#because I love reading and also the book seems to be really good

[readinmidnight]

hello angst, my old friend

honestly, this fic hurt so bad but also so good….like if I had a better way to describe it, I would. I literally cried so hard at the crash scene, especially this part:

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

It’s clear how much Soobin loves Y/N through all of the flashbacks we get throughout the story but this moment? Even on the verge of death, all he wants to do is comfort Y/N and get a good look at her one last time. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me” — That line really hit me hard. Maybe it didn’t hurt Soobin but it hurt me to look at all this unfold.

Also, I need to talk about the ending?? Because?!

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

Them meeting and connecting like they did in their past life. How although Y/N had to remove Soobin completely from her memory, how it felt forgetting him seemed like erasing him from her life, he was never ever really gone. Their love for each other had to be archived, tucked away because it wasn’t time — it wasn’t their fate, wasn’t the right life for them to end up together. Archived, not removed. Not deleted. But now, now we can dust the book we’ve been forced to shelve and open it once more. Their story begins again.

also this is me chasing after @dawngyu and eating up every fic (hello if u read this, can u just add me to your permanent taglist, pls and ty)

THE ARCHIVE

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

��� Yes ☐ No

warnings: reader discretion is advised. neuro-science fiction au, set in the year 2125, romance, angst, psychological drama, character!death, depression!, anxiety!, stages of grief, flashbacks, self-destructive!reader, self!harm, accidents, everything written is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything.

wc: 13k — playlist.

notes: inspired by parts of ariana’s we can’t be friends music video aka eternal sunshine of the spotless mind... concept is there, but the plot itself will take a different path. oh, and buckle up.

a big thank you to @killa-1009 for beta reading this. ilysm.

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer?

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. He always wakes you up like this—unhurried, endlessly affectionate. And no matter how much you loathe early mornings, he somehow makes them worth waking up for.

Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck.

"It's too early for your silly jokes, Soobin," you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. His warmth is familiar, comforting. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

"Okay," you whisper back, not quite awake but not quite asleep either.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

He exhales a quiet laugh, shifting beside you, and when you finally lift your head, his face is already turned toward you, bathed in the gentle glow of morning. His dimples appear with a smile—one he always saves for you, like tiny craters in the universe of his face. You reach out, pressing a finger into the tiny hollow of his cheek, and his grin only widens.

How does he never grow tired of looking at you like this?

"Come on, let’s eat, yeah?" he coaxes, pinching your cheeks.

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you.

"I love you," you whisper.

His fingers brush your cheek, his smile turning impossibly fonder.

"I love you more."

He somehow managed to pull you out of bed, though not without a few sleepy complaints. You lazily threw your hair into a ponytail—an attempt at looking somewhat awake. The moment he caught sight of it, though, laughter spilled from his lips, his dimples deepening with amusement.

“What is this?” he teased, reaching out to play with the loose strands. "A masterpiece of chaos?"

"It's ugly, isn't it?" You pouted, lips jutting out just enough to make his teasing falter. Panic flashed across his face before he quickly cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he pressed frantic kisses all over.

“No. You’re beautiful,” he murmured between each kiss. “Always beautiful.”

You let him win that small battle, if only because the warmth of his touch made surrendering easy.

It's always easy with him.

"Put some butter and milk in it," Soobin says, watching you whisk eggs in a bowl. He’s perched at the kitchen table, chin resting in his hand, his gaze fixed on you as you move around the kitchen. The pancakes on the stove have just started to sizzle.

"You like them better that way," he adds.

"Oh, right!" You laugh, hurrying to grab the missing ingredients from the fridge. You mix them in just the way he likes, and when the pancakes are golden and ready, you set the plates down in front of both of you, fetching the utensils.

"Thank you, love," he hums, cutting into his pancake as you take your first bite. A satisfied groan leaves your lips as the warmth of the food soothes your hunger.

"Nothing beats pancakes for breakfast," you sigh. "You and your obsession with them."

He chuckles, watching you with amusement, his elbow propped on the table and his chin resting in his palm. "Good job, chef."

You roll your eyes, dramatically bowing. "You're welcome."

He grins before his expression softens. "You have plans later, right? Be careful out there, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

Before he can finish, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the moment.

"I’ll get it," you say, pushing your chair back.

He nods at you with a smile, watching as you disappear toward the door.

You step toward the door of your apartment, fingers curling around the handle before pulling it open.

"Wonyoung, good morning!" you greet with a soft smile, but the way her eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—doesn’t go unnoticed. She hides it quickly, clearing her throat as she shifts the bags in her hands.

"Morning," she says, stepping inside, her gaze immediately scanning you.

Her gaze sweeps over you, taking in the messy hair, the oversized shirt that’s swallowed you whole—the same one she saw you wearing last time. The deep shadows under your eyes, the pale exhaustion etched into your skin.

"Are you okay?" she asks, careful, cautious.

"Yeah, I am," you answer without hesitation, as if saying it fast enough will make it true. You turn to grab the house slippers meant for her, but your fingers hesitate when you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door.

He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold.

Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us."

Silence.

Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words.

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

The bags slip from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as she strides toward you. Before you can react, her arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight. The force of it makes you stumble slightly, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is desperate, as if she’s holding onto something fragile, something already breaking.

You feel her take a deep, shaking breath before she whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Y/N… Soobin’s been gone for two years now."

Panic grips you as your breath catches in your throat. Your head snaps toward the table—the very spot where you left him—only to find it empty—a plate of untouched food, sitting there like a ghost.

Everyone in the world fears something—even those who swear they don’t. And at the core of it all, there’s death. It is inevitable and final. It’s like spending years studying, only to fail every job interview. Like working yourself to the bone for months, only to walk away empty-handed. Like pouring your heart into a meal, only to take a bite and realise it tastes terrible.

But for you, fear isn’t just about endings. It isn’t just about pain. What haunts you more than death itself is the thought of being forgotten—or worse, forgetting.

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe.

For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone.

"Y/N."

You look up from the table, your fingers stiff against the wood. Your mom's eyes are swollen, glassy with unshed tears, rimmed red from exhaustion. She looks at you with so much pity it makes your stomach churn. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I am, Mom."

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "I said we should go back to Dr. Park for another check-up. And maybe… maybe we should finally consider what she’s been recommending—"

"No." Your voice is firm, cutting through the air. "It’s just a waste of money—"

"That’s why I’m working two jobs, dear." Her voice shakes as she reaches for your hands. You flinch, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is warm, trembling.

"You’ve been hallucinating again." She swallows hard. "I thought time would make it better. I really did." Her breath hitches. "But it’s been two years now. Your dad... he’s sick. He can't even get up on the bed, and—"

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am."

"Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son."

You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her.

"It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you."

The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts.

"But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?"

The chair screeches against the floor as you stand abruptly. Your mother flinches at the sound. You turn to leave, but her voice stops you just before you step away.

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?"

You bite your lip as you step out of your parents' house. Wonyoung had dropped you off earlier, she didn’t trust leaving you alone. No one does anymore. Everywhere you go, people watch you with that same look—pity, like you’re a glass figure they’re waiting to see shatter.

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

Your chest tightens as tears prick the corners of your eyes, blurring the edges of the world. A hiccup escapes, sharp and unexpected, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as if that might keep everything else from spilling out. You fumble with the car door, your fingers trembling against the handle. It’s only been three months since you managed to get behind the wheel again, but even now, the familiarity of it feels like a fragile lifeline—something that says I’m still here. I’m still trying.

Two years. Two years since his funeral. Two years since you last stepped into your office. Two years of nights that felt endless, of mornings that felt pointless. Two years of watching the people around you crumble under the weight of your grief, their hearts breaking because yours refuses to heal.

And for two years, the doctors have been whispering the same thing, their voices clinical, detached.

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

Your knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as you pull out of the driveway, heart pounding harder than the engine. Every turn, every streetlight, every crack in the pavement feels like it carries his shadow. But there’s only one place where it feels bearable—one place where you can almost convince yourself he’s still there.

Choi Yeonjun’s eyes swept across your face, taking in the tear-streaked cheeks, the vacant gaze, the way you trembled just standing there. He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and pushed the door open a little wider. You walked past him, your steps sure, like you were following an invisible thread pulling you toward the one place you needed.

"Do you need anything?" You shook your head. Because what you need isn't here anymore.

And then you slipped inside. His room.

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real.

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob.

This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend.

Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone.

But pretending could only take you so far.

You never found the strength to open the door again. You curled into yourself, gripping the blanket like it could hold you together. And when sleep finally came, it was with his name spilling from your lips.

A name that no longer had a future.

The knocking pulled you from the depths of sleep, insistent. You groaned, the sound barely more than a rasp, your throat raw from last night’s tears. Your eyelids felt swollen, heavy, reluctant to open. "Yeah?"

"It's afternoon," Yeonjun said through the door. His tone was careful, but you could hear the quiet concern woven between the words. "You’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours."

Shit.

You knew that wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about you had been normal for a long time. Some nights, sleep was a stranger you couldn’t reach no matter how exhausted you were. Other days, it swallowed you whole, dragging you under until the hours blurred into nothingness. Staying in bed felt easier.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, "I'll come out in a minute."

Yeonjun hesitated. You knew he wanted to say something—to tell you that you didn’t have to apologize, that he understood, that he wasn’t judging you. But in the end, he just sighed. "Okay."

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

With a heavy heart, you forced yourself to move, peeling the blanket away like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every part of you ached—not just physically, but in a way that settled deep into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of you that you barely recognized. Hollow eyes, a face drawn thin by grief, lips pressed into something that was neither a frown nor a smile—just existence. Surviving.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face, letting the chill bite into your skin. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as you sucked in a breath.

And then you saw them. On the shelf behind you; Soobin’s shelf.

Your hairbands.

The sight of them made you waver. Because it was proof, wasn’t it? Proof that once, you had a place here. That once, he was here to tease you about leaving them everywhere, to slip them onto his own wrist absentmindedly, to hand them back to you with a laugh.

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

Soobin's voice was soft and teasing as he pressed lazy kisses along your cheek, your temple, anywhere he could reach. You tried to ignore him, focused on brushing your teeth, but he never made it easy. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over your stomach. He always did that—always found some excuse to touch you.

"So," he murmured, grinning against your jaw as he pressed your cheeks to his. "I bought a whole stack of them."

You paused, raising an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. "A whole stack?"

"Mhm." His fingers tightened slightly, possessive. "So now you have one less excuse to leave—and one more reason to come back."

Your hairbands. Like you, were waiting for someone who was never coming back. You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it. Then you heard knocking again. "Yeonjun. I said I’ll be out in a minute."

A pause. Then, softer this time—

"It’s been an hour since you last said that. Are you okay?"

You exhale, the breath shaky, uneven. Time has slipped through your fingers again, and you hadn’t even noticed. But that’s nothing new.

It happens more often than not.

You sit with a book in your lap, determined to do what they say might help—immerse yourself in another world, let fiction be a temporary escape. But you blink, and somehow hours have passed, and you’re still stuck on the same page, the words forgotten.

You eat lunch, fork moving mechanically between your plate and your mouth, only to glance outside and realize the sky has darkened, the day gone without your permission.

You tell yourself you’ll go out, that today, you’ll meet Wonyoung like you promised. You put on your shoes, even grab your coat. But then the door never opens. And before you know it, she’s the one standing there, knocking, asking why you didn’t come—why you never showed up.

You know it’s getting worse. And the worst part? You don’t know how to stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

Because it means moving on.

Moving on has always felt like erasing him. Like accepting a world where Soobin is nothing more than a memory—left behind.

And the thought that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday—everyone, even you, will stop mourning him?

That terrifies you more than anything.

You eat slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last. Yeonjun had made you bacon and eggs—simple, warm, something that should’ve felt like comfort. But the food is cold now, left waiting for you just like he was. He eats in silence, but you feel it—his eyes keep flickering toward your wrist, checking. He doesn’t say anything.

It yanks you straight back to those first few months after Soobin’s death.

"Y/N?" Yeonjun’s face is sharp with concern as he pushes open the door. He had knocked—once, twice—but you hadn’t answered. That alone was enough to send his heart into a spiral.

"I brought you some food—" His words cut off the moment his eyes land on you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward, your body eerily still. But then he sees it—your wrist, the red staining your fingers, spilling onto the white sheets like ink bleeding through paper.

His breath catches. And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“What are you doing?!” He shouts—not out of anger, not at you—but because he’s terrified.

It scares him. God, it scares him. What would his best friend say?

"I—I don’t know," you sob, voice wrecked. Your body trembles under his hold, and the words spill out between uneven breaths. You just saw it and you couldn't stop yourself. "I don’t know what to do anymore."

Yeonjun clenches his jaw, his own tears burning behind his eyes. "You must not do this," He’s trying to be strong for you, but his hands betray him, quivering as they hold onto you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away completely. Because you might. Because you want to. "Please, Y/N. Please."

You were so beautiful in Soobin’s love, and now it clings to you like a disease.

"I know it’s hard," he chokes out, pulling you into his arms. "Fuck, I know. But think of his face." He pleads. "Whenever you see your wrist, whenever you look at your skin—think of him. Do you ever want to hurt him?"

"Jjunie." Yeonjun's eyes lift to meet yours. "You don’t have to keep looking at my wrists anymore,"

A breath leaves him, slow and measured, as if he’s been waiting to hear that. He tries for a smile, small. "It worked like a miracle, didn’t it?"

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "He always is." The smile that flickers across your lips feels foreign, like something borrowed from a version of yourself that no longer exists.

"My dad…" you hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. "I—I need to go back to work."

Yeonjun watches you carefully, as if afraid you’ll change your mind. He nods. "It’s only about time, Y/N."

Silence stretches between you before he speaks again, voice careful, "Are you considering the treatment?"

You don’t answer.

Yeonjun didn’t kick you out. He never would.

In the afternoon, the two of you sat on the couch—long enough to fit three, but only occupied by two. And yet, without thinking, without speaking, you both left a space between you. A space for him.

Infinity War played on the screen, a movie you’d both seen more times than you could count. It was muscle memory at this point—the dialogue, the fight scenes, the inevitable heartbreak.

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby."

Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily."

You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser."

Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick.

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

"It's time for you to move on," Yeonjun says, his voice steady but careful. "You tried going back to work, but you can’t. You should be out there, living your life."

A fresh wave of grief crashes over you. "It feels like I'm betraying him, Jun." Your voice breaks, and before you know it, you're fully sobbing, the weight of it pressing down on your chest like it might crush you.

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes.

"But if you're worried about him—about who will take care of his… grave," Yeonjun hesitates as if the word itself could break you. "I promise, I’ll do that. His family will, too. He won’t be forgotten, Y/N. Ever." You hate it. Hate that he’s making sense. Hate that every word he says feels like it's prying you away from Soobin, piece by piece.

"Your father, your mother, your siblings... they need you back," he presses on, his voice gentler now. "And you… you need to go on with your life. That treatment, it’s the only thing that can help you now."

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go."

Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone."

And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living."

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand.

Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you.

Even if he has a family of his own one day. Even if his hair turns grey, and his legs grow too weak to stand. Even then, he will still go. And he’ll pass that promise down to his children, to his grandchildren, so that Soobin’s name is never forgotten.

But if he lets you waste away like this, there will be no future to carry on. And the guilt would eat him alive because Yeonjun knows—more than anyone—what Soobin would have wanted.

It’s cruel, cruel that he had to pull the names of your family into this, had to remind you of the people who are still waiting for you to come home. But it’s the truth. And if you can’t find the strength to fight for yourself, then at least let them be the reason you try.

You step out of the car, your breath hitching as your eyes sweep over the familiar neighbourhood—the one you used to visit so often, the one that once felt like a second home. Now, after two years, it feels like stepping into a past life.

"Y/N!"

You barely have time to react before Soobin’s older sister is pulling you into her arms, her laugh warm, her embrace familiar. It nearly unravels you.

"I missed you," she murmurs.

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I missed you too, unnie."

And then your eyes land on the small boy in her arms—the baby who was just two the last time you saw him. Now four, grown but still soft with childhood. His wobbly cheeks, the way his dimples deepen when he shifts shyly under your gaze—

It’s too much.

"Hi," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he replies, eyes wide, cheeks flushing as he clings closer to his mother.

You look away. Because he looks too much like him. Because for a second, your mind plays cruel tricks, and you almost convince yourself that if you just turn your head, Soobin will be right there, smiling at you like he used to.

But he's not. He never will be.

"Come inside," his sister says gently, as if she understands the storm inside you. "Mom knows you’re here." And you nod, forcing your feet to move, even as your heart screams for you to turn back.

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too.

In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you.

Except for his sister.

She leads you inside, her expression unreadable as she gestures toward the dining table.

And there she is. The woman you once called mother.

"Mother," you bow, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

She doesn’t even turn to look at you. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" Her voice is clipped, distant. "And why are you here?"

You swallow, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. "Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you."

Finally, she rises from her chair, her gaze locking onto yours. And it is nothing like before. It is cold. Empty. Unforgiving.

“Get out, Y/N,” she says, her voice devoid of warmth. “Don’t come here anymore.” Your chest tightens. You don’t even realize your hands have started shaking.

"Mom, don't be like this," Soobin's sister cuts in, her voice soft but firm.

And for just a moment—a brief, moment—you see it. The way her lips press together. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes, for just a second, glisten as though they, too, are on the verge of breaking. She blinks the tears away before they can fall, turning away from you, like it’s the only way she can keep standing. She walks away without any second glance.

“I’m sorry,” Soobin’s sister whispers.

You force yourself to smile, though it trembles on your lips. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just… I just really need to talk to her.”

You spent the hour with Soobin’s sister, unraveling everything you had kept inside. Every dark thought, every ounce of guilt, every desperate attempt to hold onto him. And she listened. She held your hand, pulled you into her arms.

But time moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

You check the clock, exhaling. “I’m going to try talking to her again. I have plans after this, too.” She doesn’t stop you. But the way she squeezes your hand before letting go, it’s as if she knows how much this is going to hurt.

As you walk through the house, memories seep into every corner. His presence is everywhere. The framed pictures lined the walls, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It’s overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, forcing you to press a hand to your chest just to steady yourself.

You don’t belong here anymore. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

The kitchen light is on. The soft rhythm of a knife against the cutting board fills the silence.

She’s there.

Soobin’s mother stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with practised precision. You swallow, stepping forward, trying to find your voice. She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

"Mom, I missed you." Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and for a moment, her hands still. The steady chopping ceases, but she doesn’t turn. She keeps her back to you, her shoulders rising and falling with each controlled breath. "I came here because… I wanted to let you know that I think it’s time. I’m going to get the treatment."

Your own arms wrap around yourself, as if bracing against the cold creeping into your bones. "It will alter my memory. There’s big a chance I’ll forget you, too."

The words shatter something inside you. "But I wanted to say it—just one last time. Thank you. For everything. For giving birth to Soobin. For raising him into someone who could love me so deeply, who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I belonged here. Thank you for accepting me, for loving me. And I love you. I always will. I just… I just hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do."

At your last words, she turns. And for the first time in a year, you see it—the grief she’s buried, the pain she’s carried alone. Her eyes, red and wet, spill over as she closes the space between you, pulling you into her arms.

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be.

Her hands run soothingly over your back, her voice breaking. "My daughter… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through this."

She clutches you tighter. "I thought… if I pushed you away, if I kept my distance, maybe you’d find a way to stand on your own. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe it would force you to move forward. Maybe it would break whatever was keeping you trapped in the past. It felt like it was my fault you couldn’t move on. Our fault. That the love my son left behind has been anchoring you instead of lifting you. And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going."

You shake your head against her shoulder, your grip on her tightening. "I understand. I do. I just—" Your breath hitches. "I’m scared. I’m scared to forget him."

She exhales shakily, her lips pressing against your hair. "Forgetting… it’s easier than suffering for the rest of your life." Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing the tears away even as her own continue to fall.

"You won’t lose him. Not really. Whatever Soobin left in this world, it’s you." Your breath shudders as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I want you to live, sweetheart. To build a life that he would be proud of. A new one, filled with love, with hope. And maybe, one day, we’ll meet again—whether you remember me or not. And even then, I will love you. Always. Just like he did."

It was a hard goodbye—one that clung to your skin like the scent of home you’d never return to. Their arms around you had been warm, their voices soft, their smiles trembling. And as you drove away, watching Soobin’s family grow smaller in the rearview mirror, you forced yourself to smile, to wave back.

But the moment they faded from sight, the mask crumbled.

Your hands tightened around the wheel as your breath hitched, but it was useless. You pulled over, burying your face in your palms, sobs wracking your body.

You knew you would never see them again.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you wiped your tears with shaking fingers, swallowing against the grief clawing at your throat. You couldn’t fall apart now. Not yet.

Because there was still one more goodbye to say.One more person waiting for you. One who had left but never truly rested. Because for two years, you hadn’t found the courage to let go.

To free him.

You don’t know how you managed to bring yourself here. Your legs felt heavy the whole way, like they knew what your heart refused to accept—that every step forward was another step closer to goodbye.

The grave is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Someone else had been here. Someone else still comes. And for a moment, a tiny splinter of relief wedges itself into your grief. He’s being cared for, even without you.

You stand there, your throat tightening, your lips parting—then closing again. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside you, tangled between the memories and the pain. What do you even say? How do you speak when just looking at his name carved into stone is enough to make your chest cave in? How do you even start? What do you say to someone who can’t answer back?

And then your eyes fall to the base of the headstone. White roses. Fresh. Untouched.

Your breath stumbles.

White roses—his favourite. The same ones he gave you that night, trembling fingers offering a bouquet, his eyes filled with so much hope. Now, they sit beside his grave, a brutal echo of the past.

And you wonder—when did forever become something so short?

You swallow hard. "Hey," you whisper. Just one word, and already, you feel yourself crying. "Are you somewhere nice?"

"I really… I really hope you are," your voice trembles, your vision blurring. "God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me."

The confession spills out before you can stop it, "You left me here alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Because you were my world, and our plans—" Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "No. No, Soobin. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

Your knees buckle, and you let them. You fold into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as the sobs finally come, wrenching their way out of you. "I’m weak," you choke out. "I’ve been nothing but weak without you."

Time slips away. You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling, letting everything have its way with you. At some point, people come and go, visiting the graves nearby. They stay for a while, whispering prayers, placing flowers, saying their goodbyes. And then, one by one, they leave.

But you don’t.

Because you know—this is the last time you’ll ever be here.

What does it truly mean to forget?

Is it letting go of the bad memories, even if it means losing the lessons they left behind? Erasing the trauma, even if it forged the strength that kept you standing? Wiping away the heartbreak, even if it unmade the love that once felt endless? If forgetting means unravelling the version of yourself shaped by every moment... then is it really freedom? Or is it just another kind of loss?

And if you don’t forget—who carries the weight of those memories with you? The nights spent in quiet conversation, the laughter that once echoed in familiar streets, the warmth of his hand in yours. Does one painful ending justify the erasure of everything that came before?

It doesn’t. Because memories do not vanish. They are not erased like ink wiped clean from a page.

The streets still remember the way you walked together. The wind still hums with the echoes of his voice. The people who once saw your love still hold its remnants, even in passing glances. And perhaps, this is the only way to keep it beautiful. Your memories, deserve to be left as they are. You should not taint it any further.

"I decided to do it," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the wind. "I’m finally doing it, love. It took me so long, but… I will."

"I don't want you to think that I'll forget you. Because you're my life." A shaky breath escapes your lips, your fingers tracing the edge of cold stone as if it were his hand, warm and real, just one last time. "But you don’t have to worry about me anymore," you murmur. "You can rest now."

Your eyes lift, meeting the name carved into eternity—Choi Soobin. A tear slips down your cheek, catching on your lips as you whisper, broken and raw—

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

Sorry that it took this long. Sorry that you held on when you should have let go. Sorry that no matter how much time passes, some wounds never really heal.

Your wounds will never heal.

The overhead lights burn against your swollen eyes. You blink, but it only makes the sting worse. You thought they would’ve dried by now. That at some point, your body would just refuse to keep grieving.

Do people have a limit? Is there a point where you simply run out? Or does the body just keep producing sorrow, as long as there’s pain to feed it? Has anyone in history ever cried so much that their body just… gave up?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, if you stay like this long enough, you’ll be the first. Because this is all you know how to do now.

Cry. Cry for him. Cry for yourself.

Cry because it’s the only thing that makes the weight in your chest feel even a little less suffocating. Because if you stop, even for a moment, you’re terrified you’ll realise just how empty the world is without him in it.

You're not strong enough.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?" Your mother’s hand is warm as she pats your back, enough for you to let out a breath you were holding.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You can wait for me in the waiting area." Your eyes flicker toward the entrance as another person steps in. She carries a box, full of things and when your gaze meets hers, you swear you see your own reflection staring back.

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

"I’m a big girl, you know," you murmur, forcing the words out as if saying them makes them true.

Your mother gives you a small smile before kissing your cheek. "I’ll be here," she says softly. "After all of this, I’ll be here to pick you up."

Something tightens in your chest. Such simple words, so ordinary, yet they make your throat close up. One less worry, a hundred more to carry.

But she’ll be here after.

No matter what happens behind those doors, no matter how much of you is left when it’s over—your mother will be here, waiting on the other side.

And that should be enough, right?

You take a step. Then another. Three steps before something in you falters, pulling you back. You turn around, and your mother, standing right where you left her. Her eyes meet yours, and one of them glistens now, like she’s holding something back. She’s trying to be strong for you.

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him.

You promised.

And if you don’t do it today… you might never do it at all.

“Honey, we can always come back.” Your mother’s voice is soft. She’s in front of you now, hands warm on your shoulders. “We can reschedule, and—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes. If you look at her, if you see the way she’s looking at you, you might shatter right here, in front of her. So you turn away. The door is just a few steps ahead. White. Sterile. All you have to do is cross it. You can do it. You have to do it. Because—

You promised him.

"Miss Y/N?" The sound of your name barely registers. You don’t even remember sitting down. One moment, you were outside and now—now you’re here. In this cold, sterile waiting room, surrounded by people clutching their own silent burdens. Boxes. Everyone has one. Resting on their laps. Some are dressed in stiff work clothes, like they came straight from their jobs. Others wear the softness of home... sweatshirts, slippers, a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ever fix.

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter who you were before this moment.

You’re all here for the same reason.

"You need to sign the waiver. Please read each clause carefully dear. The nurse will call you once it's your turn." The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. The relentless ticking of the clock thumps in your ears, a fierce reminder of the gravity of what you’re about to do. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will.

