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starredblood · 1 day ago

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CHIHIRO

PART FIVE

kang sae-byeok x fem!reader

synopsis: you take a leap of faith to go find sae-byeok after everything from the past makes sense.

wc. 5.6k

warnings: reader gets bad ptsd, fluff, comfort, angst | authors note: another series done! thank you so much for everyone’s constant words of encouragement this might be my last series for a while now that school is starting to get more hectic but stay tuned for one shot fics in the close close future because i already have something planned!

(chihiro masterlist)

(summer, 2021)

Sae-byeok did it. She finally had the guts to do what she was deathly afraid of—running away from Deok-su’s gang without a trace. After completing one last task, she threw her phone into a nearby river and abandoned her dinghy apartment for a much smaller, less spacious one two towns over. Although this meant she was free from his deadly grasp, her source of income was plummeting. It also meant she was farther away from the library and you.

Now, that Cheol’s back in school and summer is starting to dissipate by the changing colors of the leaves above her, she knows she has a cruel awakening this winter. Her new apartment—if you could even call it that, wont have proper heating for the cold weather. But she’s gone through worse.

An hour before visiting hour ends, Sae-byeok heads over to the children’s school. She can already envision the way Cheol is going to look at her for not appearing these past two weeks—shiny doe eyes and trembling lips. And that’s exactly what happened.

“I thought something bad happened to you.” Cheol grumbles.

The Kang siblings sit across from each other in the visitors lounge. Cheol, as of recently, began carrying at least two books everywhere he goes and this time is no different. But he isn’t interested in the contents inside the books—not when his sister reemerged out of the depths.

She tucks stray hairs behind her ear and couldn’t even look at him in the eye when he said that. It was too much. She promised him a lot and he still hasn’t seen the ends of any of her promises. ‘I promise we’ll live together soon’, ‘I promise mom will be here soon.’

“Sorry.” she mutters. “I had to do something—work related.”

“It’s okay, I guess.” he says, knowing he can’t ask too many questions regarding what Sae-byeok does to earn their income.

“How’s school? It’s your first week back right?”

He nods. “My teacher already said I was doing good with reading. I just need to get better at math.”

“You’re a smart kid, you’ll catch on.” she says, her voice too flat for her liking. She couldn’t even sound encouraging enough to lift his spirits, not like you could.

Just then, a volunteer from the children’s home enters the visitors room to announce that there’s only ten minutes left before the kids have to get ready for bed. Cheol’s demeanor falters by the news, his posture slackens and his eyes turn worrisome. He never gotten used to living in these environments, not when he’s outcasted by the other kids for his accent and lack of understanding of South Korean culture.

“Don’t worry,” Sae-byeok assures immediately after noticing. “I’ll be back tomorrow way earlier.”

“Okay.” he says, forcing a small smile. But he doesn’t sound convinced. “Maybe we could stop by the library?” he suggests, hopeful. Sae-byeok becomes immobilized—she doesn’t want to tell him no but she refuses to go back and face you. “…I haven’t seen noona in a week.” he adds as if he read her mind.

“What?”

He gulps. “I asked the other librarians for her but they all said she was sick. Do you know if she’s okay?”

Suddenly, a thousand scenarios of everything that could go wrong with you flashes past Sae-byeok’s eyes. Her hands began to turn clammy and her heart races. If you’ve been sick for a week that has to be alarming. But she couldn’t sit here and not do something about it, right?

Sae-byeok was your girlfriend before everything that happened to you. And after she learned about your condition, retrograde amnesia, there was nothing she could do but watch as you move in without her. It left her crying for days on end and in her mind—this was a much worse fate than death. Her biggest fear was losing you, and the fact that she did in one of the worst ways felt like life was taunting her in the cruelest of manners. You were the brightest thing in her dark and harsh life and then you were gone.

But she promised herself one thing, that she would watch over you regardless. Even if you move on to another lover, or hate her when you met her all over again, it didn’t matter—she still dedicated her time to watch over you beneath the shadows. Yet, it was hard not to get close to you again, it was a grueling task to not be able to reach out to touch you, kiss you, and just talk to you. But her fears still loom around her mind. What if she loses you again? Is it better to let go than risking the chance to love again?

The morning before she ran away, it felt like everything was back to normal again. And for a split second she forgot about your amnesia, that’s why she kissed you all of a sudden. The guilt of leaving you in the dark is swallowing her whole.

She blinks of out her deep thoughts while Cheol observes her curiously. “I’ll go check up on her.” she tells him.

“And…Is she your girlfriend again? If she is then can I be her friend again?” he asks, hopeful.

“No, she isn’t. But—“ she cuts herself off to lick her chapped lips. “you can be her friend again.” she tells her brother who beams.

Once visitation hour is over, Sae-byeok decides to take the tiring walk to your apartment rather than taking the subway, which she can’t afford to do. The second she made it to your block, an unsettling feeling started to form in her stomach like she was on the verge of throwing up. She tried not to feel in order to prevent herself from panicking. If you weren’t okay, then she wouldn’t know what to do with herself.

Before she knocked on your door, she shut her eyes and waited until her breath became steady. After knocking several times nothing occurred and she couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the door, so she does it again with more force. Still nothing.

