood runs from the edge of his brow into his hairline. His arms are pulled close to his chest beneath the blanket, and you notice the way his fingers flex every so often, like he's testing for pain without making it obvious.

He’s trying to stay composed. Of course he is.

You shift slightly to ease the pressure on your side, and the movement draws his attention. His eyes slide toward you—calm, analytical, and yet... softer than usual.

He says nothing.

Neither do you.

For a moment, the world is just your breathing, his breathing, and the way the thin blanket does barely anything to keep out the cold seeping in from the broken floor beneath you.

"This wasn’t supposed to happen," you mutter, more to yourself than him.

He’s quiet for a second, then replies, voice low and even: "Neither was surviving that game."

A flicker of something passes through his expression—dry humor, maybe. Or fatigue. Or something he won’t name.

You huff a tired laugh through your nose. “That’s comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He shrugs slightly, and you feel the movement through the blanket. “You’re the one who insisted we go back for the injured players.”

You glance down. “And you didn’t stop me.”

“I was curious how far your altruism would get you.” A pause. “Apparently, buried.”

You shoot him a look. “And cuddled.”

He doesn’t smirk—doesn’t even blink. But the faintest crease touches the corner of his mouth. “Unavoidable,” he murmurs. “Unless you’d rather freeze to death.”

You want to say something sharp, something that puts distance between you again. But you don’t. Because the truth is, it is freezing. Your fingers are already numb, and the warmth of his body against yours is the only thing keeping your teeth from chattering.

Still, it’s not just the cold that’s getting to you anymore.

It’s this… strange comfort. This closeness. His heartbeat, steady and human beneath all the armor he wears.

You’ve never seen Chishiya like this—silent, still, not calculating his next move like everyone else is a pawn. Just… being.

And you can’t help but ask, quietly, “Why haven’t you moved away?”

Another beat of silence.

Then, without looking at you, he replies, almost too soft to hear:

"Because... you're warm."

It’s the kind of answer you expect from him. Evasive. Simplified. But underneath it—layered between every carefully chosen word—is something else.

Something real.

And for once, you don’t question it.

You just let the silence stretch again, this time not uncomfortable, not heavy. Just there.

Like him.

Beside you.

You shift slightly under the blanket, feeling the dull ache in your shoulder and the weight of exhaustion finally settling in your limbs. Chishiya is quiet beside you, not asleep but still. Calm in the way only he can manage after everything collapses—literally and otherwise.

The silence brings memories with it, uninvited but not unwelcome.

And before you know it, you’re remembering the first time you saw him.

___________________________________________________________________________

It started simple. Almost forgettable.

A Diamonds game in a dimly lit tower where trust and logic were pitted against each other in equal measure. You worked in silence, scanning patterns on the wall, sorting false clues from real ones. Most players panicked. Some shouted. A few cried.

He didn’t.

You spotted him across the room—silver hair like a slash of moonlight, hands casually tucked into his hoodie pocket as if this whole life-and-death puzzle was mildly annoying rather than terrifying.

He didn’t try to lead. Didn’t bark orders.

He just watched.

Not the game.

The people.

And then he looked at you.

Only for a second. But it was enough. His eyes flicked to where you’d already solved one of the riddles before he had, and for a moment—just a flicker—his mouth quirked upward in the smallest, subtlest twitch of recognition.

You didn’t smile back.

But you didn’t look away either.

___________________________________________________________________________

Days later, you were sitting alone on the floor of an abandoned metro station, legs stretched out, the sting of shrapnel embedded in your calf making your breath catch. You’d just barely escaped a Hearts game that left more bodies than survivors.

He walked in from the far end of the platform, dragging a half-empty backpack, silent as ever. He looked around once, then spotted you. Paused.

No words.

He pulled out a medical kit—clearly from a previous win—and tossed a roll of gauze toward you with a lazy flick of his fingers.

You caught it midair, confused.

Before you could ask, he just said, “I had extras.” Then walked past you like it meant nothing.