You sigh, biting your lip so hard you taste a bit of blood. Your stare drifts ahead, settling on a woman a few seats away. Her eyes are red, swollen. She isn’t crying anymore, but she looks like she hasn’t stopped in days.

You follow her stare, down to the box in her lap. It’s small. Too small. A bib, baby rattles, tiny clothes meant for someone who never even saw their first birthday. Your throat tightens. You force yourself to look away. Swallowing hard, you check your own papers. Your box sits beside you, shut tight. Your mother had suggested covering it with a cloth—to make it easier, to keep you from looking at it. And it worked. Because if you had to see what was inside…

You don’t know if you’d still be here.

Your hands tremble as you stare down at the waiver, the words blurring in and out of focus. You read the clauses again. And again. And again. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

You shakily checked what you knew... he'd want for you. You need to think this is what he would've wanted.

“Y/N?” The nurse’s voice is gentle, but it still makes you flinch. She stands in the doorway, dressed in white, looking at you. You wipe away a tear, but another one slips free before you can stop it. “You can come inside now.”

“Okay,” Your legs barely carry you as you stand. Your trembling hands clutch the box, holding it so tightly.

Inside, the room is cold, sterile. Three people wait—one dressed in blue, one who looks like the doctor, and the nurse who fetched you. The chair in the middle looms, surrounded by wires, screens filled with numbers and statistics you don’t understand. But the moment your eyes land on the headrest, on the equipment waiting there—your stomach drops. Your body moves before you can think. A step back, then another, until a hand gently stops you.

The nurse reaches for your box. Your fingers twitch as they slip away from it, “Let’s get you on the chair,” she says softly. You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You started crying again. Not with sound, not with sobs... just endless, silent tears slipping down your face, one after the other.

No one tells you to stop crying. No one even reacts. You wonder how many people they’ve seen like this.

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

Her hands are warm against your shaking ones, steadying you just enough to guide you down into the chair. You let her. You don’t have the strength to resist. The doctor moves quickly, securing straps around you—across your wrists, your chest. Another band wraps around your finger, likely for your heartbeat. It’s already racing. You don’t need a machine to tell you that. The person in blue starts placing wires against your temple, the cold press of metal settling on the right side of your head. It sends a shiver through you, but you don’t move.

You barely breathe.

“Okay, so now—” The doctor’s voice is calm, clinical. “As you’ve read, you’ll need to recall the moments tied to the things you brought. We asked you to choose items that hold the strongest memories because only then can they be altered. These machines will help bring them to the surface. You don’t have to force it—we’ll go slow, one step at a time.” A pause. “Are you ready?”

Your throat closes. Your hands curl into weak fists against the armrests. All you can do is nod.

The man in blue moves quietly. You barely notice him at first, lost in the weight pressing down on your chest—until he reaches for your box. The cloth is lifted. Your breath catches.

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs.

You swallow back another sob, hiccupping through shallow, gasping breaths. It's ridiculous, isn’t it? That at your weakest, you're placing your trust in strangers. That you can't even find the strength to speak. But this isn’t for you.

For him. For your family.

For him.

Your nails dig into the synthetic material on the armrest. You close your eyes, surrendering to their instructions, to the machines humming around you. A sharp beep echoes in the room, signalling the process to begin. A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face.

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

"Let's take a 30-minute break, and then we'll go over the discussion again, okay?" Your ten-year-old eyes lock onto your homeroom teacher, a sigh slipping past your lips. Math has never been kind to you. Numbers blur together, equations twist into impossible knots in your head. If you had it your way, subjects like this wouldn’t even exist. You’d much rather read—preferably a hundred books. Or better yet, a hundred manga.

You reach for your bag, already deciding that a "break" means exactly that. No memorizing. No thinking about numbers. Your brain deserves rest. With a small pout, you pull out your current manga, flipping through the worn pages with practiced ease.

Your friends prefer watching anime, gathering around their phones or talking about the latest episodes. But your mom—she's strict about screen time. Too much of it, she says, will rot your brain. So, you stick to reading. At first, it was just a substitute, a way to keep up with your friends. But over time, it grew on you.

You're barely on the second page when a shadow falls over your desk.

"Uh, Y/N? Do you have, uh… an extra pen?"

You glance up, mildly irritated at the interruption, only to be met with the tallest boy in your class—Choi Soobin. A transfer student. You’ve only been classmates for a few months, and until now, you’ve barely spoken.

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

His eyes dart to your open pencil case, where at least five pens sit in plain sight. "But… you have so many," he points out, looking almost betrayed. "Please? I swear I’ll give it back!"

You sigh, flipping another page of your manga, already regretting this conversation. "Fine."

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

"Not that one—" Your head snaps up. "That’s off-limits, it’s my favourit—"

"Wait, is that Inuyasha?!" His voice practically jumps an octave, eyes wide with excitement as he plops down in the seat beside you without a second thought. "I love this series! I read them all the time!"

Your annoyance falters, replaced by something close to surprise. You glance at him, then at your manga, then back at him. "It’s my favourite," you say, flipping the page. "I have all the volumes."

His eyes widen. "Whoa. Lend me some?"

You raise a brow. "And what do I get in return?"

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. "I’ll think about it."

He nods eagerly, leaning in a little. "Okay, but—serious question. Kikyo or Kagome?"

"Kagome," you answer without hesitation. "I pity her." At that, he studies your face.

"But Kikyo…" he murmurs, gaze dropping for a second. "I pity her more." His voice is softer now, "Because she doesn’t get to be with Inuyasha anymore. And I think… that’s sad."

For ten whole minutes, the two of you went back and forth—voices overlapping, hands flying in exasperation—until your classmates abandoned all pretence of studying just to watch. Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy.

And then, finally, Soobin sighed, slumping in defeat. "But at the end of the day," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "Kikyo is Kagome, right?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "That’s not how it works." You roll your eyes, turning back to your manga. "Loser,"

And then—he laughs. Not just a chuckle. A real laugh, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up until they almost disappear, deep crinkles forming at the corners. His dimples dig so deep it’s like someone pressed a pencil into a soft dough, and his cheeks, full and round, look annoyingly pinchable. You catch yourself staring, warmth crawls up your neck, spreading to your ears.

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen.

THE POLAROID CAMERA

Your feet dangle lazily in the air as you scribble in your notebook, your laptop propped open in front of you. You scroll through pages, searching for answers, when a notification pops up.

Meet me at the playground?

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But I’m doing homework…

I’ll let you copy mine.

Your lips twitch. Okay. Be there in 10 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in your chest as you throw on a hoodie and a pair of shorts, not even bothering to check if they match. You bound down the stairs, brushing past your mom just as she calls after you. "Be careful—!"

"I’m meeting Binnie, Mom!" you shout over your shoulder. Her resolve crumbles instantly. She sighs, but there’s a small smile in her voice as she mutters, “Be home before dark!”

The walk to the playground is short. When you arrive, you spot Soobin awkwardly lingering by the swings, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"Soobin!" His head snaps up, and the moment he sees you, a grin spreads across his face.

It’s been three years since you first met, three years of him becoming your best friend. Everyone at school knows it. High school doesn’t feel as scary because he’s always there—hovering, teasing, sticking by your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People assume you’re together, which is ridiculous. He’s your best friend. Sure, he goes everywhere with you, sure, you’ve fallen asleep on the same couch during sleepovers, sure, his family adores you, and your mom—well, sometimes it feels like she likes him more than she likes you. But again, he's your best friend.

You slow your pace, tilting your head playfully. "What’s up? Finally giving in and letting me copy your homework?" You wiggle your eyebrows, smirking as you catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks—something that happens more and more these days.

But instead of rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic remark, he just exhales. "Happy birthday," he says. "Happy 13th birthday."

Before you can react, he holds out a neatly wrapped box. Confused, you take it, fingers fumbling with the ribbon before you lift the lid. Inside, is a brand-new Polaroid camera. The exact one you’ve been rambling about for weeks. You gape at him. "No way."

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever."

Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest. You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides. "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you."

If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red.

THE TEDDY BEAR

“Stop staring.” You nudge his foot under the table, twirling the lollipop in your mouth—the strawberry ones. You used to hate the flavour, the fruit too, but it was impossible to keep up when it’s his favourite. “Am I ugly or something?”

Soobin hasn’t stopped looking at you since you showed up at his house. Not the kind of stare that lingers, but the kind that keeps sneaking glances every five minutes, like he can’t help it.

You cut your hair. The long strands that used to reach your back now barely brush your shoulders. Because I’m turning 18 tomorrow, you told him earlier. And of course, he laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, chuckling. You’re sprawled out on his bed now, while he’s still at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

You freeze. Hands dropping from your face, you stare at him. “Why?” you ask, voice laced with suspicion. “Seriously? I’ve spent the midnight of my birthday with you for almost… five years now?”

“Four years.” — “What?”

“It’s four, not five.” He pushes up his reading glasses—the ones that somehow make him look even more handsome. Not that you’d ever admit it. He leans back in his chair, casual as ever. “Stay over, okay? Let’s play League.”

You scoff. “So you can bully me the whole time? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

You grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it effortlessly, smirking. “That’s worse!”

You stayed. One pout from him, and you caved. You acted annoyed, but in truth, you just didn’t want him to know how easily he could sway you. You will do anything to hide the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger, whether he knew it or not.

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you.

Your birthdays used to be simple, just another day with family, another year passing by. But ever since Soobin came along, they became something special. Something that felt irreplaceable. And the thought of him not being there, of waking up to a birthday where he wasn’t the first person you saw, made your throat tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you didn’t want to explain it. Maybe you were scared to.

"Let's go out to the balcony," he says, shutting off his computer with a final click. You glance at the clock—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes till you turn eighteen.

"Why?"

"Just because." He nudges you forward, hands settling on your shoulders, his touch impossibly light. No matter how much taller or broader he’s gotten over the years, he never holds you too tightly. It’s always careful. And that’s why your heart stutters in your chest every time.

You step outside, the night air crisp against your skin. The trees sway below, dark silhouettes against the dim glow of the streetlights. You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at him. "So… are we spending my birthday just standing here?" you tease. "Shouldn't we be doing something? Eating ice cream, maybe?"

He smiles, "We’ll do that after," he says, already stepping back inside. "Wait here."

You're confused as he leaves you outside. Through the thin curtain, you see his shadow moving; shuffling, hesitating. "Soobin, don’t tell me you got me a cake or something," you call out, teasing. He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes you smirk. "So you did get me a cake."

"Sh—no. Yes. Ugh, I hate you," he groans, but when he steps out, there it is, a cake in his hands, eighteen candles flickering in the night breeze. He clears his throat, awkwardly starting, "Happy birthday to you…" His voice is unsure, barely above a murmur, but it’s enough. You smile, and as cheesy as it sounds, your heart clenches in your chest. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you.

Please let forever be like this.

You blow out the candles, and when you open your eyes, he’s grinning. "I baked this, by the way."

"Wow, looks amazing," you breathe, taking the cake from him. The effort, the slightly uneven letters of your name written on top—it makes your throat tighten. You don’t say anything, just sit down beside him, forks in hand, digging straight into the cake. The wind picks up slightly, ruffling your hair, but neither of you cares. You talk, laugh, and steal bites from each other’s sides, like time doesn’t exist.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue softer than usual. His gaze lingers, watching as you hug the big white teddy bear he got you. Your fingers clutch the plush fur, cheeks pressed against it, lips curled into a quiet, content smile.

His chest tightens.

"Eight years... For eight years, I, I've been," He falters, blinking, momentarily losing himself in the way your eyes widen at him. God. You’re beautiful.

"Hmm?"

He exhales sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. His heartbeat stumbles over itself, but before he can think, before he can think of the script he rehearsed over and over, before he can convince himself to hold back—

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours. "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's almost midnight,"

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. "I love looking at you,"

"We're seriously keeping up with the tradition?" you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"Happy 25th birthday, baby," he murmurs. Then, softer—like he’s letting the words settle between you before he dares breathe again, "I love you." His voice pulls you from the edges of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open, you find him already watching you.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than love? More sacred than being loved?

"Thank you," you reply, smiling. He sits up beside you, and you chuckle softly as he fumbles for something on the floor beside the bed. "What did you get me this time?"

But then your breath stumbles. White roses. A small black box in his hands. Your heart clenches. "Soobin,"

"I’ve been thinking about how I should do this," he starts, chuckling nervously, though his fingers tighten around the box as if anchoring himself. "I thought about renting a place, throwing a party, taking you to some fancy dinner, or even an overseas trip." His gaze finds yours, earnest. "But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever."

His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?"

“Fuck.” The word rips from your throat as reality slams into you. The room is chaos—voices rising, bodies moving, the cold bite of metal and plastic pressing against your skin. The doctor’s hands fly across his keyboard, adjusting something you don’t understand, while the nurse grips your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You’re crying.

You don’t remember when it started, but the tears won’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps as your hands scramble to your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the thin chain around your neck. The ring is warm against your skin, pressed into your palm, solid and real. His ring. The one he slid onto your finger with shaking hands.

“Please,” your voice cracks, “please—just let me keep this.”

The nurse exchanges a glance with the doctor. Their hesitation is suffocating. “We need to take it,” someone says—calm, detached. Like this is just another part of the process. Like it doesn’t matter. “It goes with the rest of your belongings.”

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this."

The nurse looks at you with something that almost feels like pity. A softness in her eyes that only makes your chest ache more. “You’re almost done, honey,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, coaxing. “A little more. You can do this. Just close your eyes. You just have to close your eyes.” Your hands won’t stop shaking. The tremors run up your arms, through your ribs, settling somewhere deep in your throat. You feel the prick of a needle, the slow push of something cold into your veins. It soothes the sharp edges, dulls the panic—but not enough. Not enough to stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. “Close your eyes,” she whispers again.

You do.

Your hands are in his. The car hums beneath you, the city lights flashing by in a blur, but all you can focus on is him. He drives with one hand, the other wrapped around yours, bringing it to his lips every time you hit a red light. Soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles, “How many babies would you want?”

You nearly choke on your drink, coughing as you turn to him. “What?”

He laughs, eyes flicking toward you for just a second before focusing back on the road. “I mean… I’d love as many as we can have. But of course, it’s your body, baby. You get to tell me.”

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—”

His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything.

In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate.

Then—stillness.

A ringing in your ears. The distant sound of voices, footsteps pounding against the pavement. Shadows moving outside the wreck. Someone is calling, you think it's for an ambulance. Your chest heaves as you groan, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. Pain radiates from everywhere, your head throbbing as you press trembling fingers against your scalp. Everything hurts.

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

You look to your right and he’s already looking at your face. Pale, dazed, blinking too slowly. "Y/N, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse, weak, but when you nod, he exhales a shaky, "Thank fuck."

His grip tightens around your hand. You can barely feel it, your body is numb, adrenaline rushing through your veins. But you squeeze back. Hold on. You breathe. It’s going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.

Then your eyes drop. And your stomach lurches. "Soobin?"

A jagged piece of debris—large, sharp, too deep—juts from his stomach, trailing up his chest. Blood blooms around it, staining his shirt, spilling over his hands where he grips it like he’s not sure whether to pull or hold on.

Your world tilts again. This is just a dream. "Soobin, what—what—how the—"

There’s so much blood. Too much. Your hands press against the wound trembling, trying to keep it from spilling out, but it’s everywhere—warm and sticky between your fingers, staining your skin, pooling beneath him. You’re sobbing, whispering frantic words that don’t make sense, but you can’t even hear yourself. The panic is eating your face, roaring in your ears as you struggle to breathe. “How should I—”

Then his fingers find your face.

His touch is weak but certain, cradling your cheeks, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but stronger than it should be. “Look at me.” His grip tightens, thumbs brushing your tears away. “Baby, shhh, look at me.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “Soobin—”

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

You’re unravelling. He’s bleeding out beneath you, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. “Help! Please, someone help us!” you scream, voice cracking. There are people—so many people—but no one can touch him.

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

The last memory crashes over you, pulling you under. Your chest feels heavy, unbearably so, but then… slowly… it gives. The weight that has kept you drowning eases, just enough for you to take a breath. The sound of machines hums beside you. A final tear slips down your cheek.

It feels like the end.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, just to see him one last time—the Soobin you knew like the back of your hand. And then, you see his face. That soft, lopsided grin that always made your heart stumble. His voice is a whisper, just a breath against your skin.

“I’m proud of you.” Your lip trembles. “You’ll be okay.”

"Congratulations, it's successful."

The doctor shakes your hand, his grip firm, reassuring. You smile, nodding along. The nurse beside him looks at you with warmth, and before she can react, you throw your arms around her. She lets out a small gasp before melting into the hug.

You feel light. Weightless.

They tell you the treatment worked. They tell you your mother is waiting outside. You nod again, absorbing their words, but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.

You push the thought away as you step outside. The air feels fresh against your skin, and then you see her. Your mother. She looks thinner than you remember, her cheeks a little sunken, her eyes holding something you can’t quite place. Had she lost weight?

"Hi, Mom," you say, smiling. She looks at you—really looks at you—and her lips part. She smiles back.

"Oh, honey," she breathes, pulling you into her arms.

You giggle, warmth spreading through your chest. "What’s wrong?"

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, shaking her head. "Let’s go home, okay?" You nod, letting her guide you toward the entrance. Everything feels new, yet oddly familiar, like a dream you barely remember but somehow miss.

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name.

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful."

"Yeah, I'll go home after class, Mom," you say, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjust your bag. "Plus, I'm nineteen. An adult now. I can take care of myself."

Your mom chuckles on the other end, the kind of laugh that says she doesn’t quite believe you but won’t argue. "Alright, alright. Just don’t stay out too late."

"I won’t." She sighs, but you can hear the smile in her voice as she bids you goodbye.

The campus is buzzing with energy, students milling about for the event. It’s a collaboration between three schools—art students showcasing their work, others just here to admire. Beside you, Wonyoung loops her arm through yours, eyes scanning the crowd. "Girl, I’m getting us drinks," she announces. "Wait for me here."

You roll your eyes with a laugh. "Okay, okay. Don’t take forever." She winks before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of it all.

Your eyes drift over the canvases, taking in the strokes of colour, the textures, the stories woven into the art. And then, you stop. Something about this one halts you mid-step. Oh. It’s a painting of—

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway.

He’s cute.

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

taglist: I love you @beombunni @lovingbeomgyudayone @virtaideen @hyukascampfire @fancypeacepersona @bamgeutori @lilbrorufr @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @xylatox @yunverie @imlonelydontsendhelp @moagyuu @soobinbunnie5 @usuallyunlikelyfox @txtzyallinme @younbeanz @fatbixchwithanopinion @bakudon @readinmidnight @flowzel @zaynspidey @joieouioui @kiyof @tubasmiracle @bamgyuuuri @heechwe @takimakiiiii @whatblop @frankghgr @lostgirlysstuff @philijack

[pemiski]

CUPID’S COMPULSION DISORDER FT R. ITOSHI

Summary Healing isn’t always just physical. As a resident, you’ve always been taught that recovery isn’t only about stitches and surgery—it’s about the mental and emotional journey too. Being prepared to accompany your patient through said recovery has never been a problem for you; not until Rin itoshi, anyway.

Tags fem! surgical resident! reader x pro player! Itoshi rin, corse language, meet-cute, medical lingo, making out, slow burn (hopefully, i tried my best), use of the metric system, character death (not reader or any main character), in depth description of surgical procedures, lots of medical inaccuracies so pls let’s not talk about that, reader wears dresses, makeup and heels, mentions of marriage and children (only at the end, you can skip it if it makes you feel uncomfortable), Oliver aiku is a warning in itself, some good old sibling angst bc character development is just as important as romance, lots of fluff, lots and lots of Greek mythology because i just can’t help myself i love it too much

Word count 24.3k words. That’s 60 pages!

Author’s note however much you think I’m excited and also scared for this to get published you can probably multiply by one zillion. I have spent months writing this, editing over and over and over to gather the courage to finally publish this!! I love this fic with all my heart, particularly because it is home to many firsts of mine, and I sincerely hope you will too! I have never written a fic this long, and even if it might not seem like much to you, this is truly colossal to me. I devoured so many books, watched so many videos and overall learned so much about writing just to make this as entertaining as possible for you to read, and for me to write, and seeing it finally finished is so so bittersweet to me. This is so sappy but I had to say it lol, but lastly before you hit read more, happy reading! (+ disclaimers are down below, please read!)

I am not a doctor, nor am I currently training to be one. Any and all surgical talk in this fic is an unfortunate result of me binge-watching greys anatomy. I did use quizlet and books, but I doubt it makes me legitimate in anything medical lol

Speaking of greys, there are a few Easter eggs from the show in here, couldn’t help myself huhu.. tell me if you can catch them!

Not a disclaimer, but please make sure to reblog and/or comment! Not just for me, but for all content creators on this app! That’s it! Enjoy!

It’s just like one of those stories hospitals collect over the years— two years ago, a first-year surgical resident fell for her patient. The kind of love that had no business in an OR. Everyone remembers how it ended— her hands slipped, he bled out, and she crumbled right there on the floor. This resident, whoever she was, bright and promising, became a legend for all the wrong reasons.

For the next years of her residency, she was a social pariah. Now, her name floats through the hospital like a ghost story. Don’t get attached. Don’t lose focus. And for God’s sake, don’t be like that one resident. Her name has long been forgotten, and no one really talks about her anymore, but her mistake still lingers, a quiet warning in every scrub room and hallway.

Just like any big time gossip in any workplace, they all fold into routine, cautionary tales buried under new scandals. And while everyone remembers what happened to this surgeon, it hasn’t stopped some residents to follow in her footsteps anyway.

The cafeteria buzzes around you, trays clattering, voices blending into a dull hum— mere background noise to your exhaustion. Your focus drifts in and out as you pick at what’s left of your meal. Rounds were a blur, the same routine: tired interns, tired cases, and you, running on fumes. Your ears only caught about half of what was said this morning anyway. Something about a necrotic bowel. Or maybe it was an obstructed one. Whatever it was, it wasn’t interesting enough to wake you up.

You sigh, letting your head fall back slightly. You’ve been in this hospital for nearly 47 hours. Your brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton, sluggish and heavy. The only thing keeping you going is the promise of that surgery board staying blissfully clear after this one case. If all goes well, you might even get home for a few hours of real sleep.

The interns were amusing at first. Eager, wide-eyed, practically tripping over themselves to impress you. You’d send them on wild goose chases, toss them paperwork, maybe throw one a bone and let them assist a minor surgery. And the coffee was borderline endless. But now? They’ve gone stale. Less enthusiasm, more sulking—especially Frederick, who’s been moping for weeks because he hasn’t touched an appendix.

You shake your head, muttering around a spoonful of almost stale, hospital food. “Seriously, it’s just an appy. It sucks. It’s not like he’s missing out on a heart transplant. Get over it.” You sigh again, pushing the tray away. Even your complaints feel half-hearted. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation.

“Tell me about it. You know Vaughn? Blonde, huge stick up her ass? I really struck gold with that one,” Livy says, leaning back in her chair, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. “Talks all the time. She can’t stop!”

“Nice ass though,” Oliver adds with a chuckle, spooning some frozen yogurt into his mouth. His eyes crinkle with mischief, his expression somewhere between casual and amused.

Livy shoots him a sideways glance, clearly unimpressed. “Sure, if you’re the hospital whore. Hey, maybe we should start giving you away to sexually frustrated patients,” she muses, tapping her chin, then gesturing vaguely in the air. “You know the guy in 408? Saw him watching something called ‘Naughty Little Nurses’ on his phone. I’m sure he’d love a naughty little resident.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow, looking less than amused. “He? Forget it.” He grabs his tray, standing up with a frown.

Livy, not one to back down, calls after him. “Aiku! If you bail on that laparoscopy like you did on that lap chole, I’ll kill you!”

Oliver waves her off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, which only makes Livy’s teeth grit. “I’ll kidnap him and lock him in 408’s room. I’ll do it.”

You catch Livy’s eye, raising an eyebrow. “I think his name is Mark.”

Livy shrugs nonchalantly, like she hasn’t already planned every detail. “Well, that’s the least interesting thing about him, isn’t it?”

“It is a good idea though,” you shrug, still facing your half-peeled orange on your tray.

"Right?" Livy gasps, practically vibrating with excitement as she continues to corner you in the cafeteria. Her plan to kidnap Oliver Aiku grows more elaborate by the second, detailing every step of the process in a scarily precise, almost unnervingly detailed way, you start wondering if she’s genuinely thought this through. Would anyone notice? Surely someone would. You can practically hear the sirens in the background as she goes on. Regardless, you’re only half-listening, your thoughts wandering as the clock ticks down to the inevitable.

Before long, it’s time to return to work, and just as you’re mentally preparing for another round of exhaustion, fate intervenes.

“You, over there.”

You instinctively try to ignore the voice, slipping into the on-call room like you haven't heard a thing, but then, you see it: the dark blue scrubs. Something about them makes you freeze in place, and with a deep sigh, you reluctantly turn toward the source.

“I need you to round up your interns and send them away on other stuff,” the attending orders, breezing past you with barely a glance. “It’s a… special guest. Torres wants you on the case. It’s ortho.”

You blink, caught off guard. This wasn’t what you were expecting—not even close. Before you can protest, the attending is already heading down the hallway at a speed that defies the urgency of your thoughts.

“No, I—“ You try to call after him, but it’s too late. He’s already gone, vanished into the corridor like a phantom.

You glance around at the empty hallway, suddenly feeling a weight you didn’t ask for pressing on your shoulders. "I’m tired," you mutter to yourself, leaning against the wall for a moment. The thought of yet another case, another special guest, is enough to make you want to crawl back into the on-call room and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a few more hours. But there’s no time for that now.

Time to suck it up, grab your interns, and pray you make it out of this shift without completely losing your sanity.

"You, um... Mc— McCallum? Yeah, McCallum and your posse, you can all go to the pit."

The group groans in unison, their collective frustration almost palpable in the air. Normally, you might take a second to sympathize, maybe toss in a joke to ease the tension, but right now? You’re not having it. The day’s been too long, your patience has been running too thin.

The next words come out of your mouth almost without thought, and they feel sharp, cutting. You can see the interns’ faces fall before they even register what you’ve said.

"And since you all seem to like it so much, you can stay there for the rest of the week. Have fun." You grunt the last part, grabbing the file for the so-called "special guest" and ignoring the sudden silence that falls in your wake.