It’s too late for you to still be at the library if you went back to work and she doubts you’d be at your mother’s house. Sae-byeok had to rationalize with herself that putting in the four digit code for your door’s code was good—she had check up on you.

When she opens the door, she barely pokes her head out to the dark entrance way. Her voice cracks when she calls out your name after not speaking for a while. Sae-byeok slightly tenses when Sen, your cat, appears from the dark alleyway surveying the door. The cat appears to be well fed, right?

She studies the apartment from the entrance. Nothing looks out of place except a kitchen cabinet that was left open revealing all of your medications and first aid kit. She says your name a little more louder, her voice bouncing off the walls. Yet nothing. The panic was starting to set it, she curls her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Sae-byeok needs to be realistic, there’s no way you’re hurt—life wouldn’t do that do you. You’re too good, have too much to live for, and you provide good things to people’s lives. You gave Sae-byeok hope. If you’re gone, where will that hope in her go?

So, she steps inside and shuts the door behind her. She slowly drags her foot to the hallway. This place showed so signs of life besides Sen. All the lights were off except a singular lamp by your cat’s bed. When she made it to your bedroom door, the grasp on the doorknob was slippery by her sweaty hands.

She opens the door and you’re there and you look…okay?

You were sitting propped up against the bed frame with your large headphones and a book on your lap. When you see her appear from your doorway, your eyes widen but remain stiff in the position she saw you in. The only thing that was out of place, if you could even call it that, was the tip of your nose and your cheeks were red. You must’ve been recovering from a cold or something. But this means Sae-byeok worried for nothing and she trespassed into your home unexpectedly—like a freak.

“Shit, shit.” she whispers frantically, her heart falling to her stomach. She ducks her head to face the ground like she saw something unforgivable—her face becoming hotter by the second. “I’m sorry.”

Immediately, she goes to shut the door and walks swiftly to leave. She’s never been so embarrassed and now she needs several days to cope with what she’s done.

When she bursts open the door she heard you weakly say something, “Wait.” but it was too late, Sae-byeok fucked up bad. She had to leave and not face you again.

Sae-byeok reaches to pat her cheeks and felt something wet. She looks strangely at her tear coated fingers, not understanding why these high emotions bursted out of nowhere. You were okay, so why was she crying?

──・──・・✿ ・・──・──

You are familiar with grief in a sense. It’s an emotion that never truly goes away and after losing your dad when you were just a young child, you thought that’d be the last time you would deal with grief. But now that you’re older you know that it comes in more ways than just death. You grieve for the person you once might’ve been—a smarter more driven one. And you grieve not being able to reconcile with Sae-byeok, who never left your mind ever since you met her…again.

But you don’t know what it was about her that drew you in. Was it her once cold estranged demeanor or the way she softly touched you and looked at you? Maybe it’s both, it has to be. There’s nothing negative you can say about that girl, is that was love does to you?

Love is another tumultuous emotion. You didn’t know what it meant to love a person who isn’t family, but you found your answer. After confronting your mom weeks ago, you found only one thing that linked you and Sae-byeok before the accident—a journal.

The journal was small and stained by mysterious dirty liquid since you found it discarded by the dumpster. It only showed you fragments of your life before you forgot: you met her through tutoring Cheol, you recommend her favorite book, you were the one that showed her the botanical garden, you took a punch for her and that was the same night you shared your first kiss, and in the last page was a declaration. This declaration was your epiphany and you want so badly to tell her about it because you’re certain she wouldn’t runaway once she finds out.

But she disappeared.

When she came into your apartment, you were still recovering from your fever and was too weak to chase after her. But that was telling enough that she does care about you, she’s just afraid. But how can you alleviate her worries when she began hiding?

So, you didn’t have a choice but bring poor Cheol into this.

“She likes to buy her cigarettes at this convenience store.” the boy told you the other day in the library, showing you the location in your work computer. “She always takes me here to buy my snacks.”

With that piece of information you think, what other time besides night time would Sae-byeok appear at this convenience store? So, after work it’s decided: you’d wait around all night to see if she shows face. It was risky and highly unlikely that you would see her after one day of loitering.

That’s why it took you three nights. You hung around at this convenience store from eight o’ clock till midnight, whipping your head whenever the doorbell rung and drooped back to stare at your phone when it wasn’t her. And every time, you brought the stained journal and the Heaven book.

On the third night, the doorbell rings and you barely look up to see who entered the shop. You had to double take when you saw the person wearing a familiar forrest green utility jacket and short raven hair. Sae-byeok casually strolls to the front desk. It was nerve wracking deciding wether to approach her or wait for her to notice your lonely presence by the seating area—her reaction could be of many. By the time you decided to go up to her, she already paid at the counter and turned around to head out. She freezes midway when she saw you.

It was hard to determine what she could be thinking. Her eyes boring into yours, lips pressed into a thin line, and jaw clenched. But the rest of her body seemed tense—nervous even.

You clear your raspy throat and say to her soft yet firmly, “Let’s talk, Sae-byeok.”

She finally blinks and looks away from you. “There’s nothing to say.”

Clutching onto her cigarette pack, she shoves them into the depths of her pocket and walks around you. You didn’t understand what she was so afraid of—you’re right here, no anger or fear in your voice.