You almost let him go. But something inside you—something stubborn—made you dig into your pack the next day and leave a water bottle in his usual spot on the upper balcony of the observatory. You didn’t wait to see if he took it.

But the next time you were out of supplies, you found a protein bar on your bag when you returned from the restroom.

No note.

But you knew.

___________________________________________________________________________

The shift came in a Hearts game.

You were both unlucky enough to get pulled into it. The rules were convoluted—classic psychological manipulation. One player could sabotage the rest, and the only way to win was to figure out who before time ran out.

Everything went sideways.

A panicked player pulled a concealed knife after being accused. Everyone scattered. The room became chaos.

You saw it before Chishiya did—he was focused on decoding something on the wall, the glint of the blade catching your eye just in time. Without thinking, you lunged. Your hand hit his shoulder, and the two of you went down hard.

The blade caught your back. Not deep, but enough to burn.

The pain didn’t register until you saw blood soaking through your shirt. Chishiya blinked up at you, stunned—more by your action than the fall.

You remember the look on his face.

For once, the usual calm calculation was replaced by something else.

Something like disbelief.

He didn't say thank you. Didn't joke. Just tore a piece of his hoodie sleeve and pressed it to the wound, his hands steady even as his jaw clenched.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said eventually, voice low.

You laughed bitterly. “Neither did you—when you tossed me that gauze.”

He said nothing else.

But when the game ended, and the smoke cleared, he walked beside you the entire way back to the safe zone.

Didn’t ask. Didn’t offer.

He just did.

After that, you never questioned why he kept showing up.

Or why you didn’t mind.

___________________________________________________________________________

Now, lying beside him again, that memory feels closer than it should. You wonder if he’s thinking about it too.

His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally speaks.

“You remember that game?” he asks, like it’s an afterthought. But you can feel the tension in his voice, the careful way he phrases it—as if asking means something.

“The 7 of Hearts?” you ask, keeping your own tone neutral.

A slow nod. “Why did you push me?”

The question hangs in the air.

You swallow, heart ticking just a little faster, surprised he’s asking after all this time.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Instinct, maybe. Or maybe I just didn’t want to deal with this place without at least one familiar face left in it.”

He hums softly, thoughtful.

Then, a beat later, his voice quieter:

“You could’ve died.”

You let out a breath. “So could you.”

There’s a pause.

Then you feel it—a small shift. His hand, resting between you both under the blanket, brushes against yours. Not intentional. Not overt.

But not accidental either.

You don’t say anything.

And he doesn’t move away.

___________________________________________________________________________

The hours stretch on. You're not sure how long you lie there, pressed against Chishiya beneath the thin blanket, but your body aches less from injury now and more from stillness. Your limbs are stiff. The air has only gotten colder, and you can see your breath in the pale morning light sneaking through the cracks of the broken ceiling.

Neither of you has spoken in a while.

But that’s never made you uncomfortable with him.

Eventually, Chishiya shifts beside you, slow and quiet. His breath hitches, like the movement strains something. You glance over and see him clench his jaw, eyes flicking down to his ribs.

He’s hurt. Worse than he let on.

“You’ve been hiding that,” you say gently.

He doesn’t deny it. “Didn’t seem relevant at the time.”

You sit up slightly, brushing off dust and broken drywall. “It’s relevant now if we’re going to get out of here.”

Chishiya doesn’t argue. Just nods once and watches you with that sharp, observant gaze of his—calculating even in silence.

You crawl to one of the fallen slabs of concrete blocking the doorway. It’s shifted a little since the collapse, probably unstable. You test the edge of it carefully with your fingers. It’s heavier than you expected, but movable. Maybe.

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s already beside you.

“I’ll lift,” he says. “You wedge something under.”

You pause. “You sure?”

He nods, already rolling his sleeves up, teeth grit against the pain. You don’t waste time arguing.

You move in sync—wordless, efficient.

It’s not easy. The slab grinds against the floor with a low groan, and dust rains down from above. Your muscles scream from the strain, and you hear Chishiya suppress a quiet grunt of pain.

