#i just have a lot of feelings about the doctor as a character and the ending did things to my brain | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pemiski · 2 days ago

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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: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

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: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

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.

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