“You have to know I’m just going to follow you until you let me talk to you.” you say matter-of-factly, ushering out the door and letting the cool summer breeze hit your cheeks.

“I can’t do this.” she says, her voice louder now that they’re on the streets. It was the same thing she said last time and you wonder what she truly means by it.

“But you can!”

You flinch. Sae-byeok crosses the busy walkway street, with both sides of the road filled with cars waiting for the light to turn green. You’ve been keen on avoiding crossing large walkways but you can see her tall lean body start getting smaller and smaller until she ends up on the other side of the road.

There wasn’t much time for you to think about your next moves, even with how hard your heart was hammering against your chest. Sae-byeok was getting away. You ball both your hands up into fists and force your shaky legs to cross.

By the time Sae-byeok had crossed the streets she heard two things: cars honking and a blood curling scream that came from you.

You didn’t know what to do, you were walking by so slow due to fright of the cars revving their engines all around you. By the time you made it to the center of the road, the light had already turned green and then the honking began.

Suddenly, you were back in that taxi car a few months ago with your head leaning against the backseat window and in a moments flash, you saw a car’s headlights aim for impact on your side.

You didn’t know what to do except collapse on the ground and cover your ears from the blasting horns bursting your eardrums. The whole time you tried bracing yourself for impact again, just like you did a few months ago. But the cars—they had to be taunting you, they couldn’t stop beeping and beeping. And all you could do was scream for help while you crouched helplessly on the ground.

Your shouting got louder when you felt something touch you, something calloused and warm. By the time you opened your eyes and realized Sae-byeok tried to carry you bridal style across the street you both collapsed on the sidewalk after she tripped on the ledge.

“Are you ladies okay?” and “Why didn’t you cross?” were heard in multiple variations by passerby’s once the two of you fell on the cemented floor. But neither of you cared enough to respond. Sae-byeok only cared about your well being and you were too busy reliving the horrors you experienced the day you got into that accident.

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” you heard a muffle voice say but you were terrified to remove your hands from your ears. What were once screams coming from your mouth was replaced with soft trembly cries. “You’re safe—I got you! You’re safe, please don’t be scared!”

You shook your heard, convinced that you were still in the middle of the street.

“Please—Please open your eyes and look at me, please!”

The fear started to subside when you felt gentle motions trace along your back and several kisses to your temples. By the time you started to slowly remove your shaky hands from your ears, it felt like light years have passed.

“That’s it. Now just open your eyes and you’ll see that I’m here and I swear I’m not leaving your side.” you hear Sae-byeok fully and clearly. You bat open your eyes, your eyelashes drenched with tears and you saw her. Sae-byeok’s eyes were also swimming in tears but she only cared to wipe yours away with the pads of her thumbs. “You’re safe and look—I made sure that you have your things.”

She grabs your book and journal that were sitting beside her from the sidewalk and placed them on your lap. You couldn’t comprehend what was going on yet, still catching your breath but she waited for you. It got better when she began to reach for your hands and rub them against hers, blowing into them to provide heat. When your eyesight became clearer after the tears and fear dwindling away by Sae-byeok’s gentleness. It was exactly what you needed.

Her hands were scraped and red after the fall, but she didn’t care.

“I’m…” you croak, your voice still unstable. “I’m…sorry.”

Sae-byeok pauses what she was doing and stares at you, her eyes drooping with melancholia. “No,” she breathes with her low and raspy voice. “you didn’t do anything wrong. Please believe me when I say that.”

You try to hold back more sobs but end up hiccuping instead. And all you had the ability to say was, “T—Take me home.”

She stood up first and reached both her hands out to you, helping you stand up. She lets one of her hands drop and the other one to remain holding yours as she leads you to your apartment—making sure you’re walking on the safe side of the sidewalk the entire time.

The whole walk home was excruciatingly embarrassing as you started to register what occurred to you and how many people saw. Including Sae-byeok. It was a huge moment of weakness in your end. Ever since the accident you can’t handle even standing close to cars let alone hear their loud honking noises on the bustling sides of town. And what just occurred was your biggest fear. Your stomach drops having to imagine what would’ve happened to you if Sae-byeok wasn’t there or hadn’t noticed.

Your tears were fully dry by the time you both made it to your apartment and you dart straight to your bedroom to collapse on the mattress. Although you felt much more relaxed, sometimes you felt your hands get shaky again.

Sae-byeok sat on the corner on the bed, quietly observing you which is something she’s a natural at. Now that the high intensity situation was over, she felt more insecure about being able to soothe you and console you with words. She hoped that at least her presence was helpful rather than a nuisance.

“Stay tonight.” you murmur. You could see her chest stop moving, she was holding her breath to your request. For a moment you thought she’d stand up to walk away but she just nodded. A small breath of air escapes your mouth, you think it’s a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” you whisper much quieter.

Sae-byeok remained in stand by, ready to move in lighting speed when you get back up from your bed. You sluggishly head to your drawer and pull out a stripped pajama set for her.

“I’m going to freshen up.” you mutter flatly. It was as if all of your emotions had been drained from your body, it worried her. “You can change in my room…I’ll have a toothbrush for you when I get out.”

Sae-byeok didn’t know what to say. It hurt seeing you so fragile and shaken up.