But he doesn’t stop.

Not until the slab tips enough for you to wedge a twisted metal pole beneath it. It holds, barely.

There’s just enough space now for the two of you to squeeze through.

“You first,” he says.

You raise a brow. “You're injured. You should go.”

He eyes you, unreadable. “And let you stay behind and do something reckless again? No thanks.”

It’s… the closest thing to concern you’ve heard from him.

You don’t argue. Just crawl through the gap, careful of the jagged edges, until the rubble gives way to open air and biting wind.

Freedom.

You turn to offer your hand—and to your surprise, he takes it.

His grip is warm despite everything. Solid.

You pull him through slowly, his teeth clenched as he drags his body past the debris. He winces when he’s fully out, but the tension in his shoulders loosens once he’s free.

You both sit there for a moment in the grey light of morning. Exhausted. Filthy. Alive.

He exhales, leaning back against a broken concrete pillar, and closes his eyes for a beat. “Well,” he mutters, “that wasn’t ideal.”

You huff out a breath. “And yet, we survived.”

He glances sideways at you, something unreadable in his expression again. “We always do.”

The way he says we doesn’t go unnoticed.

It’s not gratitude. Not affection. Not even a confession.

It’s… acceptance.

Of your presence. Of your place beside him. Of the fact that, somewhere along the way, you stopped being someone he just noticed—and became someone he trusted.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a crushed energy bar, snapped in half. Without looking at you, he holds one half out.

You blink. “Is this your idea of breakfast?”

“Unless you want to fight a tiger next,” he replies flatly. “Take it or leave it.”

You take it.

Your fingers brush again—just briefly—and this time, he doesn’t pull away.

And neither do you.

___________________________________________________________________________

The sun begins to dip below the skyline, setting the shattered city in hues of gold and rust.

You’ve both walked for hours, navigating broken roads and hollow buildings. By the time you stumble across the half-collapsed hotel, your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. Chishiya walks beside you, a little slower than usual—his side must still be bothering him, though he won’t admit it.

The hotel looks unstable, but familiar enough in its decay to be worth the risk.

Inside, the air is stale but dry. The lower floors are ruined, the lobby reduced to cracked tile and broken glass. But upstairs—after climbing past crumbled staircases and stepping over a dead vending machine—you find the jackpot.

Beds. Real ones.

Dusty. Lopsided. But beds nonetheless.

The rooms are mostly intact. There’s even a functioning door that clicks softly shut when you try it. Two rooms side by side. No threats. No other signs of life.

It almost feels like peace.

You spend the next hour scavenging. Chishiya finds a half-full medical box in what used to be a spa room. You dig through supply closets and snag a few protein bars and two bottles of mostly-clear water. One is slightly expired, but Chishiya just shrugs when you point it out.

“We’ve had worse,” he says.

Which is true.

You both return to the room you picked—the one with a window that still opens—and divide the supplies without speaking much. There's no debate over who gets what. No bargaining. Just an easy, automatic understanding.

As the last of the sunlight filters through the dust-streaked glass, you glance over at him.

He’s seated on the edge of the bed now, arms loosely folded, head tilted toward the window. There’s a faint orange glow along his cheekbone, catching in his pale hair, making him look unreal. Like he doesn’t belong in this world.

But somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

You break the silence after a long moment. “Do you miss it?”

He turns toward you slowly. “Miss what?”

“Before.” You motion vaguely toward the city. “The real world. Whatever your life was.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Not really.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“There’s nothing to miss,” he says simply. “Most people just survive pretending they’re alive. Here, at least, there’s no illusion.”

You stare at him, unsure what to say to that. The cynicism is pure Chishiya—but something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. Like maybe, despite the indifference in his voice, there's a quiet thread of loss buried under it.

After a pause, he turns the question back at you.

“You?”

You exhale slowly. “Yeah. I miss… having music in the background. Late trains. Stupid things. The smell of clean laundry. Having somewhere to go that wasn’t life or death.”