The interns stare at you, wide-eyed. They’ve learned over time that, despite your grumpy exterior, you’ve got their backs—at least when it counts. But right now, you're too tired to care about who likes you and who doesn't. You just want to get through the day, and if this is how it’s going to go, you won’t stand in destiny’s way.

The remaining ones— still a little too wide-eyed— watch you like puppies waiting for a treat. It’s uncomfortable, the way they look at you. Like you're supposed to provide answers, direction, a path forward. You're about to speak when the thought of the attending's earlier words hit you hard.

You freeze for a beat, caught between the irritation of dealing with your interns and the looming responsibility of the surgery. You didn’t sign up to babysit, but that seems to be exactly what you’re doing.

"Errr…" You can feel your brain short-circuiting for a moment, then instinctively you start grabbing a pile of paperwork off the desk, pushing it into the interns' hands. "Post-ops," you mutter. "You know the drill. Fill these out. Keep yourselves busy."

As they scatter to comply, you can’t help but let out a sigh of relief. It’s not the most graceful order, but it’ll work for now. Now, all you have to do is deal with whatever “special guest” situation Torres has thrown your way—and pray you survive the rest of this shift without further mental collapse.

Either way, you suppose you shouldn’t be mad at Torres. Every surgery offered to a resident is a golden opportunity—a chance to beef up your surgical portfolio and make yourself a prime candidate for future fellowships. Especially since ortho is your endgame. You’d mentioned your interest to Torres once, in passing, not expecting anything to come of it. Yet here you are.

You should be thrilled. And maybe, beneath the layers of exhaustion weighing down your shoulders, you are. But right now, it feels less like a privilege and more like pressure—pressure to prove you’re worthy of the trust an attending has placed in you.

“Hope you’re ready for this one, L/N.”

You turn at the sound of Torres’ voice, catching her reflection in the scrub room window. She strides in just as you finish washing up, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

“It’s an ACL tear.”

Your brow furrows slightly. An ACL tear? It’s common enough—routine, even. Hardly what you’d consider high-stakes.

Torres catches your expression and smiles knowingly. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. You think this is gonna be easy. But, point number one: at your level, any work is hard work.” She fixes you with a pointed look, her tone leaving no room for argument. Then, she gestures toward the OR with a nod of her chin. “And besides, the guy in there? High-level footballer. Some kind of genius, apparently. That’s point number two: he’s still young, so recovery should go well, but for that, this surgery has to be flawless. Understood, L/N?”

Before walking away, Torres pauses, her gaze lingering on you as if sizing you up. Her voice cuts through the tension, calm but firm.

“This is your first solo surgery,” she says, her words heavy and her eyes gleaming. “How you pull this off is how people see you for the rest of your residency. Make it count.”

You glance around the room, your gaze landing on the senior orthopedic surgeon seated calmly at the foot of the table. It hits you like a freight train: aside from them, you’re the leading surgeon today.

A wave of nerves surges through you, spreading from your chest to your fingertips. You try to steady yourself, cycling through the breathing exercises you’ve practiced so many times before, but your heart isn’t listening, and neither is your brain. Your heart is racing, your thoughts spiraling.

Nobody told you this was going to be a solo surgery. Was it an oversight? Or worse—was it intentional? Some kind of test? The thought slowly wraps around your brain, your mind constantly conjuring up worst-case scenarios. Were they just waiting for you to mess up so they’d have a reason to kick you out of this hospital?

Despite your inner turmoil, you nod, pulling your mask over your face, steadying yourself. This is definitely a test, you sigh to yourself.

The door slides open, and you position yourself in front of the body, gathering the tools, the bright lights of the OR gleaming down as you make the incision, your hands steady despite the tension radiating through your shoulders. You’ve rehearsed this in your mind a dozen times, but the reality of handling a live ACL tear on a high-profile athlete feels different. Your focus sharpens as you expose the torn ligament.

“L/N, what’s your first step in graft placement?” Torres’ voice cuts through the hum of monitors, calm but firm. You feel like a squeaky intern again. Your attending’s gaze is sharp, and typically, you’re the one asking the questions. Nevertheless, you find yourself reporting for duty almost immediately like an old reflex.

“Secure the femoral tunnel first to ensure proper alignment,” you answer, carefully inserting the guide pin.

“And why is that important?” she presses, stepping closer to observe.

“To maintain knee stability and prevent rotational instability post-op,” you reply, glancing at her briefly.

Torres nods, her expression unreadable. “Good. Keep going. Remember, precision is key. His career depends on this.”

You take a deep breath and steady your hands, feeling the weight of Torres’ words linger in the air. You’ve answered her questions correctly so far, and you’ve only got another set of questions coming your way, but the gnawing voice in your mind won’t let up.

A few more questions—that’s all it is, you try and tell yourself, but another voice in your head sneers. A few more is also the difference between standing here tomorrow or being kicked out today. Between a career and a blacklist.

You scoff internally, trying to silence the thought. Blacklisted is for stealing another patient’s heart for your own patient, blacklisted is for—

“Is there a problem, Doctor L/n?” Torres’ voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, sharp and pointed. Her raised eyebrows are a warning.

“No,” you blurt, feeling your face heat. “No, I just—I’m threading the graft through the femoral tunnel.”

She nods, her eyes drifting back to her magazine as if nothing had happened. “Good. Keep going.”

You force your focus back on the task at hand, trying to shake the storm of thoughts clouding your mind. It’s almost over. Just a few more minutes, and this patient will be transferred to recovery. He’ll heal. He’ll get back on his feet, back on the field—or maybe he won’t.

The thought creeps back in, insidious and loud. What if he never plays again? What if he sues? What if this ruins you?

“Looks good,” Torres says, her voice softer now, but no less commanding. The words slice clean through the noise in your head. “Close up, and let’s get him to recovery.”

You finish the last suture, your breath catching slightly as the weight of the moment settles in.

“You’ve done well today,” she adds, and the tension in your chest loosens just enough for you to finally exhale.

Relief washes over you, but you keep your composure, nodding as you finish the sutures. There’s still work to do, but for the first time today, you feel like you’re more than just a resident. You’re a surgeon in the making.

Just as you’re about to wash up and get rid of your gloves, your attending makes her way back to you, and hands you a chart.

“Post-ops,” She says. “He’s your patient now, so you do the checking up. Explain the surgery went well, keep him updated on the treatment that follows, and so on. We’ll keep him here for some time, so he’s your responsibility.”

Nevermind surgeon-in-the-making— you’re just a resident after all. Post-ops can easily be pawned off on your interns, but there’s no dodging this check-up.

———————————————————-

“So, first solo surgery, Y/n, how does it feel?” Livy elbows you with a teasing smile. The trauma of her own first solo surgery is long behind her now. She had hers months ago, and even then, you’re sure no one sprung it on her like a surprise birthday party.

“Awful,” you groan, rubbing your temples as if that might somehow alleviate the tension still coursing through you.

“Aw, did you flunk it?” she quips, her grin widening.

“No,” you admit with a sigh. “I don’t think so? I mean, I got through it, but I had no idea it was happening. Torres just walked up to me, told me I was flying solo, and suddenly, I was the leading surgeon. No prep time, no warning—just boom. Sink or swim.”

Livy winces in sympathy, toying with the rings on her fingers. “That’s rough. But, hey, she probably figured you could handle it if she threw you in like that.”

“Or she just wanted to watch me crash and burn,” you mutter, bitterness creeping into your tone. “It felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.”

Livy raises an eyebrow. “But did you crash and burn?”

“That’s not the point. I could’ve.”

She shrugs, leaning back in her chair. “You could spend a lifetime obsessing over all the could’ves, would’ves, and should’ves, but it won’t change what’s already done.”

You turn to her, crinkling your eyes slightly. “You are such an existentialist.”

Livy crosses her arms defensively. “Am not!”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, you know,” you tease, your lips quirking into a small smile.

She shrugs again, this time more nonchalantly. “I just think some things in life shouldn’t be written off as absurd.”

You snort lightly, curiosity piqued. “Like what?”

Livy’s smile turns mischievous, her eyes gleaming. “Like your patient chart,” she says sweetly, discreetly sliding her hand across the table.

“He’s a football player, apparently,” you mutter, grabbing your stale coffee and the stack of post-op charts. Before you can make your exit, Livy snatches the paperwork from your hands, her eyes scanning the pages with growing curiosity.

“Itoshi, Rin,” she reads aloud, sending a jolt of panic through you. You lunge for the chart, but Livy sidesteps you, oblivious to your distress. The attending’s warning echoes in your mind as nearby staff glance your way. Nothing fuels the hospital rumor mill faster than a name like that.

“Twenty-five,” Livy continues, ignoring your frantic attempts to grab the file. “ACL tear, blah, blah, blah…”

“Livy—”

“Oh! He’s 187 centimeters? God, this guy’s massive—”

“Livy, I’m serious. He’s supposed to be low-profile—”

“Hmm, 67 kilos? Lanky, but it could work… Oh! Do you think I can find his Instagram? Room 407! Right next to the naughty nurse guy in 408. Think they’ll watch together?”

You finally manage to snatch the chart back, your cheeks reddening and your hair sticking out. “No, you can’t find his Instagram. No, he won’t be watching porn with the weirdo in 408. And no, you’re not telling anyone what you saw in this chart. He’s a… a big shot, or something. I’m supposed to keep the people who know he’s here to a minimum. So if you could keep his personal info to yourself, that’d be great.”

Livy raises an eyebrow but says nothing as you toss your coffee in the trash. “I gotta go,” you mutter, storming off before she can get another word in.

By the time you reach Itoshi Rin’s room, your mood has dwindled to the lowest depths of hell. The day had already started on a bad note, but between the third part of your medical licensing exam, a certain football prodigy, and your stupid interns, your head feels like it’s on the verge of exploding. Still, you put on a brave face and brace yourself as you step inside.

“Itoshi Rin?”

Piercing blue eyes meet yours, and the deep frown on his face warns you that this conversation won’t be pleasant.

“Do doctors have to crawl through tunnels to get to patient units now?”

“No,” you huff, mirroring his frown. “I apologize.”

“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

You rearrange his chart on the bedside table, exhaling irritably. “You’ll spend the rest of your stay here the same way you did those ten minutes. You’ll be fine.”

As the words leave your mouth, they hit your brain like a delayed bomb. Realizing the sharpness in your tone, you scramble to recover. “Oh, I—no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“When can I play again?” he interrupts, completely unfazed by your backpedaling.

You pause, slightly taken aback by how little he seems to care about your apology. “I was trying to apologize.”

“I don’t need an apology you don’t mean.”

His bluntness stings, but you force a tight smile. “Well, I really am sorry. But for now, let’s focus on your check-up before we dive into questions, okay?”

“Don’t bother with the bullshit customer service act,” he retorts, his voice sharp. “Just tell me when I can play again.”

Your forced smile grows saccharine. Fine, you think, if he wants to play this game, you’ll play along no problem. “I would, but according to HPSO guidelines, I should let the aggravating patient calm down before proceeding.”

“Did you just call me aggravating?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

Before you can respond, his gaze flicks past you. A shadow looms in the doorway, and dread settles in your stomach. You turn slowly, heart sinking as you recognize the figure: the attending physician who assigned you this case.

Your mind races. One opportunity, blown in a heartbeat, all because you lost your cool with a difficult patient. The attending’s expression is a careful mix of disbelief and disappointment.

“I—” you start, voice faltering, “I didn’t mean—”

Before you can finish, Rin lets out an annoyed grunt, motioning for a nearby nurse to escort the attending out and close the door. You whip your head around to stare at him, stunned.

He shrugs, as though this is no big deal. Through the small window in the door, the attending looks half-convinced, suspicion lingering before they finally walk away.

The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Rin. You can’t decide if you’re more relieved or furious.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you mutter, picking up his chart from the bedside table.

“What the hell,” he mutters back, rubbing his forehead. “A normal person would just say thank you.”

“That’s funny,” you snap, flipping through the chart without looking at him. “Coming from someone who didn’t bother thanking the surgeon who just spent hours saving their career.”

Rin’s eyes narrow. “You don’t know that. What if I don’t recover well?”

“That’s on your physiotherapist, not me.”

“Aren’t you my physiotherapist?”

You roll your eyes, shutting the chart with a snap. “I’m your surgeon. I’ll monitor your progress for a bit, make sure everything holds up, and then I’m gone. Should be exactly what you want, right?”

“What I want,” he says, his voice clipped, “is to know when I can play again.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “That depends on a lot of factors.”

“When?” he presses, his tone sharper now.

“I can’t give you a definitive answer yet,” you reply, your patience wearing thin.

“Why not? Aren’t you a doctor?” He scoffs, picking up his phone from the nightstand. “I knew I couldn’t trust anyone with this. I specifically asked for someone competent.”

His muttering is loud enough to hear, and it pushes you past your breaking point.

“I am competent,” you snap, stepping closer to his bed. His eyes lock onto yours, and the tension between you becomes palpable.

“As your doctor, your surgeon, and considering all the variables you clearly haven’t thought about, I’m telling you—I cannot give you an answer right now. Are we clear?”

He doesn’t reply, but his glare doesn’t waver.

You push a stray strand of hair out of your face, steadying your voice. “In your case, we repaired the medial collateral ligament, which is a common injury in your field. Recovery typically takes six months, depending on how consistent you are with the rehab plan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and leave, the door clicking shut behind you. Rin’s glare follows you, but the silence in the room is louder than anything he could say.

As you disappear down the hallway, Rin glares at the door, his jaw clenched. Moody, stuck-up smartass. That’s all you are. A pretty face with an attitude sharp enough to cut glass. He’d stepped in, helped you out when you were clearly drowning, and all he got in return was indifference. Not even a thank you.

He huffs, crossing his arms tighter. Should’ve just kept my mouth shut. You weren’t worth the effort. Maybe he should pass your number to his brother. You and Sae would probably get along just fine—two arrogant know-it-alls. The thought makes him scowl even deeper.

Yet, as irritated as he is, he can’t quite shake the feeling that he’ll be seeing more of you than he’d like. And for reasons he can’t explain, that thought bothers him even more.

———————————————————-

As your keys jingle inside your apartment’s lock, you can already feel your body ready to faceplant you straight to the ground. You’ve never been as tired as you are now, even considering the hellish schedules you had to endure during your internship.

So much for a well-deserved break, you thought.

You ungracefully stumble onto your couch, and search for the TV remote to skip channels until you inevitably fall asleep. Your fingers continuously tap on the same tile, until a news anchor gets your attention. It isn’t her specifically that catches your eye, but more-so the familiar mop of black hair paired with those icy blue eyes in the background. Below his picture, a headline scrolls across the bottom:

”Prodigy Itoshi Rin to sit out for the rest of the season, PXG faces tough road ahead”

Well, if he wasn’t already in a bad mood today and yesterday, he definitely is going to be tomorrow. Only difference is, tomorrow, you’ll be able to pride yourself on a perfectly good night’s sleep, and you can only hope that it will make enough of a difference to hopefully enough to make that check-up go smoother. Or less disastrous, at the very least.

Your phone dings, and as you check it, you realise it’s nothing more than a link. You grab it, and make a point to sigh when you see it’s Livy who has sent said message.

The link takes you to Instagram, and you immediately dread what’s to come. There’s a mountain of possibilities, considering her personality. Either a hot nurse from the ER, a hot attending, a hot patient…

Just as you feel like you know exactly what you’ve stumbled upon, your worst nightmare has materialized right in front of your face.

His profile is exactly what you’d imagined it to be like. Cryptic, simple, with an embarrassing amount of effort put into a semblant of mysteriousness. His bio is made up of three letters spelling out his club, his username is a bland combination of his first and last name, and yet, he has amassed a whopping twelve million followers.

Twelve. Million.

You stare at the number, dumbfounded. You don’t understand how such a nasty personality could ever have people looking up to them, let alone twelve million.

You toss your phone onto the couch with an exasperated sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions. Twelve million people following that guy? You rub your temples, still processing the sheer absurdity of it. Rin Itoshi— who finds the grueling task of thanking someone he considers far below him absolutely insurmountable —has somehow captured the hearts of millions.

The thought gnaws at you. It’s not the followers, not really. It’s the disconnect between the person you met today and the public persona those twelve million people seem to worship. You can’t reconcile the icy glare, the condescending tone, with the polished, enigmatic figure plastered all over social media. Maybe they don’t see what you saw. Or maybe they just don’t care.

Your phone dings again, signalling another message from Livy:

"Told you he’s hot. Should’ve gotten that Instagram when you had the chance 💋"

You roll your eyes, tossing a quick reply:

"Not my type. Also, not yours. Stay out of trouble."

You don’t have a problem with admitting he’s hot. Really, you don’t. And maybe he could’ve been your type, if he wasn’t cranky and resentful as if you’d just shot his mom in front of him.

You drop the phone onto your chest, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow is going to be a long day. Rin’s mood will be even worse after the media circus surrounding his injury, and you’ll be right in the middle of it. Still, with a good night’s sleep, maybe —just maybe— you’ll have the patience to survive his check-up without losing your mind.

And if not? Well, there’s always coffee. Lots of it.

———————————————————-

The moment you had dared to step into his dark, borderline cavernous room —which had once resembled a proper patient unit— Rin was already glaring at you. Not one to back down, you glared right back, slamming his chart onto the desk at the foot of his bed with enough force to make the clipboard rattle. You flipped the pages with unnecessary vigor, regularly shooting him pointed looks over the top of the file.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Rin finally snapped, his brows furrowed in what you could only assume was his default expression.

“I’m trying to anticipate the stupidities that are about to come out of your mouth so I can refute them before you even finish,” you deadpanned, barely sparing him a glance.

“How mature and diplomatic of you,” he replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You didn’t miss a beat, and huff, ‘I doubt diplomacy was ever in your cards.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, his face contorting into something caught between annoyance and borderline murderous intentions.

“Oh, yeah, that was very diplomatic,” you shot back, mockingly sweet as you continued flipping through the chart.

Rin rolled his eyes, leaning back against the pillows like your very presence was a personal affront. “Why do you even bother showing up if all you’re going to do is insult me?”

“Because I have this very unpleasant thing called a job, that causes me to have interactions with equally unpleasant patients,” you shot back without hesitation, jotting something down on his chart. “Though I’ll admit, it’s getting harder to tell if I’m here to treat your knee or your ego.”

“You’re hilarious,” he muttered, deadpan. Bitch, he thinks.

“I know,” you quipped, flashing him a quick narrowed look before your expression sobered. “Speaking of your knee, how’s the pain? Any discomfort, swelling, or anything else I should know about?”

Rin hesitated for a moment, his frown deepening. “It’s fine.”

“Fine isn’t a medical term, Itoshi. Try again.”

He huffed, clearly irritated. “There’s some stiffness when I move it, but it’s not unbearable.”

“Progress,” you said, your tone deliberately cheerful as you made a note in his chart. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He muttered something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, but the sharp glare he threw your way made it clear it wasn’t complimentary.

“Careful,” you hum, glancing up from your notes. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you actually enjoy these little visits.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he shot back.

You finished jotting down your notes and closed the chart with a decisive snap. “Alright, that’s enough verbal sparring for one day. Keep up with the exercises, and let me know if the pain gets worse. And, for the love of everything holy, try not to terrorize any more nurses.”

“I didn’t terrorize anyone,” he grumbled, eyes squinting at you, indicating he’d clearly found this conversation much less amusing than you have been these past few minutes.

“Sure,” you replied, clearly unconvinced. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

As you had turned to leave, you couldn’t resist throwing one last jab over your shoulder. “See you tomorrow, evil spawn.”

You chuckle to yourself. Evil spawn was a nickname you’d nicked from a show you were watching. You had congratulated yourself with how accurate it had been, and even more so with the way Rin would grit his teeth in anger at the sheer disrespect you clearly had no problem in displaying. Either way, it didn’t matter. There was no way in hell that Rin itoshi was gonna ruin your finally-back-to-normal sleep schedule by interfering in your late night thoughts. Or even daytime ones.

———————————————————-

“I feel reborn!” you announce, striding through the hospital’s main entrance, practically glowing.

“Is it because your patient is a good-looking football prodigy, and you’ve got the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to check up on him every single day?” Oliver’s gruff voice cuts through your euphoria, and you whip around to face him.

“Does everybody know about this?”

“God and everybody,” he replies, raising an eyebrow over the rim of his coffee cup.

You scowl, crossing your arms. “Well, I’m so glad everyone is so invested in my personal life.” Then, with a huff, you add, “But for your information, I was talking about the amazing amount of sleep I got last night.”

Oliver smirks. “He’s kind of like a sad German shepherd, isn’t he? All about being dark and twisty. That’s definitely a hit with the ladies.”

“What would you know about that?” you mutter, unconvinced, eyes fixed on the cuffs of your coat.

“Tried it out last night,” Oliver twists his pen around, “Chicks love it. I felt like poultry farming.”

“Alright, I’ve had enough of that,” you slam your charts on the reception desk. Livy, who you hadn’t even realized was listening in on your conversation, falls into step beside you as you both head down the hallway. She leans in, her voice low but amused. “Poultry farming? Seriously?”

You shake your head. “Don’t ask.”

Livy snickers, glancing over her shoulder at Oliver, who’s still lounging at the reception desk with that smug grin plastered across his face. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing—him calling it poultry farming or the fact that it probably worked.”

“Neither,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “The most disturbing part is that I’m going to have to hear about it all day.”

Livy smirks. “He’ll milk it until someone gives him a reason to stop.” She nudges you playfully. “Maybe we can set him up with one of the weirdos in the pit. That’ll humble him.”

“I’m not sure I want to deal with the aftermath of that disaster,” you sigh.

As you reach the elevators, Livy presses the button and crosses her arms. “Speaking of disasters, how’s your ACL tear patient? Or should I say, your ‘mysterious football prodigy’?” She raises her eyebrows in a mock-serious way.

You glance at her, wary. “Why?”

“Just curious. I heard he’s already making a name for himself around here, and not just because of the injury. Apparently, he’s been giving the nurses a hard time.”

You groan, leaning back against the wall. “Great. As if dealing with him in surgery wasn’t enough, now I have to handle his attitude during recovery.”

Livy grins. “Well, you did sign up for ortho. All those high-maintenance athletes are part of the package. At least he’s not throwing tantrums. Yet.”

“Give him time,” you mumble as the elevator doors open. “I’m sure it’s coming.”

You both step inside, and Livy taps the button for your floor. “Good luck. Maybe today will be tantrum-free.”

“I’ll take ‘unlikely’ for 500,” you mutter, bracing yourself for another day of chaos.

It only takes a few seconds for you both to reach your floor, and as soon as your ways separate, you begin regretting not having taken Livy in with you to deal with the devil incarnate.

You slide open the door to room 407, and the scene that greets you makes your stomach churn. The room, usually neat and orderly, looks like the aftermath of an earthquake. A mountain of gifts is scattered across the floor, the vase of flowers on the windowsill has been shattered, and the bed is in disarray, blankets torn and thrown about. But most alarmingly, Rin is nowhere to be seen.

“Itoshi?” you call, your voice sharp as you scan the room.

“What?” His voice is gruff, coming from the bathroom, making you raise an eyebrow.

You step cautiously toward the bathroom and find Rin sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. He looks far from the composed, untouchable figure you’re used to—his gown is crooked, his hair is a mess, and there’s a sharpness in his eyes.

“Did you fall? Are you hurt?” you ask, your voice a mixture of mild concern and absolute confusion.

“No,” he snaps, not bothering to meet your gaze. “I’m fine. Just go do your thing.”

You’re not having it. “Are you kidding? I spent three hours in that OR making sure your ACL was repaired properly. I’m not leaving until you’re back in bed and I’ve finished my check-up. So, get up.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes narrowing as he drags a hand through his disheveled hair. “Are you always this charitable?”

You look around the room at the absolute mess. “You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “What happened here? Looks like someone broke into your room.”

Rin’s face hardens, and he straightens up, visibly frustrated. “They did break in. They wouldn’t leave, so I made them.”

You blink, confused for a moment. “You—what?”

“The nurses wouldn’t listen,” Rin mutters, gritting his teeth. “I told them to get out. They kept hovering, so I made them go.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, surprised by his outburst. “You chased them out?”

He gives you a look that’s a mix of annoyance and irritation. “Yeah, I did. And I don’t want any more pity gifts or anyone pretending like I’m helpless just because I got benched.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “You’re not getting benched, though, are you?”

He shrugs, his eyes flickering briefly with a semblant of dejection, but he quickly hides it. You move to the broken vase, carefully picking up the shards of glass as a nurse cautiously enters to help clean up. She looks terrified at the mess but quickly gets to work, not daring to argue.

Rin watches you in silence, then drags a hand over his face, muttering, “Great. Now even you know about it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you reply, gently removing the bandage to assess the potential damage.

Rin glares at you from the corner of his eye. “You ask too many questions.”

You can’t help the corners of your mouth that lift up, if only just slightly, shaking your head as you continue to examine his knee. “Ah, yes, that must definitely change you from your empty-headed teammates.”

Rin’s eyes narrow at you, the tension thick in the room. “What does that mean?”

Without missing a beat, you mimic his gruff tone, “You ask too many questions.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Rin’s expression darkens, but then—just barely—there’s a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t smile, but it’s clear he’s not as offended as you thought. The little quirk in his gaze makes it obvious he didn’t take it as badly as he could’ve.

“Whatever,” he mutters, his arms crossing defensively, but there’s no real bite to his words, even if the blatant disrespect is still awfully obvious.

You glance up at him, your hands still busy with the chart as you make your final notes. You let a brief silence hang in the air before you add, “You’re not half as bad when you don’t act like the devil incarnate.”

Rin stiffens slightly, eyes flashing as he straightens up in bed, but the corner of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly. You can tell he’s holding back a snort, though he doesn’t fully let his guard down.

“Devil incarnate, huh?” he says dryly, arching an eyebrow as if he’s considering the statement. “You’re a real piece of work yourself.”

You meet his gaze, and mock . “I’m just here for the knee. And the attitude, if you’re offering.”

Rin shakes his head, muttering under his breath as you finish your notes. Maybe you’ve struck a nerve— just not the one he’s used to people poking.

———————————————————-

Weirdly enough, for a bar so close to a hospital teeming with exhausted interns, fatigued residents, and perpetually annoyed attendings, the atmosphere was surprisingly upbeat. It hummed with the chatter of people shedding the day’s weight, drinks in hand, laughter cutting through the tension they’d likely carried in with them. You suppose alcohol really does work miracles in times of need, and tonight, you desperately hope to be on the receiving end of those miracles.