After the two of you got ready for bed, not saying another word to each other, Sae-byeok tried to figure out how to talk to you in a way that’ll ease your aching heart. Her luck of courage came when Sen started to crawl on top of her chest, making you chuckle softly at the sight.

“She’s cute.” Sae-byeok says, gently patting along the cat’s back.

You remained quiet which makes her anxious. Then you swallow thickly before speaking up after a long time of just pure stillness, “Promise me you’ll still be here by the time I wake up.”

She holds her breath to think. You still needed to talk to her about that kiss and what it meant. Maybe this’ll be the last time she’s going to lay on your bed, comforted by the warmth radiating off your body.

“Okay…” she says and lets Sen hop off her chest and onto the ground, her nails could be heard pattering against the floor. She was afraid to hear you out, but the anticipation of knowing was killing her. “I’m sorry I kissed you.” she says in rapid fire speed.

Again, you were quiet until she heard vibrations that sounded like chuckling. “It’s okay—it was just unexpected.”

“Yeah.” she gulps and lets both her hands rest on top of her stomach.

“Girlfriend.” you hum as if that was the most interesting word you heard.

“What?”

“You were my girlfriend, right?” you ask but didn’t hear a peep from her. “How long have we been dating for?”

Sae-byeok shuts her eyes and grinds her teeth. It was like you were taunting her. “Stop.”

“Weren’t you curious in the slightest when I brought your favorite book and a journal when I saw you at the convenience store?”

Her silence only made you more determined to tell her everything you found out. And you refuse to let what just occurred to you get in the way of telling her. You rise up from the bed and turn on your lamp, letting soft yellow lighting to intimately illuminate the room ever so slightly. Sae-byeok watched as you got up and picked up something from your desk and sat down on the mattress where you were previous laying on.

First, you flip through the pages of her favorite book and find a particular section that was bookmarked with a sticky tab “Look at this quote from your favorite book, ‘There are all kinds of things of things in the world I don't understand, but I really wanted to understand you.’…”

Sae-byeok has no idea where you’re going with this. She follows suit and also decides to sit up. “What are you trying to say?”

“Don’t run away, Sae-byeok.” you whisper, looking deep into her concerned eyes. “Let’s talk. I swear it’s better than running away from it.”

“What else is there to say—?”

“Technically, we never broke up. So, you’re still my girlfriend.”

“Thats not how it works.” she frowns. It if were only that easy—but the small smile creeping up your lips made her stomach do that weird thing that it has been doing ever since she met you. However, you were right, she can’t runaway from the sad truth anymore. It was time to say goodbye to you for good. “Okay…Let’s talk.”

You place the book beside you and sort through the torn and yellowed pages of your journal that looks like it belongs in ancient times. You stop midway through the pages and glance back at her. “Is your favorite color green?”

“Yeah?” she answers questioningly. “How did you know?”

“My mom tried to throw away everything containing you but I found my journal by the dumpster.”

“She never liked me.” she mutters so low that you didn’t hear her while you flipped to the last page of the journal.

“Most of the pages are stained or ripped but I found something interesting about you.” you explain. Your eyes gleam with adoration at whatever you were reading. “Here: ‘Sae-byeok reminds me of flowers like azaleas, wisterias, and lily of the valleys. What these flowers have in common is that they’re all poisonous yet so beautiful. More beautiful than flowers we can actually touch and that perfectly describes who she is as a person. A beautiful yet untouchable one. However, she allows me to hug her, caress her hair, and kiss her cheek from time to time because I think I gained a trust with her that is special. The more I got to know her the more I realized that my fondness for her transcends that of friendship and even romance…I don’t know what it is yet but I hope it’s love. I think I love, Sae-byeok’.”

Silence fills the room. She stares at you intently yet her face was beet red. What you said to her was an overwhelming profession of love that she never imagined anyone would say to her. She doesn’t think she deserves an ounce of what you wrote in that journal. But the way you’re staring at her with full admiration in your eyes is making her think otherwise.

“I told you about that list I make to help my memory.” you add with more fervor, smiling wider than before. “It’s all about poisonous flowers—I didn’t know at first why I chose that to memorize but now I do. My feelings for you never went away—not really.“

“I’m scared. I lost you once I don’t think I can lose you again.” she finally admits what she meant all along. Her ultimate fear—loss. Even if she wants nothing more than to be with you.

“I understand. But love always comes with sacrifices, doesn’t it?”

“I’m so sorry.” she whispers. “For everything—for running away. For being the reason you…” she couldn’t even finish by the guilt bubbling her stomach.

You press your forehead against hers and reach over to take on her hands to rub soothing circles around them. “It’s okay. I know you never meant to hurt me.”

When she didn’t respond verbally, you didn’t expect her to do so by softly pressing her lips against yours. Unlike the first time she kissed you, which was a mere second peck, this one was meant to be savored. The moment you kissed her back, she adjusted herself to hover over you—one hand trailing up your arm leaving goosebumps on its trail and the other holding the back of your head. Sae-byeok’s hands roamed all over you with ease, you couldn’t be surprised.

The kiss had so much familiarity. The movement of your mouths against each other felt routinely yet the fiery passion had never engulfed. When you both pull apart, you were laying in between your pillows and her on top staring heavily into your eyes. The feeling of her fingers touching the exposed skin on your waist made your stomach knot up.