Chishiya watches you, eyes narrowed slightly. Not mocking. Not judging. Just… listening.

You offer a tired smile. “And I miss sleeping in a bed that doesn’t try to kill me.”

At that, the corner of his mouth twitches.

Progress.

___________________________________________________________________________

Eventually, night settles fully over the ruins.

Chishiya stands up and stretches, moving toward the door to the room next to yours.

“There are two beds this time,” he says lightly, one hand on the doorknob.

You nod, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah. Guess we don’t have to cuddle tonight.”

He pauses—not long, just for a breath. “Guess not.”

The door clicks softly shut behind him.

You lie down in your bed, adjusting the blanket around you. It's not bad. The mattress sinks in just enough to feel something like comfort. The room is quiet, still.

But it's cold.

And it’s worse, somehow, than last night.

You turn onto your side. Then your back. Then your stomach. Nothing helps. Your thoughts churn restlessly.

Last night… was warm. Peaceful, in a way nothing has been for a long time.

You hadn’t planned to fall asleep next to him, but once you were there—wrapped in that makeshift blanket, with the heat of his body close—you’d slept deeper than you had in weeks.

And now?

Now you're just cold and annoyed at your own neediness.

You stare at the cracked ceiling.

You wait ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.

And then, finally—quietly—you rise.

You don’t bother putting on shoes. Just cross the hallway in your socks, listening for any sound from inside his room. You pause with your hand on the doorknob, nerves fluttering in your chest.

Then you turn it.

The door creaks slightly as you open it. The room is dark, lit only by the city glow bleeding through the window. The bed creaks faintly as Chishiya shifts. You can see him clearly enough—propped on one elbow, watching you enter like he expected it.

Maybe he did.

You close the door behind you, slowly, and move toward the bed.

Chishiya doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask what you’re doing.

He just watches as you lift the blanket and crawl in next to him.

You settle in beside him again, careful not to touch too much. The mattress is smaller than the floor had been. Your shoulders brush. Your legs bump under the blanket.

It’s quiet.

Then, finally, he lifts one eyebrow, dry amusement in his voice.

“Couldn’t resist my charm, huh?”

You snort. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He hums, then lies back down fully, arm folding behind his head.

You lie beside him in silence. The warmth starts to spread again. Not just from his body—but from the stillness. The peace.

A beat passes.

Then another.

Chishiya speaks again—so softly you almost miss it.

“…You sleep better this way?”

You turn your head, surprised.

His face is turned toward the ceiling. He’s not looking at you.

You hesitate.

Then nod once. “Yeah. I do.”

He doesn’t respond right away. But then his arm shifts. Not touching you—just moving a little closer beneath the blanket.

The space between you shrinks again. Just enough.

You let your eyes drift closed, heart still pounding.

And then, in the dark, you hear him say—so quietly it might’ve been a thought rather than a voice:

“Me too.”

___________________________________________________________________________

You don’t remember falling asleep.

Only the steady rhythm of his breathing.

The warmth that slowly seeped through your skin.

The feeling of being held by silence, not alone in it.

The first thing you notice when you wake is the quiet.

Not the panicked kind. Not the empty kind, either.

Just… peaceful.

Then you notice the second thing: you’re not where you started.

You’re closer to him now.

Somewhere in the night—whether by choice or instinct—you must’ve shifted in your sleep. One of your legs is draped over his, and your head has ended up on his shoulder, nose buried slightly into the soft fabric of his hoodie. One of his hands rests loosely at your back. Not tight. Not holding you there.

But not letting you go, either.

The sunlight filters softly through the broken blinds, casting pale gold lines across the wall, the bed, the sharp line of Chishiya’s jaw.

He’s still asleep.

And that alone surprises you. You didn’t think he could sleep like this. So open. So exposed. But he does — his features slack and unguarded, lips parted slightly in rest. The ever-present edge in him has softened.

For a long, suspended moment, you just watch him.