“I really, really need to get off this case,” you groan, finishing off another shot and barely suppressing a wince as the burn claws its way down your throat.

Livy snorts from her perch beside you, her head leaning heavily against her palm. “Tell me about it. I’ve got a kid who’s juiced up on steroids because he thinks it'll get him a girlfriend.” She lets her head drop onto the bar with a dull thunk, her misery almost theatrical.

You cross your arms and rest your head on them, letting out a muffled laugh. “Sounds like a real catch. Maybe he should swing by the ortho ward. I’ve got a surly footballer who could use a few pointers on how not to scare people off.”

Livy lifts her head just enough to arch an eyebrow at you. “Surly footballer, huh? This the same guy who turned his room into a war zone?”

You nod, gesturing for another round. “The one and only. The mess he makes might actually rival his attitude.”

Livy chuckles, though her laugh is muffled as she lays her cheek back on the bar. “Sounds like you two are perfect for each other.”

“Perfectly incompatible,” you counter.

Livy sits up slightly, her interest piqued. “Wait, wait, hold on. Don’t tell me you’re actually into this guy?”

You scoff, picking at a napkin on the bar. “Into him?” You settle your elbows on the bar decisively, “I’m into complex orthological cases. I’m into passing all my exams and becoming an attending at a good hospital. What I’m not into is an emotional landmine of a man with an ego the size of his paycheck.”

Livy tilts her head, studying you like a puzzle she can’t quite crack. “Okay, but does he at least have the goods? You know, tall, dark, and moody kind of thing?”

“Tall, dark, and irritating,” you correct, leaning into the banter despite yourself. “He’s not bad-looking, but trashing the entire room? If that’s not a dealbreaker, I don’t know what is.”

“Hmm.” Livy hums thoughtfully, swirling the last bit of her drink in the glass. “So you’ve noticed he’s handsome?”

You give her a flat look. “I have eyes, Livy. Doesn’t mean I want to play house with him for the rest of eternity.”

Livy grins, clearly amused. “It doesn’t have to be for the rest of eternity. Could be a night in the on-call room. Or day. Doesn’t matter if you don’t like his personality, because his personality is in his wallet.” She sips on her alcohol like on a juice box, and looks at you with pointed eyes.

“I’m not looking for a transactional relationship, thank you,” you quip. “Besides, we’re stuck together until his knee’s functional again. That’s it.”

Livy raises her glass in mock salute. “Whatever. Just don’t come crying to me when you start falling for your disaster patient. Happens to the best of us, you know.”

You roll your eyes, but the hint of a smile creeps onto your lips as you clink your glass to hers. “If that ever happens, I give you full permission to slap some sense into me.”

“Deal,” Livy says, downing the rest of her drink. “If you become a social pariah, I’d have to become one by proxy,” she sighs. ”I’m not letting you ruin my life.”

“Your sense of solidarity has always been your strongest quality,” you mutter, finishing off your drink with a frown.

———————————————————-

Another shift at this godforsaken hospital almost always means a trip straight down to Hades’ underworld. Some people call it Room 407. To each their own.

“Have fun, Persephone!” Oliver’s voice rings out behind you as you make your way to your personal hell.

Your so-called friends have been calling you that since the beginning of the week, after overhearing a nurse’s nickname for you. Apparently, your frequent trips to Rin Itoshi’s unit bore an uncanny resemblance to Persephone returning to the underworld every winter. At first, the joke had made you laugh, but now, the more you see the resemblance, the less amusing it becomes.

Unbeknownst to you, your grim expression only adds fuel to the joke that has spread like wildfire throughout the hospital.

“Persephone? I thought your name was y/n,” Rin remarks, his dark eyes flicking up from where he sits as you clip the chart to the bedside stand.

“It is,” you sigh, already feeling the wear of the conversation. “They call me Persephone because they call you Hades.”

His brow furrows. “Well, why?”

“Why what?”

His huff is almost audible, as if asking for clarification pains him. “Why do they call me Hades? And what does that have to do with Persephone?”

You scoff and gape at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You— You trashed the entire room! You chased out every nurse who tried to help you! You seriously don’t know why they call you Hades?”

He frowns, his jaw tightening as he mutters just loud enough for you to catch, “Just wanted some peace.”

“If you want peace, you ask for it! You don’t just go around terrifying people!” you snap, crossing your arms.

“I did ask,” he growls.

“Oh, did you?” you retort, leaning forward slightly, challenging him.

“I did.”

The two of you lock eyes in an intense, silent standoff, the tension crackling in the air like a brewing storm. Finally, you let out a heavy sigh, grabbing the chart and switching to the matter at hand.

“Whatever. Scar is nicely healed, no sign of tissue abnormalities—”

Before you can finish, Rin interrupts, his eyes widening slightly. “Yeah okay, whatever— what’s this Hades bull got to do with Persephone anyway?.”

His tone softens slightly toward the end, but it still catches you off guard. You lower the chart, tilting your head at him. “You— You want me to explain Persephone? Like, the myth? You don’t know it?”

His blank stare is answer enough, and he mutters, “People say shit about me behind my back, I wanna know what it’s all about.”. You blink at him, momentarily dumbfounded. “You’re serious. You really don’t know? What, were you too busy dribbling a ball to learn the basics of mythology?”

Rin looks away, scratching the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “No. I just didn’t have time to get to know stuff like that.”

You blink, genuinely taken aback. “Yeah, but how do you not know about Persephone? Did you sleep through literature class or something?”

“I had other things to focus on,” he says flatly, then glares at you. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

You sigh, setting down the chart. “Ugh... Uh— Persephone is the goddess of spring, but she’s also Demeter’s daughter.”

”Who’s Demeter?” Rin interrupts, and it takes everything in you to not snap. Instead, you grit your teeth; “I was getting to it.”

You take in a breath, and with a warning glance to Rin that he pointedly ignores, you start again. “So. Demeter is the goddess of, um, harvest, I think. Among other things. Whatever, it’s not relevant to the story anyway. So, the whole story is that Hades, the god of the underworld, kidnapped Persephone and dragged her down to his realm to be his queen. Her mom, Demeter, freaked out, causing eternal winter until Persephone was allowed to leave for part of the year. So, when she’s in the underworld, it’s winter. When she’s on Earth, it’s spring. That’s the gist of it.”

Rin raises an eyebrow. “And this has to do with me because…?”

You gesture vaguely at him and then the room. “You’re the brooding, moody god of the underworld who scared everyone off. And I’m the one forced to come down here every day to deal with you.”

There’s a beat of silence as he processes this, his frown deepening. “That’s stupid.”

“You think I like it?” you snap, crossing your arms. “I didn’t choose this nickname. Or this assignment, for that matter.”

Rin leans back against the bed, a soft frown playing on his eyebrows. “So, does that make me your husband in this scenario?”

You nearly choke on your own breath. “What?! No! Don’t—just—ugh, no. Forget I even told you the story.”

He chuckles softly, clearly amused by your flustered reaction. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

“You? Joke? Who are you and what have you done with my patient?,” you mutter, picking up the chart again, your cheeks warm. At this, the slight twinkle in Rin’s eye disappears as quickly as it came, and you can almost see the walls come up again. “Because the idea of marrying my most difficult patient is enough to make me want to quit.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Rin says, his voice low and sardonic. “If anyone’s being forced into this situation, it’s me.”

You shoot him a glare but choose to let the comment slide. “Anyway,” you say firmly, turning your attention back to the chart, “your scar is healing well. No sign of scar tissue. You’re progressing as expected, so keep following your physiotherapy plan.”

Rin leans forward slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. “Does that mean I’ll get rid of you soon?”

“Not soon enough,” you mutter, though there’s a faint smile tugging at your lips as you scribble a note on the chart.

———————————————————-

“I don’t know why I have to be the one doing all of this. No, seriously, what’s the point?”

The hospital is full of mysteries. A storage room filled with forgotten keepsakes from surgeries. The infamous on-call room, where the stories alone are enough to keep anyone from asking questions. And, of course, the infamous patient room where a doctor cut her patient’s LVAD wire because she fell in love with him.

But the fourth mystery? That one is far more exclusive, and for cause. Room 239 is a quiet secret among your group that you’d stumbled upon as interns. You’d kept it under wraps, specifically because this room is home to what you call the perfect patient: quiet, cooperative, and perpetually asleep. In short, it’s a haven for a peaceful lunch break. No snark, no frowns, no superiority complex. Just pure, unbothered bliss. You’d had your fair share of theories about the guy (dead, in a deep coma, or maybe just asleep…), but ultimately, you’d just decided that as long as he was quiet, whether he was dead or alive mattered little to you.

“I mean, patient care was the first thing we learned in med school. I don’t need Itoshi Rin to teach me that,” you grumble around the salty cupcake you’d snagged from the cafeteria. You chase it down with a gulp of water, practically choking it into submission.

Oliver, lounging in the corner, watches you attack your second cupcake with a raised eyebrow of judgment. “He could probably help you out with that stick shoved up your ass,” he drawls, voice thick with mockery.

You scoff, swallowing another bite. “Right. Like he’s the one to help with that. If anything, I’d leave that room even more stuck up than when I went in.”

“I meant sexually.”

You pause mid-reach for your next snack, the word landing with a heavy thud between the two of you. After a beat, you mutter a flat, “Oh,” before turning back to your tray. Your fingers hover thoughtfully, then swipe up a cookie, as if nothing had happened.

You crunch into it, savoring the sweetness as if it could erase the last thirty seconds of your life. Oliver, of course, is still watching you like he’s just delivered the punchline of a joke he’s dying for you to laugh at.

“You’re quiet,” he says, smirking. “Don’t tell me I hit a nerve.”

“You didn’t hit anything,” you mutter, brushing crumbs off your lap. “Unlike some people, I don’t make everything about sex.”

“Oh, please,” Oliver says, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “You’re just mad because I’m right. Admit it: you’ve thought about it.”

You glare at him. “Thought about what?”

“Itoshi Rin,” he says, waving a hand dramatically. “He’s what? 187 centimeters of pure evil brooding energy? Tell me you haven’t entertained the idea.”

“Not even for a second,” you reply, a little too quickly.

He raises a brow. “Sure. And I’m the Chief of Surgery.”

Before you can snap back, the door creaks open, and Livy pokes her head in. “Oh, good, you’re here. Room 407’s asking for you again,” she says, her voice pitched with barely concealed glee.

You groan, slumping forward. “Of course he is.”

Livy grins like a cat that’s caught a particularly annoying mouse. “What’s wrong, Persephone? Your Hades beckons.”

Oliver barks out a laugh, and you grab your tray, scowling as you shove the rest of the cookie into your mouth. “You’re all insufferable,” you say through a mouthful of crumbs, already marching toward the door.

“Have fun!” Livy calls after you, and Oliver’s laughter follows you down the hall.

As you head toward Room 407, you can’t help but think that, of all the things you’ve been called this week, “Persephone” is starting to feel uncomfortably accurate.

"Hey, you asked for me?" you say, slightly breathless as you burst into the room. One hand grips Rin’s chart against your chest, the other keeping the door ajar.

"Why did Hades want Persephone in the overworld?"

"What ?" You stumble over your words, completely blindsided by the question. Out of all the things you’d expected—questions about his recovery timeline, complaints about being benched, maybe a snarky comment about the staff—this wasn’t anywhere near the list.

"It's the underworld," you correct instinctively, recovering enough to squint at him. "And he brought her there because he loved her. Or… something like that. Look, I’m not a mythology expert. Is this seriously what you called me in for?"

He doesn’t stop there, of course. You’d underestimated just how persistent Rin could be.

"If he loved her, why would he drag her to the underworld?" he asks, heavily emphasizing the word “underworld” like it’s some alien concept. "Pretty sure that counts as kidnapping."

"Because it’s Greek mythology, and Greek gods were all a little off their rockers. I don’t know," you reply, already feeling the beginnings of a headache.

"Why would the Greeks idolize gods if they were as batshit crazy as people say?"

"You— This is a hospital wing. There are kids here, so mind your language, would you?," you hiss, gesturing toward the hallway before continuing. "But I don’t know! That’s just how it was—"

"You don’t seem to know much for a doctor," he drawls, raising a single eyebrow with mock disdain.

You take a deep breath, visibly restraining yourself. "Alright, fine. People didn’t idolize gods because they were good or moral. It was about their power, their strength, their control over things humans couldn’t understand. Kind of like how people have favorite athletes."

His frown deepens, but you press on.

"Take football, for example. You probably admire someone for how they play on the field, right? Doesn’t mean you have to like them as a person. People separated admiration for what the gods could do from how they behaved. Same concept."

Rin doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond you. Finally, he mutters, "The gods were cruel. What part of that is worth admiring?"

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Rin, it’s mythology. It’s not supposed to be a blueprint for good behavior— it’s symbolic. The gods were reflections of human nature: flawed, complicated, and sometimes cruel. People admired their power, their ability to control life and death, nature, and fate. It wasn’t about liking them; it was about respecting what they represented.”

He tilts his head, his gaze sharp but oddly contemplative. “So they were admired out of fear?”

“Not just fear,” you say, leaning against the doorframe. “Well, alright, maybe. They were storytellers’ way of explaining the unexplainable. Why the sun rises, why storms happen, why people fall in love or die tragically. The gods made sense of chaos.”

Rin crosses his arms, his expression unreadable. “Still sounds messed up.”

“You’re not wrong,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But that’s humanity for you. Messy, complicated, and just trying to make sense of things.”

For a moment, he’s quiet, his eyes flicking toward the window as though deep in thought. Then, with a faint scoff, he looks back at you. “You talk too much.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re the one who started asking questions.”

His lips twitch, forming an unimpressed glower, but he looks away before you can confirm it. “You still didn’t explain why he wanted Persephone with him.”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe he thought she made the underworld less miserable. Maybe he thought she brought some light into his life. Or maybe he was just selfish. You’d have to ask him yourself.”

He leans back against the headboard, his arms still crossed. “Sounds stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow, grinning. “Kind of like a certain someone I know who chases everyone out of his room because he doesn’t know how to ask for peace and quiet?”

Rin glares at you, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a walking storm cloud,” you counter, stepping back toward the door. “But at least we’re consistent. Let me know if you have any more deep philosophical questions.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he mutters, though his gaze lingers on you a second longer than necessary as you leave.

———————————————————-

Just like that, you’d somehow become the resident expert on Greek mythology within a matter of days. Every day for the past week, Rin had asked for a new myth. It wasn’t part of your job description, nor anything you’d ever imagined doing during a hospital shift, but there you were, recounting tales of gods, heroes, and monsters to an injured football prodigy with a perpetually sour expression.

When you’d finally worked up the nerve to ask him why he suddenly had such an appetite for mythology, his initial response had been dismissive, a casual shrug paired with, “Patients are entitled to whatever they want. You’re the one who said that.”

You’d raised a skeptical eyebrow, refusing to let him off that easily. “Nice try, Itoshi, but that doesn’t explain why you want them. Come on, I’ve been working my ass up to come up with the abundant demand. You owe me that. What’s the real reason?”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the blanket as he muttered, “It keeps my mind off football.”

It was a surprisingly candid admission, one that softened your stance despite yourself. Football was clearly the center of his universe, his world, and now, sidelined by his injury, that world was out of reach. If listening to ancient myths helped distract him from the ache of being benched, then who were you to deny him that small comfort?

“Well,” you’d replied, sliding into the chair by his bedside with a small smile, “You’re lucky your doctor isn’t someone who goes by the book,” You swiftly check your watch, and continue, “I’m supposed to be filling in charts.”

For the first time, his lips had twitched—not quite a smile, but not the usual scowl either.

On Monday, he had reluctantly admitted to asking for a pick-me-up from the last time you’d told him a myth. He had claimed he didn’t like the first one, but by the end of your conversation, you could tell it had gotten him pretty down. You didn’t understand why, because to you, it was just a myth, but you had a slight suspicion that it wasn’t the myth itself that had bothered him, but something else among what you’d said had probably resonated with him a little too much. At the end of his request, he’d made you swear not to tell anyone, in consequence of which he would besmirch your professional career, and drag your name to the depths of hell.

As such, you did not question him further, and told him the tale of Perseus and Andromeda. You weren’t sure he would find it all that interesting, but you’d found it quite sweet anyway.

"Fine," you had said, pausing in the doorway. "The myth of Perseus and Andromeda is pretty sweet. You’ll like it, I think."

You grabbed a chair, plopped it down near his bed, and sat with an exaggerated sigh. Rin raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt as you launched into the myth.

"So, Andromeda was the daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia, a king and queen. Cassiopeia, being, uh, very full of herself, claimed she and her daughter were more beautiful than the Nereids—you know, sea nymphs. So the sea god Poseidon? Not thrilled about that, you can imagine."

Rin nods slowly, as if urging you to continue, though his skeptical expression suggests he’s not sold on where this is going.

"So because he was pissed, Poseidon sent a sea monster to terrorize their kingdom as punishment. Naturally, the people freaked out, and the only solution the oracle gave them was to sacrifice Andromeda to the monster."

"So her own family left her to die?," Rin cuts in, his voice low and sharp.

"Basically, yeah," you reply, giving him a rueful look. "They chained her up to a rock, and waited for the sea monster to kill her. But then Perseus shows up, fresh off his victory against Medusa, and he sees Andromeda all chained up. He asks her a few questions, and decides to rescue her. Because, you know, he’s a hero and that’s what they do."

"And he killed the monster?" Rin’s voice is a little more interested now, his earlier skepticism fading.

"Yeah, Perseus used Medusa’s head to turn the sea monster to stone. Then, as the story goes, he married Andromeda. There’s more, of course, but that’s the gist."

Rin leans back, his arms crossing over his chest as he processes the tale. "So Andromeda gets punished for something her mother did, and Perseus just shows up to fix everything? That’s not sweet. That’s fucking awful."

"That’s one way to look at it," you admit. "Another is that Andromeda’s story is about redemption. She starts as a victim of her family’s arrogance and ends as someone who gets saved and finds a new life. But I mean, yeah, it’s mythology. It’s not exactly known for fairness."

He doesn’t respond for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. Then, almost grudgingly, he mutters, "At least he fought for her. Took action. Didn’t just leave after making promises."

You study him for a beat, tempted to press, but ultimately decide against it. Instead, you stand, brushing imaginary dust off your scrubs. "There you go. Storytime’s over. If you have more questions, I’ll bill you for them."

On Tuesday, you decided to surprise Rin with a new myth. He hadn’t asked for another one the day before, but you figured his curiosity wasn’t something that faded quickly.

To your surprise, Rin seemed distracted, staring at the bedside table and muttering something under his breath about how he didn’t want to hear about myths today.

"I prepared one for today!" you announced, holding the notes you’d scribbled down. "You can’t just blow off my hard work like this!"

His gaze snapped to you, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “You think I’m a child?”

“What? No, I— Rin, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t need bedtime stories,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.

You blinked at him, taken aback. “They’re not bedtime stories, Rin. They’re Greek myths. Or do you often tell kids about violence and murder to help them fall asleep?”

Rin shrugged, unfazed by your exasperation. “My brother used to tell me horror stories before bed. Never stopped me from sleeping.”

Your face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and mild horror. “Your brother—how old were you when this happened?”

“Six or seven, I think. Can’t remember,” he said nonchalantly. For the first time since you’d walked in, his gaze met yours, holding steady.

“Doesn’t sound like the best brother to me,” you murmured as you began unwrapping the bandage around his knee, carefully checking for any swelling.

“He was a good brother,” Rin replied, his tone softer, distant. His eyes seemed to lose focus, and for a moment, he was somewhere else entirely.

You hesitated, unsure if pushing forward was a good idea, but you took the risk anyway. “Well, speaking of siblings,” you said cautiously, your hands massaging the surrounding muscles, “the myth I was about to share is about Pollux and Castor. Thought you might find it interesting.”

Rin grunted, his expression unreadable, but the absence of a sharp retort was all the permission you needed to begin.

"Alright," you begin, settling back into the chair you’d just vacated, bandages and medical treatment in hand, and beckon Rin to settle his leg near the chair. "Castor and Pollux were twins. Thing is, they weren’t exactly identical. Castor was mortal because he was the son of Tyndareus, a mortal king. Pollux, on the other hand, was immortal, being the son of Zeus, god of thunder, King of the Gods."

Rin raises an eyebrow. "Different fathers? How does that work?"

"I don’t… I don’t think that was the main focus when they taught the tale. Just go with it," you reply. "Anyway, the two of them were inseparable. They were called the Dioscuri— great warriors and super tight-knit. They did everything together: fought battles, raced horses… the kind of bond only siblings can share, you know?” For a moment, you let out a little laugh. Of course, he knows. He’s a sibling as well, isn’t he?

"And then?" Rin prompts, his tone less sarcastic now, leaning just a fraction forward.

"Well, like all Greek myths, things took a prett tragic turn," you say. "During one of their adventures, Castor was killed in a fight. Pollux was devastated. He couldn’t imagine life without his brother, so he begged Zeus to help."

"And Zeus actually did something for once?" Rin’s skepticism is palpable.

A giggle escapes you. "Well, yeah, surprisingly. Zeus offered Pollux a choice: he could either keep his immortality and live alone, or give up half of it to share with Castor so they could be together. Pollux didn’t hesitate—he chose to share his immortality with his brother."

Rin’s lips press into a thin line, but his eyes stay locked on you. "What happened next?"

"They became the constellation Gemini," you explain, gesturing vaguely upward as if the stars were visible through the hospital ceiling. "Zeus placed them in the sky so they’d never be separated again. Immortal in their own way, together for eternity."

Rin leans back, his expression thoughtful. "So Pollux gave up part of himself to bring Castor back."

"Yeah," you say, standing up again. "It’s a story about love and sacrifice. Not the kind of love myths usually focus on—no drama, no romance—just pure loyalty between brothers. Pretty refreshing, actually."

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze distant, as if searching for something you can’t see.

"Anyway," you add lightly, breaking the silence, "don’t go getting any ideas about asking Zeus for favors, alright? He’s got a worse track record than the hospital vending machines."

Rin snorts softly, the sound almost a laugh, and you take that as your cue to leave. As the door closes behind you, you can’t help but wonder what about the story struck a chord with him.

But as your own mind wanders places you’re not sure it’s supposed to, Rin remains still, staring at the ceiling. The story of Castor and Pollux circles his mind, clinging like an unshakable echo. He doesn't know why he'd let you recount it—maybe he was just bored, maybe it was something in the way you spoke about myths that made them seem less like ancient stories and more like glimpses into people’s lives.

But now, the tale won’t let go.

Pollux couldn’t imagine a life without Castor, Rin thinks. He gave up his immortality for him. That kind of bond... it hits closer to home than he wants to admit.

Sae flashes through his thoughts like an unwelcome specter. The older brother who had once been his everything—his Castor, his constant, the one he’d followed like a shadow. They’d shared dreams once, the same dream of reaching the pinnacle of football, side by side. But unlike Pollux, Sae had left him behind, choosing his path and leaving Rin to stumble through the pieces of their fractured bond.

Would Sae have given up anything for me? The question digs at Rin, sour and raw, though he already knows the answer. Sae’s actions had always been clear: ambition first, family second.

But Pollux didn’t care about what was fair, Rin reminds himself. He cared about his brother. He gave up half his immortality, even if Castor wasn’t perfect.

Rin’s jaw tightens, and he glares at the bandages wrapping his knee, the evidence of his own imperfection. Injured, benched, and stuck in a hospital room— Sae probably wouldn’t even know. Or care.

A flicker of resentment rises in his chest, but it’s dulled by something softer. Pollux’s choice wasn’t about pride or fairness. It was about love, loyalty, and the refusal to let the bond between brothers be severed.

And Rin hates how much he misses that. He hates that no matter how much he resents Sae, there’s still a part of him—buried deep beneath all the bitterness—that would give anything to have what they’d once shared.

The door creaks open slightly as a nurse peeks in, but Rin doesn’t even glance up. "I don’t need anything," he mutters, dismissing her before she can speak.

She leaves, and he’s alone again, the story still rattling in his head. Castor and Pollux were reunited, placed in the stars together for eternity.

———————————————————-

On Wednesday, you hadn’t told Rin a myth. Your schedule had been jam-packed, leaving you incapable of even swinging by his room for a check-up.

“I think it’s for the better, honestly.”

You turned sharply to Anri, a nurse you had befriended when she had helped you find OR 2 back in first year, who was buried in reviewing post-op files, frowning. “What ?”

She shrugged and swiveled her chair to face you.

“I’m all for a forbidden romance, but seriously, y/n, two weeks ago you were calling him a total asshat. And I overheard a nurse say he was calling you a ‘bitch on wheels.’ Now you’re… what? Inventing bedtime stories to tell him while you pull up a chair to his bedside table?”

There were plenty of things wrong with that statement, but you held back and let her continue.

“Look, all I’m saying is I’ve noticed. And I’m not the only one. Sometimes you’ve gotta swallow a bad pill to get better, and this”—she jabbed a finger at the desk for emphasis—“this is a bad pill.”

“It’s not romance, Anri, it’s—”

“It is romance, y/n!” she cut you off, her voice rising. “You like him. I get it, okay? And I want you to be in a relationship, I really do! But is it worth risking your medical license?”

“Who says I need to—”

The redhead raised a hand to stop you, her expression softening. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. But think about it. It’s a line, and crossing it? It’s not worth it. Not for anyone.”

Her words lingered in the air, heavy and unwelcome. You opened your mouth to argue, to deny, but nothing came out. Instead, you picked up your charts and left, her voice still echoing in your mind.

"She’s totally overreacting," Oliver’s voice echoes through the hallway as he falls into step beside you. “You just gotta wait it out. That’s all there is to it.”

“God, not you too,” you groan, clutching your clipboard a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he begins, shrugging casually, “I mean, I’m a ladies’ man. I’ve been there before— And I don’t think you should listen to what some stuck-up nurse has to say. Take it from me” He glances at you sideways, his expression slightly comical, “The amount of twelve year olds outside of this hospital is lethal. You should get to him before they do. I heard they bite. And they use their signs to hit people.”

You roll your eyes, “Take it from you? Because you’re a so-called professional, I presume?” You pick up your pace, but he keeps up.

“Sure,” he shrugs. “I mean, it’s tricky business. But I’d say, he probably doesn’t see a lot of genuine people walking around in his field. This can be good for you and him”, he takes a breath, and, looking you in the eye, he continues.

“I’m serious, y/n! If you blow it with him, you might never find anyone else again .”

You stop abruptly, turning to face him with a scowl. “Are you saying no one else will want me?”