“I promise I won’t hurt you anyone, okay?” she reassures you breathlessly. “I hope this means you’ll be my girlfriend again.”

“I’ll love to be your girlfriend—again.” you say with a soft laugh that she reciprocates before dipping down to kiss you one more time.

The morning started with clanging sounds coming outside your bedroom. After several failed attempts to open your eyes, you forced your tired body to cooperate with you when you saw Sae-byeok’s spot on the bed empty. The only trail she left was the imprint of her head on your pillow.

You walk to the kitchen and your heart swells with content seeing Sae-byeok. She kept her promise.

Currently your girlfriend was sitting crisscrossed on the floor in front of Sen’s bowl, pouring her food. You place a hand on her shoulder to not startle her too much and sit beside her on the ground, observing as Sen began to dive into her food bowl.

“Good morning.” Sae-byeok says, leaning to press a chaste kiss on your cheek. “I think I fed her the right amount. Hope you don’t mind.”

“You did it just right.” you yawn, leaning your head on her shoulder, still sleepy.

“Are you free all day?” she asks after.

“Unfortunately, I have to go in for work in about two hours.” you sigh exasperatedly. “Good thing you woke me up because I might’ve forgotten to turn on my alarm.”

“I’ll make breakfast now then.” she says and nudges you off your shoulder playfully. You let out a groan while grabs your hand to help you rise off the floor. Her hands remain holding yours however and her eyes were hesitantly searching yours like she was trying to look for any sign of discomfort. “Um…Do you want to go visit Cheol after work with me? I know you had a tough time last night so if you want to get rest I understand.”

“What? Of course, I want to go with you.” you say. “Just please pick me up.”

“Obviously.” she rolls her eyes and strides to the kitchen. “He missed you a lot by the way. He was asking me if you could be his friend again if it meant you’d be my girlfriend again.” she says coolly.

“Really?” you snort and lean on the counter to observe her as she began prepping the stove. Instinctively, you reach over to move a stray hair that fell above her eyes. This gesture alone made the tips of her ears red which she tries masking with her pokerface expression. She amuses you so much. You could get used to this very well.

“Really.” she repeats softly, a subtle smile setting on her lips.

This quiet morning with you is something she hopes to see for a very long time. Although, she may not have a lot of things to give—she promises to herself that she will provide you with all the care and love in the world now that she has you back in her arms. But she’ll never tell you that out loud, of course.

──・──・・✿ ・・──・──

(winter, 2021)

It is one of those rare occasions where Sae-byeok takes Cheol to visit you at your apartment. Usually, the three of you spend time in the library, cafe, or the children’s home. But rarely ever in your place—she thought it was still too early in your relationship to make a big commitment like that. It was your apartment, it’s personal. And by bringing Cheol to your personal abode it meant that Sae-byeok was seriously committing herself to you.

You two have only been dating since August. And throughout these past months of being with you, it brought her nothing but peace and happiness. She didn’t have to be anyone but herself around you and vise versa. You both understood each other from the get-go. She never thought she was able to be vulnerable to anyone like this before.

When the Kang siblings walk up the stairs to your apartment floor, Cheol practically couldn’t stand still from the excitement of seeing you and your home. Sae-byeok had to hold back laughing at him as she knocked on your door.

“Noona!” Cheol beams once the door opened, expecting you to appear right after he spoke.

Sae-byeok gets an unsettling feeling when the door revealed no one at first. She tells her brother to quiet down, making him pout.

When an older woman who has striking facial similarities to you appeared instead, her heart rate began to increase slowly but surely. This must’ve been your mother—was this some sort of family gathering that she wasn’t aware of?

However, when your mom opens the door wider, her hand was placed on her hip and she frantically look between Sae-byeok and Cheol. Worry was covering all of her features.

“Are you, Sae-byeok?” she says, almost demandingly but her eyes couldn’t look anything but stressed. Sae-byeok nods and is unable to open her mouth up to speak. “Who’s this?”

When she doesn’t respond Cheol steps in and bows. “I’m Cheol. She’s my sister.”

“I see.” your mom says, raising a skeptical brow. “Sae-byeok, can I speak to you for a moment—alone. Come in both of you, of course.”

Something was very off putting about all of this but it doesn’t look like they have a choice but to enter the apartment. Besides all of your belongings still here, yet there was no signs of you anywhere.

While Cheol sat on the living room couch with a book to keep him busy, your mom pulled Sae-byeok to the kitchen.

“She got into a car accident last week.” she says, her voice quiet but loud enough for Sae-byeok to hear the tremble in her voice.

The world felt like it collapsed in on her with this news. Sae-byeok didn’t want to show any signs of fear that she was feeling and gripped onto the edge of your kitchen counter to hold herself together. This wasn’t happening. Not to you—this isn’t true…

“She’s—alright.” your mom says hesitantly and runs her hands through her unruly hair. “But the doctor said she has some sort of amnesia from the accident—and we still aren’t sure how many memories she’s lost but the doctor is positive she lost at least a year’s worth of memories. Hopefully, not any more but she’s still has so much head trauma to determine.”