You don’t want to move. Not because of the comfort — though that’s part of it — but because if you shift too loudly, if you break the spell of morning stillness, you might have to face it.

Face what this has become.

Because this is not nothing anymore.

You close your eyes again. Let yourself stay there. Just for a little longer.

But, as if he can hear the thoughts rattling inside your skull, Chishiya stirs beneath you.

His breath catches lightly, then evens again.

A slow blink. Then two.

He opens his eyes, turns his head slightly toward you, and you feel him go still.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t push you away.

Instead, his fingers flex just slightly against your back — the only sign he’s even registered the intimacy of the position.

And then, of course, in classic Chishiya fashion, he breaks the silence with dry irony.

“…You drooled on me.”

You gasp and lift your head instinctively, already about to deny it—before catching the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You scowl. “I did not.”

“Mm. Must’ve been rain, then,” he deadpans, one eyebrow lifting. “From inside the building.”

You groan and shove his shoulder lightly. He allows the push, shifting under you with a soft exhale that’s almost—almost—a laugh.

You move to sit up, but his hand lingers just briefly at your back.

Not to stop you. Just… stays.

And that hesitation—that small, unconscious tether—makes your chest tighten.

When you finally sit upright, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, he follows a beat later, dragging a hand through his hair, still disheveled from sleep. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first.

Neither do you.

But the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. Not like before. It’s thicker now, weighted with everything you didn’t say.

After a long moment, Chishiya stands and moves toward the window, peeking through the blinds.

“Still clear,” he says. “We should move soon if we want to get to the Beach by sundown.”

You nod and rise, stretching your sore limbs, still feeling the ghost of where your body had pressed against his.

You glance at him again before leaving the room.

He’s looking out the window, but his voice follows you as you step toward the door.

“…If we find another place like this,” he says, quiet but even, “and there’s only one bed again…”

You turn your head, waiting.

He still doesn’t look at you.

“…I wouldn’t mind sharing.”

Your breath catches.

But you don’t tease him. Don’t ruin it with a joke. Instead, you nod once — small, sincere — and step into the hallway.

He follows after a moment.

And neither of you say another word about it.

But you both know:

It won’t be the last time.

___________________________________________________________________________

The Beach is louder than you remember.

You walk through the gates with aching legs and dirt on your face, but it’s the noise that hits you hardest: laughter, splashing water, music from someone’s half-broken speaker. It feels wrong, somehow—this joy in the middle of hell. But you suppose survival breeds strange coping mechanisms.

Chishiya walks beside you, his hoodie pulled up to shade his face. He doesn’t speak as you pass through the clusters of half-naked strangers. He doesn’t have to. His posture tells you enough: tense, alert, calculating.

As always.

Still, you notice how his shoulder stays just close enough to yours to be deliberate.

A few heads turn as you both pass. Some recognize him. A few glance at you, eyes lingering—noticing the proximity, the silence between you that's less awkward and more… familiar.

Hatter’s not around, but Kuina spots you almost immediately and jogs over, her usual smirk widening as she takes you both in.

“Well well,” she says, sweeping her eyes over you with a grin. “I didn’t think I’d see both of you again. Figured one of you would have murdered the other by now.”

You glance at Chishiya. “Tempting.”

He hums. “You sleep too deeply to be worth the effort.”

Kuina laughs, but her gaze sharpens slightly as she looks between you. She picks up on it. Of course she does. The small shifts. The softer edges.

“So…” she drawls, eyes twinkling. “You two close now, or just sharing body heat to conserve resources?”

You open your mouth to deflect, but Chishiya cuts in first:

“Both.”

Your head whips toward him in shock. His face is unreadable—but his lips twitch ever so slightly, betraying that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Kuina raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but lets it go. For now.

___________________________________________________________________________

The Beach is quiet at night.

Too quiet.

You lie on the stiff cot in your assigned room, blankets pulled up to your chin. You stare at the ceiling and pretend the bed feels fine, the air feels warm, and the space beside you doesn’t feel… empty.