“No, I’m just— he’s the only guy on planet earth that can be potentially as stuck up as you are,” he says, gesturing vaguely as though it explains everything. “Just hold it in for this case, and when he’s not your patient anymore, you can do whatever.”

You turn around in retaliation, “Are you—” You whirl around to face Oliver, your voice laced with frustration. “If someone needs to hold it in, it’s you. You hooked up with 3 nurses last week. And 4 of your interns! You flirted with 2 attendings yesterday! ”

Your voice draws in a few unwanted stares from the nurses, causing you to quiet down, while Oliver raises his hands, palms out, but you don’t give him a chance to respond.

“I don’t like him,” you continue, you whisper firmly, “and even if I did, I would know how to hold it in without the help of a certified hospital whore! I’m an adult, not some teenage girl gushing over a hallway crush. I am fully conscious of my actions, and I am painfully aware of the rules set by this hospital because I'm not stupid!”

Without giving him another second to argue, you turn on your heel and stride down the hallway, leaving him standing there.

But of course, Oliver can’t help himself. His voice calls after you, accompanied with a frown.

“You know, if it comes down to it, I really prefer the word slut. Whore feels demeaning.”

You don’t look back, though Anri’s words linger like a weight pressing against your chest.

On Thursday, Rin found himself staring at the clock, wondering why you hadn’t come by yet. It had been two days, after all.

He wouldn’t admit it— not even to himself— but the hours felt heavier in your absence. His time in the hospital was nearing its end, and the thought of leaving without saying something gnawed at him. You’d probably flip out if he left without a word, much like the time you’d discovered he’d removed his bandage and neglected the prescribed cream for two days straight.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts as a nurse entered the room, her demeanor cautious, as if stepping into a lion’s den. She carried a small card, her movements stiff and deliberate as she placed it on the bedside table next to the wilting flowers someone had left days ago. Without a word, she retreated as quickly as she had come, leaving Rin alone once more.

He sighed, leaning back into the pillows, and cast a glance at the card. It was pale blue, with a generic “Get Well Soon” emblazoned on the front. He didn’t even need to open it to know it wasn’t from you.

The thought made his chest tighten slightly. The nurses still scurried away from him, despite his recent efforts to dial back his temper. He’d stopped chasing them weeks ago— really, he had— but apparently, his reputation was following him around like a shadow.

What’s the point of trying if nothing changes?

He turned his head toward the flowers, the small card sitting innocuously nearby. His jaw tightened. For a second, he thought about crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash. Instead, he reached for the card and turned it over in his hand.

“...Probably not from her anyway,” he muttered to himself, as though saying it aloud would somehow make it sting less.

Rin hesitated for a moment before opening the card. The sharp edges of the paper felt out of place in his calloused hands, but curiosity won out. Inside, the neat, precise handwriting immediately caught his attention.

"Itoshi,

Rest up. The team needs you back in one piece. We’ll handle the field until then.

- PXG”

A faint grimace one could eventually interpret as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Of course, it was from them. PXG wasn’t exactly known for warm, heartfelt messages, but this was about as close as they got. They didn’t expect him to change, didn’t expect him to soften. They just wanted their star striker back, sharp and ruthless as ever.

The smirk faded quickly. He wasn’t sure why, but the card felt hollow. He glanced at the flowers again, brow furrowing. They were beginning to droop, petals curling inward like they were giving up. Rin’s fingers tapped idly against the card, his mind wandering.

This is what it’s always been. Keep moving forward. Keep winning. Anything else is just noise.

But lately, things felt… different. The noise had become a presence—an infuriating, stubborn presence that glared at him with just as much fire as he gave. Someone who dared to talk back, who rolled their eyes at his antics but still showed up anyway.

He clenched his jaw and tossed the card onto the bedside table. He wasn’t going to think about it. You were late for your check-in (inexcusably late, but if you made it today, he’d try to work up the energy to forgive you) and that was probably all it was. You were busy, and he was overthinking things.

Still, when the door creaked open a moment later, his head snapped up, his heart betraying him with an almost imperceptible jolt.

But it wasn’t you.

Another nurse entered, this one carrying a tray with his afternoon medication. Rin’s face hardened, and he leaned back into the pillows with a scowl.

“Medication time,” she said softly, keeping her distance.

“Just leave it there,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the desk.

The nurse hesitated but obeyed, setting the tray down and scurrying out like she couldn’t leave fast enough. Rin’s eyes followed her retreating figure, his mood souring further.

She’ll come by eventually, he thought, his gaze flicking back to the door as it closed. She always does.

By the time the sun rose on Friday, Rin was positively fuming. He couldn’t get over the fact that you hadn’t come to discharge him. It wasn’t like he’d been expecting some grand farewell, but he figured you’d at least show up. The guy from yesterday was competent enough, sure, but there was something grating about his overly cheery demeanor and his unsolicited stories about his son.

Rin scoffed at the memory. Calling someone a twelve year old genius didn’t generate much excitement when the statement itself came from a doctor of all people.

He flexed his fingers absentmindedly, feeling the ghost of a soccer ball’s weight in his hands. It was stupid to even be dwelling on it. He’d be out of this hospital and back on the field soon enough. That was the point of all this—healing, recovering, moving forward.

But his thoughts kept circling back.

The last time you’d come to see him, you’d been your usual exasperating self. Glaring, scolding, throwing medical jargon his way as though he’d ever care enough to remember it. Yet, between all the banter and the tension, there had been a sort of steadiness.

You were never one to sugarcoat things, and Rin had come to appreciate that. Maybe that’s why he was so agitated now. This hospital stay had been a drag, but you’d made it tolerable, even interesting.

The knock on his door broke through his thoughts.

“Come in,” he said gruffly, his eyes narrowing as he sat up straighter in bed.

To his disappointment— and growing annoyance— it wasn’t you. Another nurse entered, clipboard in hand.

“Itoshi-san,” she began carefully, “I’ve brought your discharge papers. You’ll just need to sign them, and then someone from the team can escort you out whenever you’re ready.”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t expected to be discharged for another two days. After a long pause, he nodded curtly and took the clipboard, signing his name with quick, precise strokes.

As the nurse turned to leave, Rin finally spoke up, his tone sharper than he intended.

“Where’s Y/N?”

The nurse blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh… Dr. L/n is on a different rotation today. I believe she’s in surgery most of the day.”

Rin’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away, dismissing her with a wave.

So that was it. You were too busy to stop by. Logical, reasonable, expected.

Still, as Rin swung his legs over the side of the bed and prepared to leave, he couldn’t shake the hollow feeling in his chest.

———————————————————-

You couldn’t tell if getting pulled from Rin’s case was a good thing. On one hand, you wouldn't have to deal with his constant arrogance, permanent frown, or smart remarks anymore. On the other hand, the visits had become a routine, and getting pulled from a certain routine takes a toll on people. Especially when said routine has been replaced with something worse.

The sounds of clips and metal tools clacking against each other in the OR were unnerving. Being a surgical resident assisting in her first lung transplant ever was a far cry from dealing with an injured athlete.

“Suction.”

The attending's voice cuts through the tense air, commanding and calm. Your hands moved instinctively, grasping the suction tool and working to clear the surgical field. Every motion was precise, deliberate, and yet, your nerves thrummed like a taut string.

You kept your eyes on the open thoracic cavity. A part of you was in awe of the doctors working on the transplant— the way the attending's hands danced across the cavity, navigating the mess full of blood vessels and tissue. Another part of you was screaming internally, worried you might miss a step or fumble at the worst possible moment.

”Keep it steady,” the attending sternly said, as your instrument wavered for the briefest second.

”Yes, doctor,” you replied, voice tight.

In that moment, you realized something unexpected: the steady banter and sharp-edged humor of Rin’s room seemed almost... calming in comparison to the sterile tension of the OR. There, you could throw back a quip or roll your eyes without fear of dire consequences. Here, every move had the weight of life and death.

As the attending began the anastomosis, joining the pulmonary artery to the donor lung, your focus sharpened. There was no room for error. The room was heavy with concentration, the rhythmic beeping of the monitors the only sound besides the surgeon's measured instructions.

You exhaled slowly. Routine or not, this was a challenge you’d always dreamed of facing. And despite the anxiety, a spark of determination flared within you. You’d proved you could handle an ACL tear with no assistance— if a lung transplant was thrown your way, you’ll deal with it.

The first signs that something was wrong came almost imperceptibly—a slight falter in the rhythm of the beeping monitors, a whisper of uncertainty in the attending’s voice as he called for another instrument.

“Suture,” he demanded sharply, and you scrambled to pass it, your hand trembling ever so slightly as you did. The air in the OR felt thicker now, like it was closing in.

Then came the sudden, shrill alarm of the heart monitor.

“Blood pressure’s dropping,” the anesthesiologist announced, her voice calm but clipped. “Seventy over forty.”

“Clamp the artery!” the attending barked. The scrub nurse moved quickly, handing over the vascular clamp. You watched as the attending’s hands worked faster, his movements less fluid and more urgent than before.

“Heart rate’s falling,” the anesthesiologist warned again, her voice tighter this time.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the patient, your suction tool frozen mid-air. It felt like the world had tilted on its axis. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not here, not in this room with some of the most skilled surgeons you’d ever seen.

“Doctor L/N, focus!” the attending snapped, snapping you out of your paralysis. You immediately resumed suctioning, but the pit in your stomach deepened.

“I’m seeing a tear in the pulmonary artery,” the attending muttered under his breath. He didn’t look up as he issued the next command. “Get me more gauze—now.”

The nurse moved to comply, but it was clear that the bleeding was already too much. You could see the blood pooling in the cavity, no matter how much suction you applied. Your gloves were slick with blood, the sterile world of the OR dissolving into chaos.

“Pressure’s tanking—fifty over thirty!” The anesthesiologist’s voice cut through the room like a knife.

“Damn it,” the attending hissed, leaning closer to the patient. “We need to stop this bleed or we’re going to lose her.”

The seconds stretched into eternity. You felt helpless, your limited role as a resident confining you to the sidelines of a battle that was rapidly being lost. Every beep of the monitors seemed to grow louder, more frantic, until they finally gave way to a single, flat tone.

“No pulse,” someone murmured, though the words echoed like a shout in the silent room.

“Start compressions,” the attending ordered, his voice now devoid of its earlier sharpness. You stepped back as the scrub nurse took over, pressing rhythmically against the patient’s chest while the attending worked furiously to repair the damage.

“Adrenaline, one milligram,” the anesthesiologist called, her hands moving with practiced efficiency.

But even as everyone in the OR fought to revive the patient, a grim certainty settled over the room. Minutes passed, feeling like hours, and the flatline on the monitor remained unwavering.

Finally, the attending slumped back, his gloves and gown stained deep red. His voice was heavy as he spoke the words you’d never wanted to hear.

“Alright, I’m calling it.” Shooting a look at his watch, he quickly declared what you’d dreaded to hear the most, “Time of death, 10:47 AM”

The room was silent except for the hum of the machines and the shuffle of exhausted feet. You stood there, frozen, staring at the still figure on the table. You’d known, logically, that not every surgery ended in success. But knowing it in theory and experiencing it firsthand were two entirely different things.

“Clean up,” the attending said quietly, already removing his gloves and gown. He looked at you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “There’s always next time. Dr L/n, you’re free to go.”

You nodded numbly, your hands shaking as you removed your own gloves.

As soon as you pushed the button and make your way out of the OR, the sobs wreck through your body like a storm, uncontrollable and raw. You press your palms against your face, as if that could somehow push the pain away, but it only makes the ache in your chest sharper. The hallway is lit with horrible, fluorescent lights, and offers little to no comfort, its emptiness amplifying the sound of your heartbreak.

The patient on the table was a thirteen year old girl with whom you’d worked with for two months. Leah’s laugh echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of the life that was now gone. You’d made promises to her, assurances you thought you could keep. “You’ll be just fine,” you had said, your voice confident and steady, even when she’d looked at you with wide, worried eyes. But what was the point of words when they ended in this? When you couldn’t keep her safe?

She’d trusted you. Her bubbly little voice still rang in your ears, calling you “sister from another mother,” and now it felt like a dagger to the heart. You remember the games you’d played to distract her from the pain, the little jokes that always made her giggle, the way her face lit up when you walked into the room. How could someone so vibrant, so full of life, just be… gone?

Your hands tremble as you clench them into fists, your nails digging into your palms to ground yourself in something, anything, other than the overwhelming grief. But it doesn’t help. Nothing does.

The weight of the day crushes you. The guilt is suffocating, a vicious cycle of “what ifs” and “if onlys.” What if you’d caught something sooner? What if you’d advocated harder? What if you’d somehow done more? The logical part of your brain, the part trained to understand that not every battle can be won, doesn’t stand a chance against the emotions consuming you.

After what feels like an eternity, the tears stop, not because the pain has lessened but because your body has nothing left to give. You sit there, hollow and numb, staring at the sterile white walls. You’re not sure how much time has passed—minutes? Hours? It doesn’t matter.

The sound of distant footsteps pulls you back to reality. You quickly wipe at your face, though it’s a futile effort; your eyes are red and swollen, your cheeks streaked with tear tracks. You don’t care. Let them see. Let them know how broken you feel.

But as the footsteps grow louder, you instinctively steel yourself, pushing the emotions down into the deepest recesses of your mind. There’s no room for vulnerability here, not in this place where strength is expected at all times.

"Y/n?"

You quickly rub your palms across your cheeks, desperate to dry your tears and wipe away the redness in your eyes. Your attempt at composure is poor at best, and the sting of crying makes your face feel heavy.

"Uh, yeah, I’ll, um— I’m going," you stammer, avoiding eye contact as you push yourself up from the bed.

As you turn to leave, you collide with a firm chest. Startled, you curse under your breath and glance up, only to freeze when you meet Rin’s sharp, questioning gaze.

“Are you… okay?” he asks, his voice lower than usual, almost cautious.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is cold and distant, your gaze glued to the floor in a desperate attempt to hide the tears staining your cheeks.

Rin’s eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to speak again. “I got lost. Why are you here? What happened?”

“I’m here because this is my workplace. You’re not supposed to be down here. This part is off-limits to patients.”

“I’m not a patient anymore.”

“Fine, it’s off-limits to empty-headed footballers. So leave, will you?”

“I’m trying to be nice.”

“Genuinely nice people don’t usually tell others when they’re being nice.”

“Well, I’m not a genuinely nice person, am I?”

You try to deflect, forcing a weak smile as you mumble, "Are you really asking? Because I really need to talk about this." Your voice cracks, betraying your strong appearance you’d crafted, and you can feel your lower lip quivering as the tears threaten to spill again.

Rin takes half a step back, his brows furrowed in discomfort. "Well, now I’m not so sure I’m asking," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

You lose the fragile grip on your emotions, a single tear escapes, sliding down your cheek, and your lower lip wobbles again, and Rin stiffens. His eyes dart between yours and the tear as though it’s a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve.

"No, um, joke," he blurts, his words tripping over themselves. "I was joking. Seriously."

But it’s too late. You close the distance, wrapping your arms around his neck in a sudden, desperate hug. His entire body goes rigid, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides as if someone has just activated his fight-or-flight response.

"You’re an asshat," you sniffle, burying your face into his shoulder, "but I really, really need someone right now."

Rin is silent for a moment, clearly at war with himself. Then, with an almost audible sigh, his arms hesitantly come up to rest around your back.

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "Well, you’re a bitch on wheels."

You let out a watery laugh, your grip around him tightening. "I know," you whisper back, your voice shaky but lighter than before.

Rin relaxes, just slightly, his hold on you firm but careful. It’s clumsy and unpracticed, but the warmth of his embrace feels genuine. For once, neither of you have anything snarky to say, and the silence speaks louder than any words could. His hand slips from your waist to find your own, and your breath catches as your fingers meet. Your eyes widen against the curve of his neck when he takes your hand and, with surprising gentleness, guides you toward the hospital beds near the wall. The fragile silence settles around you like a bubble, one neither of you dares to break.

Cautiously, you lean your head against his shoulder, half-expecting him to stiffen or pull away, or maybe to even drop-kick you onto the hospital floor. But he doesn’t.

Instead, the steady rise and fall of his chest is almost soothing, and the faint scent of muscade, rain, grass, and cologne weaves between you like an invisible blanket. It’s intoxicating.

Strangely enough, this feels about a thousand times more intimate than it has with any of your past relationships. Things get even more strange when you realise: you don’t want this moment to end. Ever. You start telling yourself you must’ve been around too many questionable medicaments when the only thought that echoes in your mind is the one that tells you that even forever wouldn’t be long enough.

“One of my patients died,” you admit, your words trembling as much as your hands. “I… I really liked her. She was so young…” You swipe a hand under your nose, sniffling as you try to keep yourself together.

Rin doesn’t say anything at first. His shoulders shift, and he glances at you briefly, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of such raw emotion. “Oh,” he mutters finally, his voice low.

“I’m not—I don’t want to seem pushy,” you add quickly, your words rushing out in an effort to fill the silence. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I just really need to talk.”

“Sure,” Rin shrugs, leaning back slightly.

You take a shaky breath, your voice climbing a pitch as tears threaten to spill again. “It’s just… people have been on my ass about everything. Torres is counting on me so much, Leah’s parents probably hate me because I told them she was going to be fine, and now she’s—she’s gone.”

Your hands fly up as you let out an exasperated sigh, leaning your head back against the wall behind you. You can feel the familiar sting of tears building again, but before they can spill, Rin’s elbow nudges you lightly, pulling you out of your spiral.

“Wasn’t your fault though, right?” he says, his tone almost casual. “You’re not a real doctor yet.”

You whip your head around to glare at him. “I am a real doctor. Just not an attending.”

Rin raises an eyebrow. “Don’t know what that means.”

Despite the tears brimming in your eyes, you let out a scoff, shuffling around to sit cross-legged on the bed. “Fine. I’ll explain it to you.” You sniffle again and swipe at your face before continuing.

“So… there are interns. They don’t do much unless someone decides to throw them a bone. Maybe an appy once in a blue moon if you’re feeling generous. Most of the time, they’re stuck filling out post-ops and running errands.”

Your voice falters slightly, and your mind flashes back to Leah. Her post-op report is probably sitting on someone’s desk right now, untouched. The thought makes your throat tighten, and you’re about to lose it again when Rin nudges you once more.

“But I know you’re not an intern, so what are you?”

“I’m a resident,” you manage to say after a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. “I’ve got interns to manage, but I’m also like my attending’s intern. It’s… complicated, but I’m somewhere in the middle.”

Rin leans his head back, arms crossed over his chest. “So what’s an attending?”

You let out a watery laugh, swiping at your face again. “You seriously don’t know? After being stuck in here for that long?”

A small smile draws on Rin’s face. This was pathetic. Pretending to be stupid just to keep someone’s mind off tough times is weak, and laughable.

“No, I don’t. I’m an empty-headed footballer, remember?”

You laugh, for the second time this evening. Too bad. It’s not like everyone would know he’d been weak and pathetic for you, anyway.

———————————————————-

To: yn.ln@orthopedics.hospital.org

From: sayuri.itoshi@outlook.jp

Subject: Thank You!

Dear y/n,

It’s been a bit of a challenge getting your name out of that stubborn, football-obsessed son of mine (I’m sure you’re well aware of this!), but I wanted to take a moment to personally thank you for all of your hard work. Rin is back on the field and his knee is performing miracles—thanks to you!

I couldn’t make it in person to express my gratitude, but I wanted to extend an invitation: in a week, one of Rin’s cousins is getting married. The entire family would be thrilled to see you there and offer our thanks in person, including the bride herself! I understand this is short notice, so please don’t feel pressured to accept. But if you do, we would be absolutely delighted.

Sayuri Itoshi, Ph.D.

Professor of Economics

Department of Economics

University of Tokyo

7-3-1 Hongo, Bunkyo-ku, Tokyo 113-8654, Japan

“Oh. My God.”

Livy is leaning over your computer, hands on the back of your chair, her eyes wide as she stares at the screen. When she speaks up again, it’s with an excitement that makes you wince. “You should go,” she practically squeals, spinning your chair to face her. “I can help you pick out a dress!”

Then, with a finger tapping the corner of her mouth in mock contemplation, she bemoans, “Well, now you have to go. If you don’t, the idea of helping you pick out a dress for your first date will be etched into my mind forever, tormenting me until the end of time. And it will all be your fault.”

Her theatrics reach a dramatic climax as she locks her arms around you, shaking you lightly while declaring, “But thankfully, my beautiful, smart best friend would never let me suffer this way. Oh, how grateful I am! How lucky!”

“Cut it out,” you grit through clenched teeth. “I’m not going.”

“What!? No, you can’t not go! Remember how you said you’d never torture me mentally? This is torture. You’re torturing me. Please stop torturing me.”

You’re about to retort when Oliver comes into view, clipboard in hand. His smirk almost makes you want to bolt from the hospital entirely, while Livy continues twisting her body as though in invisible agony.

“You should go,” Oliver says casually, leaning against the desk.

“I don’t take advice from whores.”

Oliver’s jaw drops in indignation. “No— I told you! You can’t call me that; it’s demeaning! There used to be a time where you respected my wishes. Now you just humiliate me in hospital hallways.” He spins on his heel dramatically, crossing his arms and it’s clear talking to you is no longer in his prospects.

You smile, turning back to your computer with a fleeting sense of victory— only for your heart to drop when you catch sight of the screen. The faint "Sent!" animation flashes in the corner, and dread floods you as you scramble to check your sent emails.

Your worst fears are confirmed.

To: sayuri.itoshi@outlook.jp

From: yn.ln@orthopedics.hospital.org

Subject: Re: Thank You!

Dear Mrs. Itoshi,

I couldn’t be happier that your son has regained full mobility. His physiotherapist certainly did an excellent job. As for me, I am deeply grateful for your kind words and could never bring myself to refuse such an honor. It was a pleasure working with your son, and I am glad to have been of help.

Sincerely,

Y/N L/N, M.D.

Orthopedic Surgery Resident, PGY-4

Blue Lock Medical Center

Department of Orthopedic Surgery

Your City, Your State/Country

You stare at the screen in horror, while Livy smirks in malice behind you. “I did tell you you were going.”

———————————————————-

"Okay, so. There are three checkpoints we need to go through," Livy declares solemnly, pushing her glasses up her nose with the air of someone about to deliver groundbreaking news.

"I need to go through," you correct her, not bothering to look up from your computer.

She glares at you over her papers. "Actually, I’ve decided that, considering the absolute disaster you are, you’re going to need me during the dress fitting, the flight, and the wedding."

You whip your head toward her so fast your neck twinges. "The wedding?!"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," she says nonchalantly, flipping a page like she hasn’t just dropped a bombshell. "I texted Itoshi’s mom. She loves me, by the way. Well, maybe not more than you, but she definitely loves me."

"You texted her?!" you screech.

"How else was I supposed to ask if I could come?" she replies, tone impossibly casual.

"Wait—hold on," you say, holding up your hand. "You have her number?!"

Livy smirks, leaning back in her chair. "You don’t?"

For a moment, all you can do is gape at her, your jaw practically hitting the floor. "Livy, how the hell do you have Sayuri Itoshi’s number?"

"Easy," she says, ticking off her fingers. "I’m charming, resourceful, and clearly the brains of this operation."

You bury your face in your hands. "You can’t just invite yourself to someone else’s family wedding!”

"Why not?" she asks, sounding entirely unbothered. "Mrs. Itoshi said it’s fine. She actually sounded excited. Something about the more, the merrier."

You stare at her, mouth agape. "You’re insane."

"And you’re welcome," Livy says with a smug grin. "Oh, and I told her I’d sit next to you at the reception. You know, to keep you from embarrassing yourself."

"Livy!" you groan, leaning back in your chair.

"What?" she shrugs. "She loves me."

Your eyes almost pop out of your sockets

#1 CHECKPOINT : FITTING

“Livy, I can’t move. This dress sucks. And it’s ugly. I feel like a geometry shape, the dress is actually made of metal. I cannot move.”

”It’s not ugly, it’s… special. I like the red, it’s very— joyful! You know, merry Christmas and all that. It’s cute…” at the frown on your face, Liv can only grimace. “— ish?”

“No, it’s not.” You draw the curtains harshly, and turn around to get this horrid dress off from you. “How did you say we were gonna get there again?” You grit your teeth as you attempt to open the zipper on the back.

“By plane. Sayuri sent me the tickets. We leave in two days by the way, so hurry up with the dress.”

You draw the curtain back, and show your horrified expression through the gap.

“What? You—” You pinch the bridge of your nose with your index and thumb, inhaling sharply in a desperate attempt to rein in your spiraling thoughts. “Two days? How is there going to be enough time to get everything done?” You shove a bright red dress back through the curtain, letting out an exasperated groan. “And this is too red.”

“No, I— Y/n, this is a Christmas wedding!” Livy huffs from the other side. “It has to be on theme. Red is on theme!”

“There are plenty of Christmas colors to work with that aren’t bright, in-your-face red,” you argue, already regretting your choice to come along.

This time, Livy groans loudly, the sound dripping with frustration. “White is out, green is boring, and that leaves us with red. I never said it had to be bright red anyway!”

Her words make you pause mid-turn in your cabin. You glance at the dresses she’s forced on you, a sea of reds ranging from deep burgundy to literal crimson that reminds you of your nephew’s fire truck toy. They glare back at you mockingly, each shade more vibrant than the last. Even with the heavy curtain separating you from Livy’s persistent presence, you resist the urge to roll your eyes— though you doubt she’d care if she could see you.

How did you even get here? You’d been adamant about not going along with this. Sure, you hadn’t sent that email, but you definitely hadn’t consented to being dragged to an impromptu shopping trip for someone else’s Christmas wedding. Yet here you are, drowning in an actual tsunami of reds, your fingers sifting through material and nuance options as your mind drifts somewhere you wish it wouldn’t.

The memory of that night creeps in, despite being as unwelcome as it is. You try to shove it aside, but the image of Rin lingers, sharp and intrusive. It had been after that god-awful surgery, when the stress and exhaustion had left you raw and exposed. You shouldn’t have hugged him. You really shouldn’t have hugged him, and yet you did.

And now, no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop replaying it in your head. Did he think it was more than what it was? Did you think it was more than what it was? And, more importantly, what was it, exactly? It’s not as if it was a kiss. If it had been a kiss, maybe you could justify this endless loop of overthinking. But it wasn’t. So why does it still feel like your heart is caught in a vice?