Your mom started to become blurry in Sae-byeok’s vision. It’s been awhile since she’s cried—especially in front of someone. If you lost a years worth of memories that must mean—

“Just forget about her, okay?” your mom declares softly. Clearly she was trying to sound more stern but her weariness made it sound like a tired plead. “She forgot about you…and it’s best if she recovers without your presence. It’ll just make it harder for her to heal. So, please, don’t come back and don’t go looking for her. For her sake.”

When Sae-byeok and Cheol stood outside your apartment with the news of your tragic accident, there was nothing left to say.

Cheol couldn’t help but glance up, concerned by his sister’s behavior. She’s always been quiet but this type of quiet is scary. Her facial muscles kept twitching due to holding back any signs of sadness and worry. She didn’t want to say it but she was trying not to feel anything right now.

You forgot about her? Just like that? Sae-byeok is upset, at you, at the world—at everyone. She doesn’t understand how you broke her heart so silently yet so harshly.

“Noona,” Cheol finally speaks up, a little fear in his voice for her reaction. “is she okay?”

Sae-byeok doesn’t say anything, making him puzzle up a story.

Now, Sae-byeok has to decisions to make: take a lifetime to get over you or secretly watch over you if you decide to continue to live your life without her in it. So, what will it be?

🏷️: @lyzem @monkey4lifer @tlouloser @bitchybananaflower @yenyu1s @marfe816 @gummyoonji @peelover25 @saebyeokbliss @knfthxv @we1rdth0ughts @monroesturnns @wiltingconquest @noaanotfound @tyresedidujsfart @madebysae @jumpedthenfell-13 @ninistranaut

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pemiski · 2 days ago

Text

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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roc-haze · 22 hours ago

Text

Arm’s Length | Will Lenney

Read Part 1 here!

In which Will is all in.

——

Cal: Can we talk? I miss you.

“I didn’t realise that you and Cal were still talking.” Will’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“We’re not, really. Why? Has something happened?” Y/N looked to his phone. “Is he texting you?”.

“Darling, this is your phone.” Will handed it to her, the screen illuminating.

She looked at the message, confused but deciding to lay the phone face down.

“Are you gonna get back to him?” Will asked.

“Not right now. It’s probably a drunk text,” she rested her hand over the top of his. “Anyway… back to what I was saying.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what really happened between you two?” Will chose his tone carefully, not wanting to sound too accusatory.

The group were largely unaware of the small romance between Cal and Y/N. Bach had spotted them walking hand in hand through the tube station on a Wednesday evening, but put it down to nothing after finding Cal swiping through Tinder the following weekend. Will, however, had an inside source. Harry Lewis.

They had been filming a pub golf video for Chris’s channel when Harry had brought it up.

“Mate.. can you believe Y/N and Lux?” Harry lowered his voice.

“What do you mean?” Will hadn’t heard anything from Y/N.

“She hasn’t said anything?”. Harry cocked an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure they’re together. Like in a serious way. He was asking if he should introduce her to his family.”

“If it’s legit, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.” Will took a sip of his drink, avoiding meeting Harry’s eyes.

“Do you think she’s embarrassed of him? It seems like he wants everyone to know… but she hasn’t even told you? You basically live in her pocket.” Harry questioned Will, somewhat disbelieving his longtime friend.

“Nah, I don’t think she’d be embarrassed of ‘im. He’s a good lad. It’s probably just a lot to figure your shit out with a group as big as this.” Will had always known Y/N to be calm. Level headed. Always with a plan. She’s just probably not ready to tell people yet. She wouldn’t until she was sure he was the one.

Harry placed a hand on his shoulder. “Not gonna lie mate, I thought it would be you.”

Less than 3 weeks later, Y/N had thrown herself into work. Cal had stopped posting stories of two wine glasses and snippets of songs Y/N had just happened to like. But to their friends, nothing had ever happened. They had always interacted politely, and they moved forward normally. Hey Y/N, you look well. A quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. You too! Did you go to the football this weekend?

When Will had asked her about it, Y/N had just said, “nothing really happened between us… we’re just better off as mates.” He had his suspicions that there was something a little more sinister going on. Maybe one of them had been a little controlling. Or there was a third person in the picture. Cal immediately reinstating his Tinder profile reeked of unfaithful. “That’s a shame. You deserve someone good.” Like me, he felt like saying.

“If I’m being perfectly honest… Cal was starting to feel like he was the placeholder for you.” Y/N hesitated telling him the full truth. “I feel like such a dick. He figured out my feelings about you long before I did. I just kinda feel like I’ve dropped him in shit and then left.”

Will’s face softened. “Fuck. I always kinda assumed the worst.” He shifted in his seat, hand covering his mouth. “No wonder he hasn’t called me recently.”

“Oh come on, Will. It’s a two way street. You haven’t reached out to him either.” Y/N pursed her lips.

“I know… we have that dinner for Freezy’s birthday coming up. I’ll try and talk to him then,” Will reached out for her hand, intertwining their fingers. “Okay.. let’s make sure he’s okay and finish this conversation. We were starting to get somewhere.”

“Can’t we do that first? I have a lot I wanna say to you.” Y/N stared at him, trailing her eyes from his eyes to his lips.

“Don’t look at me like that… you’re making me feel bad. Just send a welfare text or something. I’m not gonna get pissy at him for messaging me girlfriend if the intention is just to be nice.” Will spoke quickly.