You last about fifteen minutes.

Then you're up.

Quiet steps across the hallway.

No shoes. No excuses. No hesitation.

The door to his room creaks slightly as you push it open. He doesn’t turn — doesn’t even flinch — just watches you with that unreadable expression as you pad across the room and crawl into his bed.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You slip under the blanket. He shifts slightly, just enough to make space for you without making it obvious that he was waiting.

His shoulder brushes yours again.

It's familiar now — that quiet warmth. That silence that doesn't ask for permission.

You rest your cheek against the curve of his upper arm and exhale softly. “Separate beds are overrated.”

He hums. “So is pretending this means nothing.”

You don’t answer.

Neither does he.

But you both fall asleep faster than you have in days.

__________________________________________________________________________

The next game is a 8 of Diamone — logic, psychology, trust.

And, of course, betrayal.

The room is a maze of mirrors and timers, each choice leading to a countdown, a riddle, or a trap. You and Chishiya are separated halfway through. You can still hear his voice sometimes through the walls — clipped commands, calm assessments, telling others where not to go.

You hold your own. Until you don't.

One wrong answer. One misstep.

You're cornered in a dead-end hallway with a pressure floor and no visible way out. The timer above your head flashes red — 00:09, 00:08 — and you're too far to run.

You freeze.

Then the door behind you bursts open.

Chishiya is there.

His hoodie is soaked with sweat, chest rising with sharp breaths. “Move!” he yells.

You do — not because your body listens, but because his voice cuts through the panic.

He grabs you roughly by the wrist and yanks you into the corridor just as the trap triggers. The door slams shut. There's a thunderous BOOM behind you, and the force knocks you both forward.

Your knees hit the ground hard. He lands beside you, his arm thrown around your back to brace your fall.

The silence after is deafening.

You're alive.

You turn your head, eyes wide. “How did you—?”

“I heard the timer.”

“You were three zones over—”

“I heard it,” he snaps, sharper than you’ve ever heard from him. His voice trembles at the edges.

You stare at him.

His jaw is clenched. His fingers dig into your wrist, too tight to be casual. His breath shakes. Just once.

And that’s when it hits you.

He was scared.

You’ve never seen it before — not like this. Not from him.

His walls don’t crack. They shatter, just for a second, and you see the truth behind them.

You weren’t just another player to him anymore. You were something else. Something dangerous.

Something that could be lost.

__________________________________________________________________________

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, but it’s already too late for silence.

Without a word, your bodies slam together.

Your lips crash hard and hungry against his, urgent and desperate—like you’re trying to make up for all the time lost, the dangers faced, and the unspoken truths hanging between you.

His hands move fast, rough and possessive, gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him with fierce intensity. The fabric of his jacket wrinkles under your fingers as you dig in, anchoring yourself to something solid in the chaos of your racing heart.

His breath is ragged, hot and trembling against your skin, and your own gasps mingle with his in a frantic rhythm.

You’re not gentle. You don’t want gentle. You want raw. Real.

His fingers thread into your hair, tugging you closer, tilting your head with an insistence that makes your pulse spike.

Your arms wrap tight around his neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape, as if holding on is the only thing that might keep you both from falling apart.

There’s no hesitation, no delicate testing — just pure need, spilling out all at once in the rough brush of lips and the sharp bite of teeth.

Your teeth graze his bottom lip, a spark igniting low in his throat as he groans—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your chest.

He opens for you, tongue slipping in, claiming and tasting, a silent confession in every movement.

Your body melts into his, the heat between you a sharp contrast to the cool night air drifting through the cracked window. The faint scent of saltwater and sweat and something uniquely him clings to your skin, making the world outside this room vanish completely.

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it, but his hands never loosen their grip, never let you forget that you’re here, real, and not alone.

You push closer, body pressed tight against his, and feel him respond — a low hum of something fierce and guarded.

His jaw is tense under your fingertips, but his hold never falters.