Your hand trails absently over the materials covering the cabin walls as you change again, and your thoughts spiral deeper into the memory, your focus completely stolen by questions you aren’t sure you even want the answers to.

“Hello? Can you hear me? Earth to Y/n?”

“What?” Your head snaps around so fast it’s a wonder you don’t give yourself whiplash. You yank the curtain open, annoyance radiating off you in waves.

Livy stands there, momentarily stunned, her eyes scanning the dress you’ve reluctantly put on.

“Never mind,” she says after a beat, a smile creeping onto her lips. “You look great!”

“It’s too tight,” you bite out, your tone as stiff as the fabric clinging to your body.

Livy rolls her eyes, completely unbothered by your complaint. “It’s supposed to feel tight, sweetheart. That’s how you know it’s doing something for you.”

Before you can argue further, she grabs the curtain and pulls it shut again with a dramatic flourish. “Now hurry up and get changed,” she calls through the fabric. “We still need to figure out accessories, and at this rate, we’ll be here all night!”

#2 CHECKPOINT: AIRPORT

You hated airports. No amount of martinis, gin, or whiskey in the lounge could ever erase the sinking dread of knowing you’d soon be thousands of miles above the ground, trapped in a pressurized metal tube.

“Isn’t it great he booked us business tickets? We’ll have to thank him somehow…” Livy’s voice broke through your sulking, her eyes peeking over the hem of her magazine. “Prada has nice ties. You could pair one with some flowers or something. Classic.”

You shot upright, abandoning the slouched position you’d melted into. “A tie? What does she need a tie for?”

Livy glanced at you over her glasses, unimpressed. “Are you listening to me? Not she, he. Ties are a pretty standard gift for guys.”

Your brows furrowed. “What guy?”

Her exasperation was palpable, her dramatic sigh echoing in your ears. “Rin. Obviously.”

“I’m not getting Rin a gift. He’s not the one getting married.”

“No, he’s not,” Livy said, lowering her magazine just enough to glare at you knowingly. “But he is the one who booked your ticket.”

You blinked, stunned. Your fingers curled into the armrest of your seat as you tried to wrap your head around her words. “How do you know that?”

Livy, completely unbothered by your growing suspicion, calmly removed her glasses and flipped another page. “Relax. I told you, his mom and I text.” She held up her phone as if that explained everything, the screen lit with a string of cheerful messages.

“And?” you prompted, your patience wearing thin.

“And,” she said with an almost mischievous smile, “he upgraded your ticket. Something about it being a thank-you gift. Although, if I had to guess, his mom probably forced him into doing it.”

Your hands were already itching to throttle her, if only to shake loose the full story you were certain she was keeping to herself.

“So,” she spoke up again, “Isn’t it nice, what he did?”

“Sure it is,” you shrug. “Did you change his diapers? Is that why he upgraded your seat, too?” You say, sipping your coffee.

“I have my ways. I don’t need to change anybody’s diapers,” Livy says, raising her eyebrows smugly over the rim of her sunglasses, “or read him bedtime stories to help him fall asleep.”

Your head snaps toward her. “How do you know about that?”

Her smirk grows wider. “You really did read him bedtime stories?”

Rolling your eyes, you counter, “No. They were Ancient Greek myths.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does! You know Anri—the nurse? She called them bedtime stories, too. It’s ridiculous—”

“Y/n.” Livy cuts you off, her tone shifting slightly, almost as if she’s trying to ground you in the moment. “You know what I’m talking about—it’s not about Greek myths or bedtime stories. You’ve never put this much effort into anyone. Ever.”

Feigning indignation, you shoot back, “Yes, I have!”

“Last year, you gave me the exact same present you gave me two years ago. That’s the same gift. Back to back.”

Her words make you falter, the faintest trace of heat creeping into your cheeks. “That was… purely coincidence,” you mutter, your bravado waning.

Livy lets out a soft chuckle, but her expression remains sincere. “Look, none of us have ever blamed you for it. You’ve always been practical, and we respect that. But what you’ve done for Rin? That goes beyond friendliness, doesn’t it?”

You hesitate, your brows furrowing as you grapple with the idea. You’ve desperately tried to forbid yourself from dwelling on it for too long—brushing off the teasing and heat as inconsequential, refusing to acknowledge the way his presence has slipped past your defenses.

“No, it just… started once, and then we just kept going, but I never intended… I never…” Your words falter, tangling in your throat as your gaze drifts into empty space.

Livy sighs, realizing she won’t get anything more from you. Still, she knows you well—better than anyone else. You two had pulled through med school together, had snagged an internship at the same place together, and now, you’re residents together. She knows you like the back of her hand. She knows you’re logical to a fault, always weighing every decision with precision. And yet, when it comes to Rin, all logic seems to crumble.

She wonders if it’s because you see love as inherently illogical—a chaotic, uncharted territory where reason holds no sway. That might explain why you’ve let yourself become so tangled in something you can’t quite define.

But Livy knows more than she’s letting on. She itches to tell you about how Rin behaves when you’re not around— the cold, dismissive tone he reserves for the rest of the staff, the outright refusals to accept anyone else’s diagnostics or treatments. How he insists on you, and only you, for the massages and check-ins. How you’ve drawn more words out of him than anyone else in the entire hospital.

If only you knew.

Still, Livy knows you wouldn’t take this kind of conversation well in a calm, controlled setting. Perhaps a little nudge, a change in approach, is what’s needed to help you see what’s right in front of you.

Livy leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other with a deliberate air. “Do you know the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea?”

You didn’t even bother looking up from your magazine. “Oh, this should be good. Are you seriously trying to use my own technique on me? I know what you’re doing.”

She rolled her eyes, tossing her sunglasses onto the table. “Well, do you?”

That made you pause. You raised an eyebrow, finally sparing her a glance. “Yes, I do. You can do better.”

“No I don’t think so,” she said, her lips curving into a sly grin. “So, Pygmalion was this sculptor, right? Crazy talented but kind of… emotionally constipated. He didn’t care about love. Thought no one was good enough for him, that most people couldn’t keep up with him. Then, one day, he sculpts Galatea, and she’s everything he’s ever wanted. Perfect in every way. And—”

You snorted, flipping a page. “and he falls in love with Galatea, prays to Aphrodite to help him out. She makes Galatea come alive, and he’s still not happy. I told you, I know the myth.”

“My point is,” Livy said, leaning forward as if she were about to deliver a groundbreaking revelation, “he didn’t realize he was falling in love while he was working on her. He just kept pouring all this time and energy into her, treating her like she was the most important thing in his life. Sound familiar?”

Your fingers froze mid-turn, and the page fluttered back into place. “What, so you’re comparing me to Galatea? You’re saying that I completely changed the rules of his entire world and am the love of his life?”

She threw her hands up dramatically. “No smartass, I’m comparing you to Pygmalion.”

“Livy, he’s a patient,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “I’m a doctor. End of story.”

Livy’s grin softened into something closer to a small smile. “Sure. If that’s what you want to tell yourself.” She leaned back again, watching you with those too-perceptive eyes. “But think about it. You’ve gone above and beyond for him. You’ve put more effort into him than I’ve seen you give anyone else—ever. Not even me, and I’m your best friend.”

“It’s not like that,” you muttered, dropping the magazine entirely. “I’m just… helping him through a rough time. That’s all.”

Livy tilted her head, studying you. “And maybe it started that way. But Pygmalion didn’t know he was falling for Galatea until she came to life. So ask yourself this—what exactly are you sculpting here?”

#3 CHECKPOINT: WEDDING

“Woah.”

It was the only thing you could manage, and you knew it didn’t come close to doing the place justice. The venue was stunning—like something out of one of those glossy magazine spreads you always thought were too perfect to be real.

Right in the middle of the room was a massive Christmas tree, its branches dusted with snow and decked out in silver and red ornaments. The centerpiece served as a reference point for the tables, arranged in neat circles around it, each one set so perfectly it looked like no one had dared touch it yet.

The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in just enough of the snowy view outside to make you forget you were indoors. Garlands hung from the dark ceiling, their lights twinkling like stars in a way that felt straight out of a fairytale.

And then there was the snow. It was falling—inside, somehow—but frozen midair, like it was posing for a photo. None of it landed on the guests or the tables, just hung there, suspended in a way that made you want to reach out and see if it was real.

It was the kind of place that made you stop for a second, your brain scrambling to catch up with everything your eyes were taking in.

“This is so…”

“Magnificent? I sure hope so. I paid for some of it.”

The voice was unfamiliar, but the sharp tone—balanced with just enough amusement to keep it from feeling cold—made you freeze. You had a pretty good idea of who it might be.

“Uh…”

“Don’t worry,” the woman continued, her words breezy and direct. “I wasn’t alone. My sons helped. With all the money they’re raking in now, I’d be questioning my parenting if they didn’t chip in.”

And then you saw her. The blue eyes, the fierce, unreadable stare, the kind of eyelashes most people would kill for— it all clicked. Rin’s mother.

“Oh my God, Ms. Itoshi, hi, I— I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” you stammered, your words tumbling out as your hands flew to smooth the fabric of your dress.

Before you can even try to respond, Rin appears at your side, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Mom, can you not?” Rin grumbles, clearly unamused.

“Can I not what? Make polite conversation with your friend?” she teases, swiping lightly at his shoulder. Rin straightens instinctively, his usual scowl deepening.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Go accompany her to the bar and introduce her to the family instead of saying something stupid, will you?”

Rin mutters something under his breath, but before you can catch it, he grips your wrist lightly and pulls you toward the bar.

In an attempt to diffuse the tension lingering in the air, you clear your throat and force a light tone. “So… your mom runs a tight ship, huh?”

“Not any tighter than how you ran that hospital room,” Rin shoots back, his sharp gaze flickering toward you.

You laugh dryly, shaking your head. “Please. It could’ve gone a lot worse.”

“Could it?” he challenges, his tone skeptical as you both settle onto the barstools.

You shrug, taking a sip of the drink the bartender places in front of you. “If Livy were here, she’d tell you all about the time we had this kid that had been in a car crash. Total nightmare. Earphones in 24/7, wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t let us do anything. Her mom went along with everything she wanted— so when we had to pull her in for surgery and she refused, guess what? Her mom wouldn’t give consent either. We had to send her home. Now her room, I ran like a military camp. She called me sergeant and everything.”

Rin’s frown deepens, his fingers tapping against the bar. “Did the kid have a death wish? And was the mom having a brain aneurysm or something?”

You suppress a laugh. “Look at you with all those medical terms. Maybe you should’ve pursued med school instead of football.”

His scowl sharpens, and he motions with his glass for you to continue.

“Some people just…” You exhale slowly, your fingers brushing against the condensation on your glass. “It’s hard to explain. I see it every day, and I still don’t fully get it. But my best guess? The mom was afraid of her kid.”

“Afraid of her own child?” Rin says, his voice edged with disbelief. “That’s pathetic.”

“Not that kind of afraid,” you clarify, meeting his gaze. “It’s more… she was desperate for her kid’s love. Saying no—whether it was about a life saving surgery or a bag of candy—felt like a step closer to having her kid resent her forever.”

Rin takes a long sip of his drink before setting the glass down. “Still pathetic.”

You shrug. “Everyone’s different,” you say, as the liquor burns down your throat. You pull a grimace, and hum in discomfort.

“This burns.” You explain, and Rin sighs in subtle amusement, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, until the frown etched on his face earlier resurfaces again. “I get wanting your kid to love you, but letting them die because you’re scared to piss them off? That’s weak.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, leaning slightly against the bar. “It’s easy to judge when you’re not in their shoes. People have their own battles, Rin. Some are just… quieter.”

“Quieter doesn’t mean they’re not bullshit,” he mutters, taking another sip.

“You’d be surprised how fear can change people. That mom probably thought she was doing the right thing, in her own twisted way.” You pause, giving him a sidelong glance. “Kind of like how you think being an uncooperative patient is somehow noble.”

Rin shoots you a sharp look, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. “You saying I’m as bad as her?”

“Not quite,” you tease, lifting your glass to your lips. “But you do have a knack for being stubborn when you think you’re right, even when you’re not.”

“I’m always right,” he retorts, leaning back in his chair with a hint of defiance.

“Mm, sure. That’s why I had to chase you down the hall last time you tried to escape physical therapy.”

“That was a tactical retreat,” he counters, deadpan.

You laugh, the sound light against the festive hum of the venue. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Itoshi.”

His gaze softens slightly as he looks at you. “You’ve got some nerve calling me stubborn when you’re the one arguing philosophy over a bar top.”

“I’m just trying to educate you.”

Rin tilts his head, considering you for a moment. “You know, you could’ve just told me I was a good patient and spared me this lecture.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You grin, nudging his arm lightly, as he leans over to you to grab a bottle of god-knows-what— and you stiffen. You stiffen, because when Rin leans close to you, you are transported back to the night of Leah’s death, and the scent of muscade takes over your senses, and realisations come to hit you like a truck all over again— and you don’t think you can handle them.

You think about what it would be like to kiss him, to rest your head on his chest, to—

“Oh, Rin! Is this the doctor you told us about?” A woman to whom you couldn’t be more grateful for interrupting your spiralling train of thought, comes up to you both and slaps a hand on Rin’s shoulder.

The black haired footballer only grunts in return, and you smile at the obvious display of familiarity between the two.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you never told us how pretty she is!” She smiles brightly at you, and settles her elbows on the mahogany bar top, nestling her face between her hands. “As pretty as a picture! Tell you what, you should take Rin out on a date—“

“Tsumugi, enough.”

“Oh,” she clicks her tongue in annoyance and lightly glares at Rin, before turning back to you, hushing her voice theatratically, “You know I have never seen him talk to someone for this long? You are a real sweetheart putting up with him for as long as you have, really-“

“Tsumugi.” Rin can’t stand it. Most of this conversation has been smooth sailing, until his other cousin (god, how come he has this many cousins in the first place?) came in and crashed said sailing like an actual tornado. Worst of all, Rin can’t seem to hide the heat creeping up his neck, nor his embarrassment at Tsumugi’s words.

Sure, he’s talked to you a lot. Sure, you had hugged, and he had, out of the graciousness of his heart let you rest your head on his shoulder for a moment. But, honestly, what was he supposed to do? You were crying, and you were dealing with… stuff.

“Yeah, thanks.” Your awkward smile and tone breaks him out of his reverie, and he almost feels bad for the predicament his cousin forced you into.

You are pretty, though, he thinks. It’s obvious. You’re more than pretty, even. And you’re smart. His mother likes you. His cousin likes you, too. Sure, your friend is a little over the top, and your other friend is kind of a slut, but you’re great. Rin wishes he could find another word, because he knows in the depth of his heart that you’re not just great, but the corners of his mouth only dip and his expression sours when he can’t seem to find one. Better you find someone who actually knows how to compliment someone without coming off as a jackass, he thinks. Better not be me.

“She’s great.”

The voice feels so familiar it bounces off the walls, and makes Rin’s heart heavy. He looks at you briefly to make sure you’re not listening in, and turns the other way when he sees you talking animatedly to Tsumugi, any and all awkward introductions seemingly forgotten.

“Who is?”

Sae only clicks his tongue, and nods at you. “Her. Doctor, wasn’t it?”

Almost immediately, Rin’s brain thinks up as many conversation starters to steer the conversation topic away from you like a dispenser pumping gas. If it won’t be him, it won’t be Sae, he thinks, hands clutching under the bar top. Anyone but Sae.

“She’s not single.” Rin blurts out, face composed.

“Who’s not single?” The black haired football player’s eyes almost bulge out of his eye sockets, and it takes him the strength of a thousand mountains to not spill the contents of his glass all over the place when you suddenly make your appearance, turning around, your knees knocking into Rin’s.

“You, apparently.” Sae says, voice smooth as he downs the contents of his own glass.

You splutter at the eldest’s words, eyes widening, and your hand covering your mouth.

“I— Excuse me?”

His older brother only grins slightly, leaning back against the back of the chair in silent victory. “Ah,” he starts, eyes riveted to the black haired player next to him. “Is that not the case?”

Heat slowly creeps up your neck and you have a hard time getting a sentence, let alone words, out of your throat.

“Have you finally found some other person to follow around like a puppy?” Sae wonders out loud, and the more he talks, the more you can see Rin’s eyes darkening. “I have to say,” The eldest turns to you, “I’ve never seen my little brother with a crush. ‘Suppose I should congratulate you for that.” He sips on his glass again, eyes seemingly faraway.

When you finally regain your senses, they rip out of your trachea like a rose full of thorns. Long, pointy, deadly thorns.

“I don’t— I gotta go. To the bathro— restroom. Sorry,” you quickly shimmy out of your chair in a hurried frenzy, eager to make your way out of this very unfortunately awkward conversation. Maybe Livy was right. Maybe you do need to figure out what exactly you were sculpting here, you reluctantly admit to yourself.

“I’m sorry, have you seen Livy? I mean, Olivia? Olivia Matsson, tall, blond?" You mimic her height with a hand above your head, and hope you’re not coming across as a coke addict with how energetic you’re being. “A little over the top?”

A woman tells you yes, and nods over to a direction near a table somewhere in the back. You don’t see her right away, but you take the hint anyway, and sprint over until you spot a head full of vibrant, blonde hair.

“Liv! Livy!”

Livy turns around, and visibly gasps at your state.

“Wh— How? What happened?”

“I think,” you breathe in, “I think, I know what I’m sculpting.”

Livy points at you, already reaching for a hefty bottle of whiskey. “You,” she declares, shoving a glass into your hand, “need a drink.”

You barely get a sigh out before she fills it to the brim.

“Bottoms up.”

You lift the glass, ready to down the whole thing in one go, but Livy stops you with a sharp gasp.

“No! You animal! This is whiskey, not a cheap shot. Sip it, savor it— God.”

You don’t question her very specific expertise or extensive knowledge on alcohol consumption, just take a breath and a small, slow sip before launching into it.

“Rin lied.” Another sip. “He told Sae I wasn’t single. Like I was taken.” You shake your head. “And maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but then they were both looking at me, and Sae was pointing at me, and you said Rin liked me, so I thought—”

“Okay, okay, slow down.”

“You said, that he—“

“That he liked you,” Livy finishes, and motions for you to keep going. You you turn your palm towards her to show your agreement with a small “Right,” and keep going.

“Well, I was— I did think about it, you know, I did, and you’re right, he is handsome, and we’ve had our moments, and he’s not, I mean it’s not like he’s my patient anymore, so who cares right? I can try something. And I think I want to, so—“

“Oh, honey.” Livy smiles fondly and hands you a napkin when a trickle of alcohol escapes down your chin after a few too many sips. “Take a seat and tell me everything.” She pats the chair beside her, urging you to sit.

You sigh, dropping into the seat. “I don’t know how to approach him. We’ve talked about my feelings, but never his. And I know, I know this probably sounds stupid and obvious to you, but I’m terrified this is all just—just a total misunderstanding. Because, oh my god, I really like him. And if I’ve been reading this wrong the whole time, I think I might actually die.”

Livy hums, swirling the drink in her glass. “I get it. It’s scary, but sometimes the only way forward is to throw yourself to the wolves.”

You snort. “Great. That makes me feel so much better.” You mumble against the rim of your glass, eyes locked on the mural across the room.

She laughs, nudging your knee with hers. “I’m serious! It’s nerve-wracking, sure, but it’s part of the process. And honestly?” She tilts her head, considering her next words. “If you saw the way he looks at you… If you don’t know how to go about this, what makes you think he does?”

You swallow, staring at your drink. “I just— I don’t want to ruin things.”

Livy sighs, leaning her elbow on the table. “You know, love isn’t about having all the answers beforehand. It’s not this neatly wrapped thing where you always know what the other person is thinking. It’s messy. And it’s— it’s, god it’s a great deal of awkward. And it’s a lot to stand in front of someone and hoping they don’t run in the other direction.” She smiles softly. “But when it’s real? You meet in the middle. You figure it out together. And, lovely, I think he’s already halfway there.”

Your throat tightens, and you shake your head. “And if he’s not?”

“Then you’ll survive,” she says simply. “Heartbreak isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you. You know what is? Never trying. Spending forever wondering what could’ve been.” She reaches over and squeezes your hand. “You deserve to know where you stand. And if that means throwing yourself to the wolves, then at least you’ll do it knowing you were brave enough to want something real.”

A deep breath expands in your chest, and for the first time tonight, the panic quiets just a little.

“You make it sound so easy,” you murmur.

Livy grins. “It’s not. But love isn’t about easy. It’s about worth it.”

“You’re too good at this.” You frown.

“I know. I should consider a career change. You’re the only thing holding me back, hun.”

“Cute.” You grin, “I’m like your white knight in shining armor.”

“Ugh, no. You’re the reason I’m going insane.” Her face twists, and you laugh.

———————————————————-

“You’re a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?”

For the first time, Rin refuses to let Sae walk away unscathed. Nearly ten years of pure resentment shoved into the deepest, darkest corner of his heart, boils over, and tonight, he’s finally gonna let his brother take the brunt of it.

Sae barely spares him a glance, idly swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Hm?”

“You fucking—” Rin exhales sharply, fists clenched. “You arrogant, prideful, son of a bitch.” His voice trembles with barely contained fury. “When you came back from Spain, you ruined everything. Everything. I thought we were gonna do this together. I thought—”

“I told you,” Sae interrupts, voice maddeningly even. “You won’t get anywhere living in my shadow. I was right.”

“I don’t give a shit what you think was right!” Rin snaps. “When I met this girl, I thought I was done with all this brooding, dark bullshit. I thought I could finally get that goddamn day where you destroyed my entire world out of my head.”

His breathing is uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears. He’s seconds away from knocking that smug look right off his brother’s face.

“And so all that resentment, all those years of training and training and pushing myself past my limit just to surpass you—I was done. Fuck!” His fist slams against the bartop, rattling glasses. A few guests gasp. His cousin frowns. Their mother shoots them a sharp glare.

Sae doesn’t flinch. “Careful.” He takes a slow sip.

Rin’s vision blurs with rage. “You— you ruined my perception of football. You ruined my perception of relationships. I can’t even look Mom in the eyes anymore because they remind me of you.”

That gets a reaction. A barely perceptible shift, a flicker in Sae’s gaze.

Rin exhales shakily, his shoulders tight with exhaustion. Then, he looks Sae dead in the eyes.

“I hate you. So much.” His voice drops to something dangerously quiet. “And before I get up to go and salvage what’s left of what you broke, again, I'm gonna look you in the eyes, brother to brother, and say,” He leans in, the words sharp enough to cut. “I fucking hate you.”

———————————————————-

The next time you see Rin, he’s hunched over the balcony, his hands gripping the stone so tightly you half expect it to crack under the pressure.

“Heard you made quite the scene back there,” you say cautiously. “Don’t tell me you’re back to your nurse chasing days.”

He doesn’t respond, the only answer you get is the sharp gust of wind and the heavy silence stretching between you.

Don’t shut me out again, you think, watching the way his shoulders stay rigid, his expression unreadable. You need him to talk— need to gather all your strength for what comes next. His silence won’t do.

“I’m not—” he exhales, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to continue. “I’m just pissed. That’s all.”

He pauses, then mutters the name like it’s an open wound.

“Sae.”

You hesitate for a second, choosing your words carefully. “What did he do this time?”

Rin exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Nothing new.” But his tone betrays him, bitter and exhausted. “Just the usual bullshit.”

You don’t press him, not yet. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Rin, it’s that pushing too hard only makes him retreat further. So you wait, let the silence stretch just long enough for him to decide whether he wants to fill it.

Eventually, he does. “Remember Pollux and Caster?”

“Castor,” you instinctively correct, “Yeah, I remember.”

“They weren’t even full brothers,” Rin mutters, frustration threading through his voice. “And still, they sacrificed for each other, didn’t they? Pollux gave up his immortality. Castor—he—” Rin exhales sharply, fingers curling against the railing. “Sae didn’t have to sacrifice anything. What he did was so—so ridiculously unnecessary, and yet…”

You have no idea what he’s talking about. The feud between the two brothers has never been new, and yet, the details remain firmly sealed between the two brothers. You study him for a moment, the way his shoulders rise and fall with barely restrained emotion. You could tell him that he is enough, that his relationship with Sae— or lack thereof— doesn’t define him. But you know Rin. That’s not what he wants to hear right now.

“I’m sure you know this, Rin, but the Dioscuri are not something to compare real life to. They represent an ideal, not reality.”

Rin scoffs, shaking his head. “An ideal.” His voice is sharp, like he doesn’t believe a word of it. Like he wants to argue but can’t quite find the energy.

You tilt your head, studying him. “The Dioscuri were a paradox from the start— one mortal, one divine. They were never meant to exist in harmony, not really. But instead of accepting that, they kept trying to hold on, to fit together like they were made for it.” You exhale, glancing up at the sky. “And in the end, the only way they could be together was through tragedy. One had to lose everything for the other.”

Rin is quiet. His grip on the railing loosens, but his knuckles are still pale. You wonder if he’s actually listening, or if he’s just letting your words wash over him like waves against the rocks— present, but not really sinking in.

“Sae’s not Pollux, and you’re not Castor,” you continue, softer this time. “You’re not bound by fate, or the gods, or some tragic, poetic bullshit about what brothers should be. You don’t have to be anything for him, Rin. And he doesn’t have to be anything for you.”

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he’s going to snap at you. Instead, he just mutters, “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Sure.” You shrug. “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”

The wind picks up again, sweeping through the balcony, tousling Rin’s hair. He looks out over the city, his expression unreadable. Maybe he’s still angry. Maybe he’s thinking. Maybe he’s just tired.

You don’t expect him to say anything more. You’ve known him long enough to understand that silence is just as much a language as words. But then, after a long pause, he exhales, shaking his head.

“I just don’t get it,” he murmurs. “Why did he have to do it? Why does he always have to be—” He stops himself, like the words are caught in his throat.

You don’t ask what it is. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. If not, well… some things are meant to stay between the Itoshi brothers.

Instead, you rest your arms against the railing, mirroring his posture. “Maybe it’s not about understanding him,” you say. “Maybe it’s about deciding whether it’s worth it to keep trying.”

Rin doesn’t answer right away. But this time, the silence feels different. Less like a wall, more like a door that hasn’t quite opened yet.

“You know, I—”

The words barely escape your lips before they’re swallowed whole, cut off by something firm and sudden pressing against them. It takes you a moment— one, two, three erratic heartbeats— to even register what’s happening. The warmth, the way his breath mixes with yours, the way his lips move against yours with a hesitant urgency, like he’s holding back but doesn’t want to.