Y/N looked straight at him, a smirk beginning to grow. “Girlfriend?”

She typed a message back to Cal, Will’s hand taking up residence on her knee.

Y/N: Yeah, we can. Is everything okay?

Cal: Not really. I feel like our dynamic is kind of fucked at the moment. What do you think?

Cal: (I also have an insurance question but this is probably an inappropriate time to ask 🫣)

Y/N: I think it’s definitely a little stiff. But I expected that. How would you like to move forward? (Send me a meeting invite for tomorrow and we’ll chat through. I’m free after 2pm)

Cal: I miss my mate. I’d love for us to get a point again where we can have a pint and chat shit

Cal: Also schweeet. That time works perfectly

Y/N: Okay. Are you up for a liquid lunch tomorrow? Half productive business insurance, half gossip? 🤭

Cal: Count me in. Meet you at the usual?

Y/N: Sounds good. See you at 2!

Cal: Great 👍 good to have you back mate

Y/N: You too chief 🫡

“Are you happy with that, William? Do you feel better now?” She placed her phone on the table in front of her, giving her full attention to the man in front of her.

He laughed, taking her hands in his. “That was very nicely done. It just didn’t feel right moving forward until you and Lux were in a good spot.”

“Well. Now I’m gonna talk. You’re not going to interrupt me.” She spoke sternly, before flashing him a Cheshire Cat smile.

Will raised his hand to his mouth, making a zipping motion.

“You and me are meant to be. I am into you in the grossest way. Like I’d happily fold your socks. Pop your zits. Whatever you want. I’m all in, Will. If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay but I’m going to have to leave London out of embarrassment.” She sat vulnerably, searching the man’s eyes for any emotion. Suddenly, the room felt heavy and the exit was looking a little more appealing.

Will sat in silence, blank stare on his face. A few moments passed.

“Are you going to say anything?” Y/N exclaimed in frustration, her voice beginning to crack.

“Am I allowed to speak now? I didn’t want to interrupt.” He grinned at her, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. “I thought I made it pretty obvious with the whole girlfriend comment, but if you’d like to hear me say it…”.

She nodded, finally sinking back into her seat.

“I won’t pop your zits because you’d just about batter me for not having a pimple patch. But I will carry you home after nights out. Take you on hot dates to the Tesco reduced section. Brag about you to people on the street if you’ll let me.” He stopped to take a breath, captivating her gaze. “I’m all in. Even when you start to think I’m wrinkly and pruny.”

“I thought you were just good looking, but turns out you can sometimes string a romantic sentence together.” She looked at Will sincerely, placing her hands on each side of his face.

“I just speak in syllables. Makes me seem all wise.” He laughed, resting his hands on either side of her waist. He pulled her closer, his breath fanning on her face before their lips met.

The kiss was gentle at first. New. The two of them had known each other so well, but this was uncharted territory.

They pulled away, Y/N resting her hands on his chest. “Why didn’t we do this earlier?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve been waiting around for you.” Will smiled at her, pulling her into his lap. He joined their lips together again, his hands subtly creeping underneath her knitted jumper.

Y/N ran her hands along his forearms, tracing all the way up to the back of his head and tangling her fingers through his hair. His breath hitched as she lightly pulled on a few strands. Will pulled her impossibly close, attempting to shuffle them into a horizontal position.

As Y/N went to adjust her knees on either side of his, almost in a straddle position, her knee couldn’t get a grip on the leather like material and she started to slide off the couch.

Will, unable to get a grip on her quick enough, decided to go down with the ship. They lay on the soft carpet, side by side.

“Are you alright, pet?” Will tried to hide his laughter as Y/N lay rubbing circles over her elbow.

“Fuck, I think I have carpet burn.” She whined, laughing out of embarrassment.

“D’ya want me to kiss it better?” Will turned to face Y/N, seeing her nod. He sat up, placing a kiss on her cheek. Watching the smile spread across her face, he moved to her forehead, other cheek, jaw, chin and eventually her lips.

She laughed as he pulled away. “Wow, I miraculously feel so much better.”

Before the moment could continue, there was a buzz on the intercom.

“That’d be dinner.” Will sat up, making his way to the door. While he greeted the delivery driver, Y/N made her way to the kitchen to collect the essentials - a bottle of red, two glasses, plates and two sets of chopsticks.

Will met her in the kitchen. “I forgot to tell you.. we’re having sushi”.

“I know. We always get sushi after you film.” She led him back toward the living room, setting up the coffee table to accommodate all of their food.

“I ordered some of the teriyaki chicken salad you like. That way you won’t have to worry about buying any lunch tomorrow at work.” Will grabbed the cushions off of the couch, setting them down so they could sit comfortably on the floor.

“You know me too well, Lenney.” She grinned at him, taking a seat and beginning to search through the Netflix suggestions.

He reached over, placing a gentle kiss on her temple. “Always have, sweetheart. You were only just an arms length away.”

Y/N to Ugly Stepsisters chat: I did it. I got the guy.