When you break apart, gasping for air, your foreheads press together, breaths mingling, hearts beating out a wild, shaky rhythm.

His dark eyes hold yours — fierce, unreadable, raw with something unspoken.

Neither of you speaks.

Neither needs to.

You just stay there — caught in the fragile, burning silence of a moment that says more than words ever could.

___________________________________________________________________________

The morning light slips through the cracked blinds, casting thin stripes of gold across the floor.

You’re still there, pressed close against Chishiya, the warmth of his body the only shield against the chill in the air.

Neither of you moves for a long time — just breaths, soft and uneven, the silence heavier than the night before.

His hand finds yours, fingers curling around yours almost instinctively, but his gaze stays fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

You squeeze his hand gently, waiting for him to say something — anything — but he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around you both, anchoring you in the moment without a single word.

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, rough at the edges.

“Don’t expect this to change anything.”

You meet his eyes, steady now, the ghost of a smile playing on your lips.

“I don’t.”

But you know it already has.

The unspoken promises, the guarded glances, the way his hand lingers a little longer when he thinks you’re not looking—

It’s all there, under the surface, quietly reshaping everything.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now.

___________________________________________________________________________

Even when he said nothing changed, everything had.

He let you into his heart in the smallest ways — the ones no one else could see.

You understood how you two kissed when nobody was looking — quick, secret touches of lips that spoke more than words ever could.

How he let you borrow his hoodie before the harsh games, the fabric hanging oversized on you but carrying his scent like a shield.

How, without a word, he took care of you in quiet ways — a bandage wrapped a little tighter, a glance that said stay close, a hand resting lightly on your back when you didn’t even realize you needed it.

He wasn’t one for grand declarations or easy emotions, but you saw it all in the way he stood a little closer, in the moments he didn’t pull away.

The diamond game had changed something — not in what he said, but in what he showed.

And you knew, no matter how much he tried to hide it, that you’d become something he couldn’t let go.

___________________________________________________________________________

The night is cold and unforgiving, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones no matter how tightly you cling to a threadbare blanket.

The echoes of the King of Spades’ attack still ring in your ears — shouts, frantic footsteps, the sharp crack of gunfire, and the heavy weight of dread pressing down on your chest.

Somehow, you and Chishiya have been separated from the others, finding refuge in a crumbling building that smells of dust and rust.

You don’t speak. Words feel unnecessary.

Instead, you huddle together beneath the single, thin blanket, the chill forcing your bodies closer.

His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, pulling you flush against his chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath your ear is a fragile anchor in the chaos.

You close your eyes, letting yourself be held, the warmth slowly replacing the cold that had settled deep inside.

After a long silence, your voice breaks the quiet — a whisper trembling with something more than fear.

“I… love you.”

Chishiya doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers tighten gently around your shoulder, a silent promise.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost reluctant, but laced with something unmistakably real:

“After this… after Borderlands… meet me.”

His words are simple, but they carry a weight heavier than any confession.

It’s a quiet hope, a promise of something beyond the endless games and death.

You look up, searching his eyes — dark, guarded, but shining with a fragile vulnerability.

He doesn’t say ‘me too,’ but you know what he means.

His quiet invitation says it all: he cares.

He wants more.

And for the first time in this cruel game, you feel a flicker of something that feels like hope.

Wrapped in his arms, with the night pressing close around you, you let yourself believe that maybe — just maybe — there’s a future waiting beyond the Borderlands.

___________________________________________________________________________

The first light of dawn creeps through the cracked windows, softening the shadows in the room.

You’re still nestled against Chishiya, the thin blanket now a fragile shield between you and the cold world outside.

Neither of you speaks—there’s no need.

His quiet invitation to meet after Borderlands lingers in the air, a fragile thread of hope woven between the two of you.

You squeeze his hand gently, a silent vow passing between you — that no matter what the games throw at you, you’ll face it together.

Because in this brutal, unforgiving world, you’ve found something rare.

Something real.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough.

411 notes · View notes