Rin is kissing you.

The realization crashes into you just as quickly as the kiss itself, but your body doesn’t catch up. Your brain stalls, your muscles freeze, and before you can even think about responding, before you can even breathe, Rin is already pulling away.

“Figures,” he mutters, his voice low and tight, like he’s trying to sound unaffected. “First time I actually show a girl how I feel, I get rejected.”

Your heart lurches, a sudden, frantic thing hammering against your ribs. The air between you feels charged, humming with something unspoken, something fragile.

You can still feel the ghost of his lips against yours, like an imprint burned into your skin, and it’s almost overwhelming how fast everything unraveled. You had thought about this, hell, you’d imagined it, even hoped for it, but now that it’s happened, it feels like the entire world has tilted off its axis.

You should say something. You need to say something.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out, your thoughts tangled in a mess of shock and disbelief. Rin shifts beside you, jaw tightening, hands flexing at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to clench them into fists.

“…Forget it,” he mutters after a beat, turning away slightly. His voice is quieter this time, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s trying to bury whatever flicker of hope had been there just moments ago. “Should’ve known better.”

That snaps you out of your daze. “Wait—”

You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing against his wrist. He stiffens but doesn’t pull away. Your pulse is a wild, erratic thing, drumming against your ribs. Your fingers weave into his hair, sliding through the soft strands at the nape of his neck, and you feel him stiffen beneath your touch. For a split second, he’s completely still, as if the air has been knocked from his lungs. Then, against all logic, against all sane judgment, you close the space between you and press your lips to his.

It’s not careful. It’s not hesitant. It’s an answer, a contradiction, an undoing of every doubt Rin had just had mere moments ago.

His hands find your waist, gripping like he needs to anchor himself, like he doesn’t quite believe this is real. The fingers at the back of his neck curl slightly, and when you tug just barely, he lets out the quietest sound, almost a sigh, almost a groan.

And then he’s kissing you back.

The world narrows down to the heat between you, the way he angles his head to deepen the kiss, his nose brushing against yours, and the heat between you only intensifies.

One of his hands slips up your back, pressing against your spine, pulling you closer— like the mere act of kissing you isn’t enough, like he needs more, needs you. His other hand stays firm at your waist, fingers flexing against the fabric of your clothes, grounding himself in the moment.

Your heartbeat thrums wildly, matching his, a silent rhythm only the two of you can hear.

When you finally part, your lips are tingling, your breath unsteady. Rin doesn’t move far— his forehead rests against yours, and his warm breath fans over your lips, like he’s not ready to let go just yet. His fingers linger at your waist, hesitant now, as if waiting for you to pull away, to take it all back.

You don’t say anything. You just smile, brightly and effortlessly, bathed in moonlight that kisses your skin, making you look almost unreal. Breathtaking. And for the first time, Rin swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Yes, he’s sure. He’d rather die than ever let you go.

EPILOGUE

The roar of aircraft engines filled the air, blending with the faint hum of chatter in the lobby. Behind the desk, the flight attendant lets out a sigh, her exhaustion evident. Her shift had been a parade of entitled demands: three Economy Plus passengers insisting on lounge access, half a dozen unbearable business types, and two spoiled rich kids throwing around lines like, “Mom said…” or “Do you know who my father is?” She didn’t, nor did she care. Her patience, much like the coffee machine nearby, was running on fumes.

Leaning on her elbow, she swiped her hand across her forehead, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Just as she began to relax, a tiny hand appeared on the desk, clutching a shiny card.

Peering over, the attendant saw a little girl, who couldn’t be over five, balancing on her toes to peer above the tall white counter. Her small fingers gripped the edge of the desk for support, her toothy grin revealing a few gaps.

“It’s from my mommy,” the girl announced, her lisp soft but clear.

The flight attendant picked up the card, the gold lettering catching the light. She looked down at the child, leaning closer to meet her gaze.

“Your mommy gave you this?”

The little girl nodded with the determination of someone delivering very serious business. “I want a—”

Her request was cut short as a tall figure swooped in, lifting her off the ground. The man, presumably her father, cradled her in one arm while addressing the attendant.

“Mommy didn’t give her anything,” he said, giving his daughter a pointed look, a mix of stern exasperation in his tone. “She snagged it from my wife while we were going through security. She thinks it’s a credit card—”

“Magic card, Daddy!” the girl corrected, wagging her little index finger as if to scold him. “It’s called a magic card!”

The father chuckled softly, his expression softening despite the situation. “Right, magic card. My bad, baby. Sorry.”

A woman entered the scene, walking briskly toward the desk. She gently plucked the card from her husband’s hand and handed it back to the flight attendant.

“Sorry for the trouble,” the woman said, her shy smile matched with an air of calm as she rummaged through her bag.

The flight attendant waved her off with a practiced, polite smile. “No harm done, really,” she said, sliding the card back across the counter after checking its validity.

“Mr. and Mrs. Itoshi, this way please,” the attendant declared, gesturing toward the nearby doors. “The car taking you to your plane will be waiting downstairs in just a moment. Welcome to the HON lounge.”

As the little family moved toward the designated lounge, the little girl clung to her father’s neck, her face nestled against his shoulder. “I told you it was a magic card, Daddy,” she mumbled, her tone brimming with childlike triumph.

Her father shook his head with a grin. “I know. Almost forgot. Thank you for telling me sweet girl.”

“You’re welcome,” the daughter babbled, pride shining through her words.

@pemiski 2025 - all rights reserved. I do not authorize any reposting translating or modifying of my content on any platform

[marrogerson]

Hi, I wanted to say that I’m a really big fan of your book A Sorcery of Thorns because it was part of the reason why I got into YA fantasy. I really enjoyed the world building as well as the character interactions between Elisabeth, Nathaniel and Silas. So, as an aspiring author, I’ve struggled with staying consistent with one story idea and fully fleshing it out before moving onto something else. If this is a problem for you, do you have any tips or tricks to deal with it?

Hi jenbooklover, I'm honored that Sorcery got you into YA fantasy! I used to have that problem too—it was one of my biggest obstacles to getting published. So many of my attempted manuscripts fizzled out after 20-30k words after I got tired of them and started chasing a new idea. I wish my solution was more exciting, but all I did was sit at my desk one day and tell myself that I had to start treating my novel writing like a job, not a passion, or I'd never finish a book. That means pushing through all the hard days when you would rather scrub toilets with a toothbrush than write a single sentence. Focus on finishing a manuscript as your goal, no matter how good or bad it is. Unfortunately (sigh) being an author really IS work, and learning to view writing as work is essential.

A sneaky bit of sub-advice is to also consider whether your WIP is actually something you want to write—are its ideas, plot, and characters consistent with your personal taste, what you love to read for fun, the sort of thing that really gets you excited about a book even if it seems kind of self-indulgent... or are they just what you think "good" writing should be in a more high-brow, trying-to-prove-yourself sense? That was something I struggled with massively back in the day, when I wanted everyone to take me Seriously as a writer (and was petrified by the thought of embarrassment and failure). Sticking with a project is a lot easier when you're tapping into the stuff you truly feel passionate about, instead of worrying about whether people you know are going to read it one day and judge you.

I hope that helps even just a little, and best of luck with your writing! You are—emphatically—not alone.

[shangqinghuasbiggestfan]

Luo binghe is literally a copy of Shang Qinghua.

They both love like a dog. They both have a bad relationship with their parents (luo binghe hasn’t really got the best relation ship with his father for obvious reasons. Shang Qinghua didn’t have a good relationship with his parents. My theory is that airplane wrote luo binghe parentless, because that’s he felt with this parents. Like they were dead. Because they barely ever talked to him. To him, they were gone)

Binghe was an oc for Shang Qinghua, so it makes sense.

Here’s the thing. Luo binghe said “I hate how I can never keep anyone! How no one has ever chosen me!”

This way of thinking. This idea that no one would ever chose him. I believe this came from Shang Qinghua’s feelings about his parents. Both of his parents had left and gotten married again. They created new families. In the book, it is written “it was as if he was a stranger” when Shang Qinghua described how it was with his parents. They didn’t choose him. They chose them. And so Shang Qinghua was alone.

And it was that thinking that was written into luo binghe. Written into his oc.

Because Shang Qinghua used to believe that no one would choose him, luo binghe had the same experience.

Luo binghe never made friends in the sect. Even Ning yingying was never really a friend. She gave him company and such, but its showed multiple times in the first book that luo binghe, while he did care about her, also found her a bit annoying.

As far as I can tell, Shang Qinghua didn’t have any friends. He was able to pump out 10000 words a day, which probably took long. He also mentioned how he didn’t really have anything back home for him. He also seems kind of bad a socialising. He’s nervous and jittery, which kind of shows that he’s a bit of an introvert. He spent a lot of time in his room, reading comments and such about pidw. I honestly think Shang Qinghua was a bit friendless as well.

This is once again another way that no one had chosen them.

If I have more thoughts I might post an update, but you can have this for now :).

[sunsets12]

I absolutely love your fic 'The Shark in Your Water'! It's amazing!

I’ve also really enjoyed the fic recommendations you’ve been sharing. I’d love it if you could recommend more fics, maybe from other fandoms like The Hunger Games, Harry Potter, Naruto, or something else!"

My fandom history is a bit all over the place, so I'll just rec some of my favorite fics of all time:

First fandom: The School for Good and Evil

(which if you've never read, has a phenomenal first book and an okay second and third. There is also a second and third trilogy I haven't even touched. + a Netflix movie, which admittedly isn't the best, but I love it anyway. Very much so a guilty pleasure for me. I would genuinely recommend watching the movie/reading the first book and then reading the following fics.)

Scott Street by astardanced (Agatha/Tedros):

Agatha and Sophie realise quickly that ‘going home’, and ‘living in Gavaldon for the rest of your miserable existence’, aren’t quite the same thing. With the barrier between Gavaldon and the Endless Woods permanently damaged, they’re offered a chance to return to the School, for what the Deans promise to be a ‘new and improved!’ and ‘much more serene!’ second year. Agatha doesn’t exactly believe them; but there are reasons why they might consider going back. A few… Well, anyway. Don’t be a stranger.

Remember how I said I didn't like the second book? This fic pretends the second book doesn't exist---it's a complete rewrite of it, and I love it a lot.

Simmer: Or, A True History of the Second Life of One Callis Wardwell, Witch, Who Cheated Death (And More Besides) by astardanced:

Making it out of two Gavaldon witch burnings alive takes a special kind of audacity. Thankfully, Callis has plenty of it. But chasing Agatha back into the Endless Woods, leads her directly into a web of lies, intrigue and backstabbing that points all the way back to Rafal, and her time at Evil. It’s lucky, then, that Callis’s infamous mother is so good at all of those things, because in order to survive this brutal extension of their tale, Agatha, Sophie and Tedros are going to need all the help they can get. But everyone knows parents are peripheral, in fairy tales. And being peripheral is much harder than it seems. They’ll do what they can. or, callis survives into the camelot years.

This follows the main character's (Agatha) mom, who is a single mother + a witch + has a cat companion who talks. I genuinely cannot think of a fic that was written more for my specific interests than this

Technically this is a sequel to another fic, but I didn't know that the first time I read it and I understood everything fine. I love this fic a lot.

Second fandom: Harry Potter

The Heir to the House of Prince by elph13 (need an ao3 account to read this) (Harry Potter/Theodore Nott):

"So you're adopted? "Supposedly." "So your Dad ... he's not ...?" "Seems like it." "Huh." Theo stares at Harry with those grey eyes that look silver in the cauldron smoke between them. "But you're the heir to this ... House of Prince, so he's probably -" "Yes. Probably." Harry looks at Theo sharply. "You don't know who he is, do you?" "No." Theo looks back just as sharply. "If I did, I would tell you. You know I would." "I do." Something loosens inside Harry's chest. Something that has been tightening ever since Cedric died. He may not have his friends, or Sirius, or even know who he fucking is anymore, but he has this. At least he has Theo. Summer of 4th year and Harry's all alone, dealing with his grief and the sudden revelation that James Potter is not his father. Support comes in a strange form. The form of Theo Nott, son of a death Eater. A strange friend who says he'll help him find his true father, whoever this Lord Prince might be.

This deviates drastically from canon, so if that's not your thing steer clear. With that being said, I remember this fic being very charming when I read it. Also major trigger warnings for suicide, torture, and child abuse (plus some other things I might be forgetting, it's been a hot minute since I last read this)

Too old to be this young by Nadia_Castillo (Harry Potter/Tom Riddle):

He was smiling. At Tom Riddle. He was going to get murdered before the year ends, he just knows. Alternate universe/Post-Hogwarts. warnings: mature themes, drinking, swearing. An adult Harry Potter with all his knowledge and experience is transported to his 23yo body in a universe with no war.

Crack, stupidly overpowered Harry, and simping Mister for Magic Tom Riddle. Still updating

Third fandom: DC (Batman/Superman specifically)

Batnesia by Qui (Superbat):

In which Bruce forgets a few key facts, and Clark has to go along with it. Or, the Bruce-Has-Amnesia Fic we've all been wishing for.

Every ship needs an amnesia trope fic

ship-to-ship combat by pomeloquat (Superbat)

"Clark. What the hell is this," Lois asks, staring at Clark's Bruceman WIP folder. Clark's first instinct is to fly away, but that would still leave his fic on display for her to see. His second instinct is to blast a hole straight through his laptop screen with his heat vision, which isn't much better. Clark, in an attempt to make some spare cash, unintentionally stumbles into the world of superhero fanfiction, becomes a prolific writer for Gotham's OTP, and tries his best to fend off rival fans who want him to convert to superbat instead.

Identity porn, crack, characters-are-involved-in-fandom trope

scramble by IHadHimOnTheRopes and rory_gone_mattie (Superbat):

The words on his skin were his everything. After everything he'd seen, done and been through, they were a reminder that Bruce Wayne still existed. That somewhere there was a person who would love him despite the coldness in his chest and the scars that roped their way across his skin. A reminder that he wasn't alone - that he wasn't destined to live forever in the shadows, silent and isolated. That somewhere out there was the other half of his soul. He just wasn't expecting the other half of his soul to be an alien.

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? by poisonivory (Damian/Jon) (NSFW):

After years in the future with the Legion of Super-Heroes, Jon is finally back in Damian's life, and Damian's determined to keep him in this century. If that means a little fooling around between friends, so be it. It doesn't have to mean anything. (It just might mean everything.)

I love nineteen year olds being dumb

Forth fandom: Star Wars

The Emperor Skywalker Conspiracy by loosingletters:

The Emperor is dead and so is Darth Vader. So. Uh. Who exactly inherits the Galactic throne? Or, the Holonet discovers the existence of one Luke Skywalker and promptly makes it a meme. I present you the one long rant of a lone blogger trying to disentangle the mystery behind Luke Skywalker and his maybe inheritance of the Empire.

A blogger talks about the end of Return of the Jedi. Originally it had embedded memes, but they seem to be broken now, which is really sad. One-shot.

Fifth fandom: Danny Phantom

I Panicked, Okay? by newdog14:

“Danny, we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on,” his mother said, clearly picking up on his panic and gentling her tone, as if he were a skittish animal. “Whatever that ghost is doing to you, you can tell us. It’s not your fault, Sweetheart.” “No, Mom, he’s not…it’s not like that,” Danny said. Her reassurances were setting off all kinds of alarm bells, but they also gave him an idea. It wasn’t a good idea, not by any means, but he couldn’t think of anything better, and he needed to say something. “Then what is it like Danno?” his dad asked, giving Danny a worried look. He had the Fenton Xtractor in hand, and Danny spared it a wary glance before looking between his parents. Tucker was never going to let him live this down. “We’re dating!” "WHAT?!"

Don't you hate when you have to pretend to be dating your secret identity so you're parents don't accidentally destroy you with their ghost hunting weapons?

The Trouble with Ghosts by Lynse:

Lancer hadn’t realized how closely young Mr. Fenton’s school troubles-–and the secrets he surely wasn’t telling his parents–-were tied to ghosts until after that encounter with Phantom.

Okay, I last read this fic in 2020ish, so I don't remember it that well, but I really like outsider POVs and bookmarked this as one of my favorites, so!

[worm-priest]

I feel torn and indecisive whether I should watch love in the big city right when it comes out to support it or if I should wait a little bit and hope that the book will get a bit more accessible for me because I actually feel like it would be better to read the book first 🤔

[oozeandgoo-art]

had an odd dream that i was reading a comic book. sketched a couple of the pages i could remember.

[cinammonelles]

Complete the 4 novels you're currently reading ❌❌❌

Start yet another novel because it seemed intriguing ✅✅✅

[grumpy-nyks]

The Fernweh Saga by @lacunafiction - Davor edition

I-I think Ms. Verner doesn't like him...😳

Davor "Dove" Kovač 🐝 RO: Becca Warrick

Personality: cautious // aloof // pessimistic // flirtatious (only towards Becca ...and Reese??) Traits: head // independent // resistance // believer Past affinity: math Primary ability: extrasensory awareness Past susceptibility: forward. 'it’s better to push forward. don’t look back on the past when you have new places to be and things to achieve.' <<< his motto

🕊️ Fernweh: Davor lived a happy life there and didn't think about leaving in the future. Maybe for some trips, but he knew it would always be his place, his safe place... 'It was a mistake to come back here.' - that was his first thought when he tried to fall asleep on the first night in Fernweh. The nightmares came back as he thought they would. He wants to leave as soon as possible because he feels that it is not safe for Becca to be here.

🕊️ Gramps Dan: That was his gramps who taught Davor how to play the guitar. As a young child, Davor always admired him and believed he was the most intelligent person in the world. After the death of his parents and how his grandfather treated him, he was devastated and angry. He wanted answers soo badly but didn't get any. He lived loathing his grandfather ever since. The news of his passing stirred up a lot of negative emotions that Davor had previously managed to suppress. At the beginning of the story he couldn't care less about his grandfather, but because of his journal he started to believe him. Things that his granfather lived through made Davor even more angry at this messy town …but he's willing to forgive his gramps…

🐝 Becca Warrick: It was a ...funny story that brought both of them together and they look after each other ever since. He considers Becca as his precious (not in a negative-possessive way) treasure, he literally can't let anything bad happen to her. That was also she who came up with the nickname 'Dove'... (and she's literally the only person who calls him that, others wouldn't dare...). He had feelings for her for quite some time but didn't act on it... until now. Although he didn't express it, he felt very nervous about Becca being in the town where he grew up. He was curious (but also scared) about what she could think of this town. He felt like he was revealing more of himself to her…. and he forgot about any worries pretty fast, because the town started being weird as fu--.

🕊️ Reese Verner: Back then Davor was quite cheerful and enjoyed competing with Reese regularly. They teased each other a lot. Davor always thought that Reese had a crush on him, was it true tho? donut know, but he certainly had. ...why does he appear in his nightmares? Maybe the crush stage never disappeared...? Seeing him again was a nice experience, sure... but ignoring the circumstances, he is still unsure if it was worth it and is struggling with his thoughts… Would it be worth it to return to Fernweh just to see him... again? welp, good thing he doesn't have to think about it much, am I right?

🕊️ Sofia Dorran: The two of them maybe did not have a strong relationship, but he knew Sofia is the ideal person for engaging in intelligent conversations. He enjoyed spending time with her, solving the puzzles that gramps created for them both. Davor wasn't a fan of fantasy books, but she managed to change his mind about them. Davor knows that Sofia did take good care of his grandfather, but he still doesn't quite know if he's grateful for that or wished she spent her time more... valuably... He was tempted to ask Sofia to borrow that book she found in his grandfather's bedroom, but he thought better of it. It's better to leave Fernweh… Even so, his curiosity wasn't properly fed.

🕊️ James Corvin: Maybe not brothers by blood, but definitely brothers by choice. Davor treated him as if he was the brother he always wanted to have. Back then Davor always placed a high value on his family… until now. At the time, Davor tended to be more impulsive and James was usually the one who kept him from getting into trouble (which often involved Reese). It was really hard, for both of them, to see each other after so long. Their first interaction was pretty awkward... I would even say that most of their interactions were . James noticed how Davor changed the question is: for the better or worse? I don't even know. Everyone can sense, that things around them are different now, and they aren't as close as before. Will it change?

🕊️ Alek Corvin: …To say that Alek wasn't a fan of Davor would be an understatement. Was it because James spent most of his time focusing only on Davor trying to get him out of trouble? Did Alek observe any possessiveness from Davor towards James? Or maybe simply because of the bond between those two, which was truly something that others would envy and desire? Davor never considered it, especially when he left Fernweh permanently. :)) As you can imagine, Alek doesn't seem very happy about Davor's return… But he took an interest in his new friend, Becca, which did not go unnoticed by Davor and he isn't really happy about it.

🕊️ The Waitress: Oh boy, it seems that Davor has taken up a new hobby, which is glaring harshly at the waitress. He finds her mistrustful and he smells trouble. Had they met when he was younger, there may have been a slim chance of them getting along.

🕊️ Waffles!: So um… Davor has a little issue with dogs and because of that his relationship with Waffles isn't as wonderful as I wish it would be... However, I believe that with time and help from Becca, they will eventually become friends.

[endoferasandallthings]

'Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus' by Gavin Hamilton // 'Coming Of Age' by Maisie Peters

[fearandhatred]

.

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

What the fuck it cut off my tags, whatever

I do deserve a treat :( Thank you <3

sorry for ranting, also sorry half the rant was cut off

this is the single worst way i've ever read to describe an erection, frank herbert

[scienceismygirlfriend]

Reading asks:

2. Flops! Or 9. Compels me tho

2. flops! i consider this one a flop because i really wanted to like it BUT. i did not enjoy Things In Jars. it had a great premise, and i love a ghost sidekick as much as the next guy, but it just did not come together for me. and the most frustrating this is that the things i didn't enjoy about it don't seem to be the things that bothered anyone else who didn't like the book so i didn't even get the cathartic release of reading the two star reviews of the book!!

9. compels me tho: this is maybe a goofy answer but i read the first dinotopia children's novel (Windchaser) while on a road trip and it's pretty simple and predictable but DINOSAURS THOUGH. i don't know why i never read this as a child (i devoured A Land Apart from Time) but i know i would have been soooo annoying about it if i had. it's cute!

[inbabylontheywept]

Babylon and the Duck of Butter

I have a gift for falling in love with random objects. One time, my aunt got me a little rubber chicken, and whenever I squoze it, a little egg thing popped out. Very silly. Except that chicken became something like my best friend. I carried it with me to school, and I kept it with me in my pocket, and whatever social hazards there were about Being The Guy Who Got Stressed Whenever His Rubber Chicken Was Missing were far outweighed by being The Guy Who ALWAYS Had a Rubber Chicken On Him. There's a lot of comedic opportunity that comes with always having a good prop on your person.

Of course, the chicken did eventually. Explode. And such was my grief that I did not eat for 36 hours. This was very stressful for many people. Mostly my mom. I was a very strange child to work with. She took parenting so incredibly seriously, and then I'd pitch her these curve balls like refusing to eat for a day and a half because my rubber chicken died. No parenting book tells you what to do when that happens. You just have to feel it in your heart.

A less tragic story of an object that I fell in love with was a large, foam toad that I found in a trinket shop. The toad was the size of a very large grapefruit. Much too large to carry with me to school (thank god) but enough that I could move it around the house, to keep me company during my solitary pursuits. If I was reading, the toad was there, and if I was tinkering with legos, the toad was there, and even when I slept, I would wrap the toad up in layers and layers of blankets, and then spoon it. I did this until the rubber coating on the foam started to wear out, and the foam started to get brittle and break down and leak this repulsive yellow powder. Then I simply put the toad in the playroom and would consult it on matters of great importance. Eventually I stopped doing that, and someone took the opportunity to dispose of it. Not sure who. By the time I noticed its absence, too much time had passed for me to actually be sad. As an adult, part of me thinks I would have maybe liked burying the toad, but part of me also thinks I might have refused to part with the toad, which would have resulted in it leaking more repulsive yellow powder into the house. So I understand why that decision was made. 

I want to state that this does not happen often, and it does not happen on purpose. I don't choose to fall in love with random objects. And it's always a little bit embarrassing when it happens. 

Which brings me to my wife. 

Before meeting my wife, I did not often go to places with crowds. I didn't really think of it as avoiding them - those places just didn't seem fun to me. But she liked those places, and I really liked her, and being with someone who really likes something can kind of sell you on liking it too, so I'd take her to places and watch her Visibly Enjoy the Fair and go: Alright. The fair is pretty sweet.  

Which is a thing that happened. After fourish months of dating, I took her to the fair. And she fell very visibly in love with a large series of quilts, and she stayed near them for a while, which she thought was very embarrassing, and I got to pretend to be understanding as an outsider, because I thought it would be much more impressive than also being the type of person that would fall in love with a quilt. 

Do not do this. The gods punishment for my hubris was that the room next to the quilts was full of butter sculptures, which was an entirely new thing to me, and I immediately fell embarrassingly in love with all of them. It was like the biggest, sappiest non-sexual crush you've ever had, but not only did the other person not recipropcate, they could not, because they were made of butter. I actually got yelled at for pressing my face against the glass, which is fair, but also, I hadn't realized I was pressing my face on the glass, I just started leaning forward because after approximately 30 minutes of staring wistfully at a cow made of butter my legs got tired. And I think I should be given some grace for that.

Anyway. My wife was very patient with me taking more time to look at the butter sculptures than the average person might spent at the Louvre, and she also felt much less embarrassed over falling in love with a quilt, and we had a good laugh about it on the ferris wheel. 

A few weeks after that was my birthday. And I don't know what I expected, exactly - but I did not expect what she did. 

Dear reader, she made me a butter sculpture. Of a duck.

She picked a duck, because our first kiss was at a Japanese friendship garden. It was our second date, and she'd made up her mind not to do any kissing until the third date, but as we sat on the grass, a duck walked past me, and I'd just seen the hold-duck-gentle-like-hamgurber meme,

so I sort of impulsively reached out and snatched it. I honestly didn't think it would work. I don't know who was more flabbergasted, me or the duck. But we looked at each other, and then I looked at her, and then she looked at the duck, and she looked so incredibly envious that I assumed that must have wanted the duck so I just handed it to her.

It turned out she was actually envious of the ability to just grab a duck as it walked by, but she accepted the duck and stroked it a few times before releasing it. (She also made up her mind to kiss me in that moment, which was very nice.)  

Anyway.

She made me a butter duck of my own. Obviously, I fell in love with it immediately. I cleared out all of the freezer-portion of my mini fridge, and I put the duck in there, and for the next several months, when I felt sad, or lonely, I would open the door up and spent some quality time. Just me and my duck.

But this is, of course, not the end of the story. 

Because.

After several months. 

The mini fridge died. 

I really didn't use it that often. It was mostly my duck storage container. But one day, I walked by it, and it struck me that it wasn't humming. So I opened the door, and it was just. Far, far too late. The duck was dead. Dead dead. Turned into a foul-smelling slime dead. 

I cried. I did. After the rubber chicken thing, I thought I had changed, but I had not changed, and the unexpected death of my butter buddy left me pretty shook. I texted my then-girlfriend now-wife about how sad I was, and she actually came over to help me say goodbye. We didn't even bother scraping the duck out of the mini-fridge, we just said our goodbyes to both and threw them together in the nice dumpster behind the chapel, because it seemed appropriate to put it in God's dumpster. And it did actually help quite a bit. I certainly did not go 36 hours without eating again. 

And that was, for some time, the end of the butter duck. 

However. Three (or four?) years ago, for my birthday, my wife was looking around thrift stores. And she found something interesting. 

The original butter duck had an odd pose. She'd sculpted it laying flat, intending to raise it up later. But the butter was less flexible than she thought, and she was afraid of cracking it so she left it down which left the duck with a very elongated, very in-motion appearance. And she found a brass statue of a duck in the same, running posture.

It wasn't the original. But it was oddly on the nose. It was a yellow brass, it had the same strange posture, the same crude little face feathers. 

I think it was $3, but it remains perhaps the most thoughtful gift I have ever received. I got very choked up when I unwrapped Butter Duck, The UnDying. 

Pic provided.

[artisimpossible]

Saw a fun little conversation on Threads but I don't have a Threads account, so I couldn't reply directly, but I sure can talk about it here!

I've been wanting to get into this for awhile, so here we go! First and foremost, I wanna say that "Emmaskies" here is really hitting the nail on the head despite having "no insider info". I don't want this post to be read as me shitting on trad pub editors or authors because that is fundamentally not what's happening.

Second, I want to say that this reply from Aaron Aceves is also spot on:

There are a lot of reviewers who think "I didn't enjoy this" means "no one edited this because if someone edited it, they would have made it something I like". As I talk about nonstop on this account, that is not a legitimate critique. However, as Aaron also mentions, rushed books are a thing that also happens.

As an author with 2 trad pub novels and 2 trad pub anthologies (all with HarperCollins, the 2nd largest trad publisher in the country), let me tell you that if you think books seem less edited lately, you are not making that up! It's true! Obviously, there are still a sizeable number of books that are being edited well, but something I was talking about before is that you can't really know that from picking it up. Unlike where you can generally tell an indie book will be poorly edited if the cover art is unprofessional or there are typoes all over the cover copy, trad is broken up into different departments, so even if editorial was too overworked to get a decent edit letter churned out, that doesn't mean marketing will be weak.

One person said that some publishers put more money into marketing than editorial and that's why this is happening, but I fundamentally disagree because many of these books that are getting rushed out are not getting a whole lot by way of marketing either! And I will say that I think most authors are afraid to admit if their book was rushed out or poorly edited because they don't want to sabotage their books, but guess what? I'm fucking shameless. Café Con Lychee was a rush job! That book was poorly edited! And it shows! Where Meet Cute Diary got 3 drafts from me and my beta readers, another 2 drafts with me and my agent, and then another 2 drafts with me and my editor, Café Con Lychee got a *single* concrete edit round with my editor after I turned in what was essentially a first draft. I had *three weeks* to rewrite the book before we went to copy edits. And the thing is, this wasn't my fault. I knew the book needed more work, but I wasn't allowed more time with it. My editor was so overworked, she was emailing me my edit letter at 1am. The publisher didn't care if the book was good, and then they were upset that its sales weren't as high at MCD's, but bffr. A book that doesn't live up to its potential is not going to sell at the same rate as one that does!

And this may sound like a fluke, but it's not. I'm not naming names because this is a deeply personal thing to share, but I have heard from *many* authors who were not happy with their second books. Not because they didn't love the story but because they felt so rushed either with their initial drafts or their edits that they didn't feel like it lived up to their potential. I also know of authors who demanded extra time because they knew their books weren't there yet only to face big backlash from their publisher or agent.

I literally cannot stress to you enough that publisher's *do not give a fuck* about how good their products are. If they can trick you into buying a poorly edited book with an AI cover that they undercut the author for, that is *better* than wasting time and money paying authors and editors to put together a quality product. And that's before we get into the blatant abuse that happens at these publishers and why there have been mass exoduses from Big 5 publishers lately.

There's also a problem where publishers do not value their experienced staff. They're laying off so many skilled, dedicated, long-term committed editors like their work never meant anything. And as someone who did freelance sensitivity reading for the Big 5, I can tell you that the way they treat freelancers is *also* abysmal. I was almost always given half the time I asked for and paid at less than *half* of my general going rate. Authors publishing out of their own pockets could afford my rate, but apparently multi-billion dollar corporations couldn't. Copy edits and proofreads are often handled by freelancers, meaning these are people who aren't familiar with the author's voice and often give feedback that doesn't account for that, plus they're not people who are gonna be as invested in the book, even before the bad payment and ridiculous timelines.

So, anyway, 1. go easy on authors and editors when you can. Most of us have 0 say in being in this position and authors who are in breech of their contract by refusing to turn in a book on time can face major legal and financial ramifications. 2. Know that this isn't in your head. If you disagree with the choices a book makes, that's probably just a disagreement, but if you feel like it had so much potential but just *didn't reach it*, that's likely because the author didn't have time to revise it or the editor didn't have time to give the sort of thorough edits it needed. 3. READ INDIE!!! Find the indie authors putting in the work the Big 5's won't do and support them! Stop counting on exploitative mega-corporations to do work they have no intention of doing.

Finally, to all my readers who read Café Con Lychee and loved it, thank you. I love y'all, and I appreciate y'all, and I really wish I'd been given the chance to give y'all the book you deserved. I hope I can make it up to you in 2025.

[cheapshrimpysheep]

What if They were Dads?

SUMMARY: Headcanons of what I think they would be like as fathers to your child. And what if his dormmates were like honorary uncles to the child?

CHARACTERS: OB Students (Riddle Rosehearts / Leona Kingscholar / Azul Ashengrotto / Jamil Viper / Vil Schoenheit / Idia Shroud / Malleus Draconia)

TAGS: Headcanon; Fem!Reader (AFAB) (I never really know what tags to use but I hope you know what I mean)

WORD COUNT: An average of 690 words per character.

COMMENTS: I would have liked to have made a headcanon about the relationship with the boys' parents and siblings, but since we don't know them that well or at all on the Eng Server like Vil's father, I think I'll leave that for a possible post that complements this one. If you want.

Since I didn't want each character to have a big chunk of text, I put them as paragraphs instead of bullet points.

I hope you enjoy 🩵

CONTEXT: This was written with a cisgender female reader in mind. Reader is Yuu. But if you want (and can) read it in any other way, feel free to.

By the way, this is one of those moments when I wish English had a second person plural, instead of the singular and plural being the same. Whenever I write “your child” I mean it in the plural (you, the reader, and his)

Riddle’s child(ren) call him: Father

Riddle has the same demands and standards for his child that he has for himself. But he doesn't want to make the same mistakes as his mother, so in comparison he can be more permissive. Because of this he will ALWAYS listen to you if you tell him he is being too harsh.

In terms of studies, etiquette and behaviour he is quite strict as you would expect. But when it comes to play he lets his child do almost anything they want.

He doesn't know how to play with his child, but he will always make an effort to learn how to and do it with them. He almost seems to regress to the childhood he never had and wants to give to his child. Whenever the child learns a new game, they will show it and teach it to Riddle and he will be delighted with it.

Although he is strict, he is also relatively protective, especially if your child is a girl. He tries not to be overly protective, but he can't help but worry about your child. If there was a right way to raise a child, is he doing his job well enough? You will have several conversations at first to reassure him that he is doing a good job.

He will study any and all parenting books that experts in child behaviour and education recommend. This kind of knowledge is never too much. Which often leads you to try to convince him to relax and just trust his instincts and what he feels is right. The child is his, not all those authors and experts. Sometimes there are things that a parent simply knows.

Lawful and calm Uncle Trey. They love uncle Trey's sweets! Sometimes Riddle asks him if he's not giving them too much sweets and Trey always assures him that it's okay because he knows how to make healthier sweets and the limit for a child to eat. If they weren't already Riddle's child, the whole thing about always brushing their teeth could be scary.

Chaotic Uncle Che'nya. The crazy and fun Uncle! Your child and Che'nya join forces (maybe even with you) to play pranks on Riddle. Never anything that could get the child into trouble with their father, just enough for everyone, Riddle included, to have fun.

Uncle Ace and Uncle Deuce are more from your side than Riddle's honestly. Ace is a bit like Che'nya in the case of being one of the chaotic pranksters uncles. But he is also the uncle of magic tricks who is always deceiving, but also entertaining your child with them.

Deuce is the rad uncle with a cool moto and/or even cooler blastcycle, who offers to take your child for a ride in it with him. Your child also finds it funny to see the two of them arguing amicably. But it’s even funnier to see them imitating their father trying to order them to stop arguing.

Uncle Cater doesn't show up very often, but they like him. He's not chaotic like Ace and Che'nya, but he's also fun. Your child enjoys receiving compliments from him and taking pictures with him.

Your child imitates their father scolding Grim too. Just like Riddle (and probably because they're still little) they have a very bad temper. Riddle gets embarrassed whenever you say that someone takes after their father.

Leona’s child(ren) call him: Dad

Leona still doesn't like kids... your child(ren) is/are just an exception.

Yes, Leona would treat a daughter slightly differently than he would treat a son. In the same way that he treats men and women a little differently. But the only difference is that he would be tougher on a son than a daughter, but will still be affectionate regardless.

No matter what gender his child is, he wants the same for them: be strong both physically and mentally. To outsiders like some servants or citizens who don't know him, they may get to the point of thinking Leona is a harsh father who doesn't deserve all that love from his child, and he will tell both you and your child not to mind that. But the truth is that he is just like he was with you at school: a tough guy who hides a caring heart.

Leona continues to show himself to be a person who doesn't want anyone to upset him and who would growl at anyone who bothers him. The only people who can get close to him even when he's angry and remain safe and sound are you and your child. He'll still growl at you and your child quietly, but there will be a volume that is the line, like if his growl is louder than that limit it's because he's getting really angry, until then it's just him being him.

Your child will already have the best private teachers and tutors (one of them being Kifaji/Neji if he’s still alive), but even so, Leona will want to make them study and learn more. But in that discreet way that he knows. He will not force them to study more, he will find a way to convince them to want to learn more on their own.

You end up being the most affectionate parent and the one they trust for emotional comfort. Leona is the tough love, you are the soft love (at least in comparison). Leona will always tease you, insinuating that you are too soft and only spoil your child. Although he enjoys when you spoil him too.

He is 100% the ‘Go ask your mom’ kind of dad.

He lets his child take naps with him. And you too.

If he has more than one child, he will police himself not to favor any of them. He may have a tendency to favor the younger ones because of what he went through as the youngest himself, but none of his children will be treated in any special/different way based on their birth order. Neither the youngest nor the oldest.

He will try to convince his child not to be too close (emotionally) to their uncle or cousin, but won't stop them from playing with Cheka. When your child is old enough not to tell others what is said in your home, Leona and them will talk badly about Falena and Cheka behind their backs.

Leona will prefer your child to play with Ruggie and/or his children. On the one hand, he wants to keep them away from his family, but on the other hand, he also wants his child to know what the real world is like, to see both wealth and poverty, to know royalty as they knows their people and only then create their own judgement.

They don't call anyone uncle or aunt other than Falena and his wife. In the same way, Leona also doesn't give cute titles to anyone without being sarcastically. Even when he calls you “love”, “darling”, “honey” or something like that, it's to tease you.

Whenever you go to Shaftlands, whether for democratic reasons or on holiday, you always try to find a way to meet with Jack. Leona pretends that he only helps you with this because you want to see your friend and he wants to get rid of his family. Both you and Jack know that he just doesn't want to admit that he wants to see him too. Jack is the cool parent's friend who taught your child how to snowboard. While they are little they like to hug his tail because it’s fluffy.

Despite everything, he doesn't want his child to have the same lack of hope that he has, and despite trying to hide it, he always feels extremely guilty and bad whenever your child says something like that. At these times he relies on you to be the ray hope in that house, they will both need you for that.

Both Leona and your child are afraid of you when you get really serious or angry.

Do you know that scene from The Lion King where Mufasa uses Zazu to give Simba an pouncing lesson? Leona often does something similar, but instead of the target being a blue bird, it's a magical creature called Grim.

Azul’s child(ren) call him: Daddy (when little) Dad (when older)

Azul is an extremely emotional father, despite trying to hide it. There's going to be a lot of moments like: “HE/SHE IS THE CUTEST LITTLE THING IN THE WHOLE- *clears throat* I mean, he/she is such a charming little child.” He will most likely cry at your baby's first words, steps, anything.

Azul is overprotective! If any living creature even thinks about harming your child, he will tortu- that is, find a completely legal way to ensure that it never happens again. Now, if you'll excuse him, he suddenly felt like talking to Jade and Floyd. (The same protectiveness applies to you.)

Although he is very (secretly) emotional and loves to spoil his child, he is also relatively strict about their studies. He likes to spoil them (and you) when it's deserved, but he will not raise a spoiled child! This ends up balancing things out a bit.

He will hide the whole mafia-like part of his life from his child. Dad is just doing business, boring adult stuff. Maybe when your child is older he will start to reveal a little of that side of his life, if they later want to join their father it will be their choice. But until then, let them be innocent children, they are cuter and happier that way, there is time for everything.

He will always hold back his emotional side so as not to be overly affectionate. Unless his child starts crying. At that point his mask falls completely and he becomes the most affectionate and comforting father there can be, that is his weakness.

And if one day the child realizes this and starts using crying to get what they want from him, he won't know whether to be angry that he is being emotionally manipulated by his own child, or proud that they learned so quickly.

You will be the only one immune to the fake crying.

From the beginning, Azul has been wary and suspicious of letting Jade and Floyd be like uncles to your child. However, you two ended up letting this happen, but Azul will always keep an eye open.

Both Jade and Floyd will definitely use the child to play pranks on Azul. Mostly Floyd, Jade prefers to watch and assist. Azul will always be upset with the twins, never with his child. And depending on the severity of the prank, he will turn on his overprotective side and threaten Jade and Floyd that if that happens again they will never see your child again. They never go beyond that limit.

Every now and then when Floyd plays with your child, he will do that joke where he playfully tells them he's going to catch them and bite them. Actually in his playful voice, he doesn't want to scare them. And they will run to Azul and hide behind his legs asking for help while laughing. Or tentacles if they are in their merfolk form.

You know those little plastic cashiers where kids pretend to have a little shop and try to sell things to people at home? Usually parents or sibling. Azul loves to play this with his child because it is a great and fun way to pass on his knowledge. Both about sales and about taking care of your money. Usually using the Grim as a guinea pig. Grim also likes to play because he always ends up with food in exchange for toy money.

If you ask them Jade is the scary uncle (only sometimes) but they themselves don't even know why. It's just his vibe or something. However, they are not afraid to ask any of them for something, it being to play or for help.

Jamil’s child(ren) call him: Dad (in informal moments) and Father (at formal events)

Jamil needed to learn to express himself more and better emotionally so as not to end up being a cold father without meaning to. He needs your help to teach your child when to hold back and when to know when they are in a safe space to let go.

The only thing that will follow Jamil forever is an inevitable feeling of guilt for your child having the same fate as him, simply for being his child: serving the Al-Asim family with no other choice. But you can be assured that if there is a way to stop this and give his child freedom of choice, whatever that method may be, he will not give up until he finds it and do it! Normally parents want to give their children what they always wanted and could never have, in Jamil's case it’s freedom.

There was something Jamil wanted to do, but he didn't have the courage to ask the Al-Asim for some kind of vacation. But you had! Using your great friendship with Kalim, you managed to get him to allow you to take a vacation long enough for you to travel as a family, as Jmail wanted. Jamil has always wanted to travel alone, but now with you and your child he would like to travel as a family and give his child the experiences he would have liked to have had himself.

He is quite demanding with his child's education and training. However, his attitude towards this is always calm and collected, and he is attentive to his child's limitations and needs. He is a great and responsible tutor, who knows how to distinguish between being a teacher and being a father.

He is usually quite serious, so you and your child are the ones who start messing with him to have fun and make him laugh. It's always nice when he reminds you two that he can also be a tease. Normal or biggest target of your joint teasing ends up being Grim at some point.

During his work as Kalim's servant, Jamil always had to cook a lot and he's not that big a fan of cooking, so so he can rest at home you're the one who cooks most of the time. He will teach you everything you want to learn and at first you will cook together a lot until you feel comfortable cooking alone. But even then he will continue to offer to help you. Your child will continue to say that Jamil's food is tastier, but yours is prettier. And the food you make together is the best because it’s tasty and pretty. Jamil will also encourage his child to cook with you two so that they can learn from a young age.

His child knows that there is only one thing in this world that can make their father scream in fear: Bugs! If your child is also afraid of insects, you're screwed, because you will be the insect killer in that house. However, if it is just the two of them, Jamil's protective instinct will be stronger and despite his fear he will protect his child. If your child is not afraid of insects, then Jamil will have two protectors. “Can you do dad a favor?”; “Where is it?”; “Living room, south wall last time I saw.”; “Does it fly?”; “...Yes.”

Kalim will treat your child almost like one of his own children, for loving you both so much. He got emotional when he found out you were pregnant, he wanted to help pay for your doctor's appointments if necessary (never was), and he got emotional again when your child was born. He loves buying toys for your child too and give them gifts. He would love for Jamil to let them call him Uncle Kalim. And he loves it when your kids play together.

Vil’s child(ren) call him: Father 

Vil wants to have a family that is at its best as he likes to be at his best himself. He wants you and your child to be as beautiful on the outside as you are on the inside, just as he strives to be as well. However, he would treat a daughter slightly differently than a son because of the different pressures of societal beauty standards.

With a son he would be as strict with him as he is with himself. But with a daughter, he knows she's more likely to suffer from these kinds of things. So although he continues to be relatively strict and wants her to be the best she can be, he ends up being softer with criticism and stronger with praise and soft love than he would be with a son.

He would hire a specialist, like as a child psychologist or something like that, to always know the best ways to rise and protect your child. Children of famous people like him, especially in the digital and social media age, may need more protection from their parents in this regard, in addition to the toxic pressure of comparison that exists. However, because Vil cares so much about your child's personal development as their happiness, he may end up putting enormous pressure on himself to be a perfect parent too.

Both Vil and your child will need you to be the person who brings them both back to the real world and the life of a loving family with flaws like any human being. Vil will always listen to you if you feel he may be being too harsh and demanding with your child, or with himself in terms of parenting.

If you are the type of person who likes to tease Vil by letting yourself be sloppy from time to time, (always at home) then your child will also like to tease their father like that. “You have your mother’s cheekiness, I see.” Vil sighs but laughs. The teasing includes eating sweets and food that Vil would not approve of. You are the parent they ask for things from and who best comforts and pampers them. You two probably team up to make Vil relax and have fun with you.

His child will have the best teachers and tutors, go to the best schools and best establishments for any extracurricular activity they want to have. Vil will probably force them to have an extracurricular activity but they will be free to choose which one.

Rook is OBSESSED with your child! In a respectful way of course, he is just already a huge fan. The result of combining your DNA with Vil's? MERVEILLEUX! He won't hold back the tears when he sees the baby for the first time. He will LOVE playing with your child. He will babysit for free and will be happy to do so if you ever need. It will be a long time before he stops getting so emotional whenever your child calls him "Uncle Rook."

Uncle Epel is the rad uncle, when Vil is not around. He is that person who will help your child do cool activities that Vil may not allow. Like taking a blastcycle ride with him, eat grilled meats, playing with things that make the child very dirty or other things that Vil didn't like Epel to do when they were at NRC. But if at least one parent allows it (you), then there is no problem. Right? All this, of course, when Vil is not around.

When he is there, both Epel and your child behave like little angels. You and Epel have to be very careful that the child doesn't get careless and say something in Epel's dialect in front of Vil. They love Uncle Epel because it is fun to do cool things without their father knowing and with your help.

Your child likes to use Grim as a doll to dress up in cute clothes. The funny thing is that Grim likes it too because your child eventually realizes that if they tell him he looks cool instead of cute, he'll let them keep dressing him up.

Idia’s child(ren) call him: Daddy (when little) Dad (when older)

Idia doesn't believe he can be a good father. A shut-it and antisocial otaku like him? Are you crazy? That's a disaster! He can't take care of himself, how is he going to help you raise a child? However, and especially with you, he also has that overly cocky side that believes that even being an antisocial nerd he would be 1000 times better than a lot of parents out there. So basically he has a tendency to oscillate between these two moods.

In comparison, you are the strict parent, he is the parent who spoils the child. They are both afraid of you when you get upset. He's a ‘Don't tell your mother’ type of dad. He can't say no to his child, but, oddly enough, he can't be emotionally manipulated either. He may even let his child do a lot of things, but even he has limits to what he knows is good or bad for them.

Because he's the permissive father, he's also the scariest when he gets serious. He can never get really mad at his child, but he can say a firm and assertive “No” if necessary. However, if they are still very young and start crying, he will panic and call you immediately. You will then have to comfort Idia and tell him that no, he did not make a decision that put him on the path to the traumatic and apocalyptic ending. What he probably did was the opposite.

If it depends on him, his child will be a nerd/otaku just like his father. However, he doesn't want them to be socially anxious like him and will always encourage them to go for walks with you outside even if it's without him. That doesn't mean there aren't times you drag him outside with you.

Besides occasionally questioning whether he is being a good father, there is something else that haunts him... He still carries and will probably always carry the feeling of guilt for what happened to Ortho, so he is absolutely TERRIFIED that something like that may happen again.

Idia has always tried to keep your child as far away as possible from all areas that are dangerous or even remotely similar to the hallway where that happened. But if your child ever happens to even enter an area that their father did not allow, they will get to know a side of Idia that sometimes you yourself don’t even remember exists: The overprotective, traumatized side that isn't afraid to scare his child if it means keeping them away from the danger. And probably the only way they'll see his red hair. But it will probably be after that, that the two of you will have an open heart conversation and Idia will apologize.

Now, about Uncle Ortho, they LOVE uncle Ortho! He's the one who goes for a walk with you and your child when you and he can't convince Idia to go too. He is a cheerful uncle who loves to play with your child. You three made up stories to explain why uncle Ortho was a humanoid. You always make up different and crazy stories to jest with them and make them change the subject. The day will come when they will be old enough to know the truth.

Idia may even talk badly about himself a lot of the times, but no matter what his child do, they are talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular and everything good. “Of course that's because they inherited it from you, not me.” He will say with a smile.

Both Idia and your child treat Grim like a pet cat and find it funny to see him getting grumpy.

Idia spoke to his child in that baby voice when they themselves were also babies. And maybe also when they are children to the point where they tell him to stop treating them like babies.

Malleus’s child(ren) call him: Daddy (when little) Dad (when older) Father (at formal events)

The day Malleus found out you were pregnant was already a happy day, but the day your child was born was the happiest day of his life! And every moment with them is the happiest moment of his day. And of course with you too. He totally and completely loves his family!

Anyone who dares to speak ill of the child of Malleus Draconia, especially about the fact that they are half-human, will suffer the consequences! Anyone who spoke openly about the child being something of a disgrace, shame or an abomination was either killed or imprisoned. (Depending on how opposed you really are to Malleus killing or ordering someone to be killed.) and of course, the same applies to talking bad about you.

The problem is that this is doing the same thing to your child that was done to him. He's scaring everyone and making them afraid to come near your child for fear of saying or doing something that might upset them or Malleus. He listens to you and agrees with you, showing concern and thoughtfulness about what should be done. He hates people being disrespectful to the ones he loves, but he also doesn't want his child to go through what he went through.

What ends up happening is that, on Malleus's part, he realizes that he has to start learning ways for people to respect his child without using fear, but to do that he also has to start letting certain insults slide. He doesn't like it, but if it's what's best for his child, he'll do the best he can. Although the same applies if they disrespect you. He hates it so much!

In the case of your child, you are helped by Lilia (if he’s still alive), Silver, Sebek and their families. Perhaps trying to spend more time among their people and with other fae, humans, and half-fae might be beneficial to a child's social development.

Lilia would treat the child as if they were his own grandchild. Even if Silver also has children, they are ALL Lilia's grandchildren! “There's no denying it any longer... I am... officially... an old man... For the best possible reasons!” Everyone will rescue your child from Lilia's food. “Never eat anything that Grandpa Lilia cooks, you hear?”

Silver is the calm uncle who, despite not being the most fun to play with, is the one they turn to when they want to rest and simply have a good chill time. Or take a nap. Probably who they turn to to run away and hide from Sebek when he's being annoying. He ends up being the adult (than is not their parents) that they trust most and feel most comfortable with. Silver is very happy when they ask him for help to get closer to an animal to see it better, and even more so if they and the animals end up interacting and playing with each other.

Now about Uncle Sebek... If there is anyone more protective and flattering of that child than Malleus, it is Sebek. He cried when the child was born, for sure. And cried even more when the child said his name, or whenever they at least tried to. The day they called him "Uncle Sebek" he was about to have a heart attack. The problem is that he ends up being one of those type of person who adores children (although in his case the only ones he likes would be Malleus's and his own children) to the point that the child finds them annoying and clingy. “But don't tell Uncle Sebek that, he'll be sad.”

Whenever the child throws a tantrum that ends up causing their powers to manifest in storms or uncontrolled magic, Malleus will take care of it while you stay away and safe. To him, any attack would be mere tickling, but he always made sure that your child knows that the same does not apply to you. They may end up thinking that you are very fragile while they are little, but it is better this way to ensure that they do not hurt you unintentionally.

This also means that whenever you need to say ‘No’ to your child, Malleus will do it if there is a possibility that they would start throwing tantrums. At least while they are young and cannot control their powers well.

Malleus also runs the risk of being a father who spoils his children.

Your child and Grim probably burn a lot of things around the castle because they play together and they both have fire powers.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

And if you would like to read this but with other characters you can write in the comments. If this post has a lot of notes (likes and reblogs) I might consider making a second part with other characters.