———

Author’s note:

All finished! Hopefully not too bad for my first fic out of retirement. If you can’t tell by the title, I have been very much listening to Sam Fender’s new album 🤭

Thanks for reading 🤍🤍

#uk youtuber #willne x reader #WillNE #will lenney #harry lewis

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v4mpire45 · 3 days ago

Text

The Things He Doesn't Know — K. Bakugo

This is part seven of the series, so chapters will be on the m.list.

☞ Link: click here

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x Jealous female reader

Synopsis: When you realize you're in love with your childhood best friend, but force you're feeling's down for the sake of your friendship.

Author's note: This is a short one, but I think it's so cutie, more Bakugo interaction, btw.

Summer break has faded away, replaced by the crisp air of fall. Leaves have begun to turn, the days growing shorter. The drama with Kimiko has died down, or at least, people stopped talking about it, but her relentless flirting with Bakugo hasn’t.

Lately, though, he seems more annoyed than anything. Maybe she’s finally starting to get on his nerves.

You’re curled up in your dorm, textbooks open but barely registering as you absentmindedly tap your pencil against the page.

A sudden knock breaks your focus. Furrowing your brows, you get up and open the door to find Bakugo standing there, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

"Bakugo?" You blink, surprised. "Hey…"

"Hey. Come on, let’s go."

You stare at him. "Go where?"

He exhales sharply, like this is harder than it should be. "Just... hang out. You and me."

Your heart stutters at you and me, but you school your expression before he can notice. He’s not the type to just ask people to hang out. Not unless he has a reason.

Still, you nod. "Alright."

The two of you leave campus together, the cool autumn breeze rustling through the trees. The scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires lingers in the air. After walking in silence for a bit, you finally ask...

"So… where are we going?"

"I saw this café ad a while back. Figured you’d like it." He mutters it like it’s not a big deal, but the fact that he even thought about it means something.

A small smile tugs at your lips. "Oh. Alright then. Lead the way."

He grunts in acknowledgment and keeps walking.

The café is small but inviting, its exterior adorned with warm string lights and an old wooden sign. He holds the door open for you without a word. The scent of fresh pastries and coffee wraps around you like a blanket as you step inside.

You both order hot cocoa, Bakugo grumbling about how "coffee’s just burnt bean water" when the cashier hands it to him, and head back outside, walking toward a nearby park.

The world around you is quiet, save for the crunch of leaves beneath your feet. The pond reflects the golden hues of autumn, rippling slightly in the breeze.

Despite being the one to invite you out, Bakugo hasn’t said much. Not that you’ve been any better.

You tighten your grip around your cup, the warmth grounding you. "What’s going on with us, Katsuki?" The words slip out before you can stop them. They taste like salt on your tongue.

Bakugo glances at you from the corner of his eye. "The hell are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean." You exhale.

"We don’t talk like we used to. We barely spend time together. It’s like, we’re drifting apart."

Bakugo scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. He doesn’t say anything right away, just stares out at the water.

The silence is unbearable.

"You’re my best friend, Katsuki," you say quietly. "But lately, it doesn’t feel like it."

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond.

Then...

"For one, you keep calling me ‘Bakugo,’" he mutters.

"What?"

He exhales, shaking his head. "You’re not a damn stranger. Call me by my first name."

The request, no, demand, hits you harder than you expect.

"Second," he continues, voice lower now, "yeah… we’ve drifted. I’ll admit it."

His jaw tightens, and for once, he looks almost uncomfortable. "But I don’t wanna stop being friends. Alright?"

You feel a weight lift off your chest. "I don’t want that either, Katsuki."

"Good." He takes another sip of his cocoa, eyes fixed on the pond. "Promise me something?"

"What?"

He suddenly reaches over, grabbing your pinkie with his own and locking them together. His hand is warm, rough from years of training.

"Promise we’ll spend more time together."

A small laugh escapes you. "A pinkie promise?"

"Tch." He scowls but doesn’t let go. "Just shut up and do it." You squeeze his pinkie with yours.

"Promise."

Tags: @tsukikoxo @pet1t3 @anon-mouse223 @nepenthes-things @hakkoyo @ita606 @raeroowrites @dreamybabbyy @ghostkat23 @channnee @sanriihoe @ch3rryjampi3 @eyesforbkg @charlotterosea13 @chuugarettes @mtsudaa @myblogsucks @emmaafinchh @adherethecomingofage @uhsakusa @shewki @galaneiaeris @surprisemodafakas @uhnanix @ilovemushroomss @bakunianadecorazon @bonbonbytes @snoozebun @wowbn

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ninyard · 1 day ago

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just because i feel a little cuckoo crazy about Jeremy rn i want to go back to chapter 15 again because i have so much nonsensical rambling left to say

Just him. Fierce, strong, positive and powerful Jeremy. Perfect Jeremy. he who can do no fucking wrong. Perfect athlete. Star player. and a disappointing cigarette between his lips. Did he start to smoke as a rebellious teenager? and him being conscious enough so the smoke doesn’t blow back at Jean.

Redemption, perhaps. There was more to it and Jean KNEW it. He’s trying so hard to be a good person, to make up for his mistakes. His fall from grace before he’d even gotten there. This stain on his reputation that he tries so hard to be different from.

Jean didn’t elaborate and Jeremy had never liked him more. This grief is so fucking rough. It’s not like Andrew killing his mom to protect Aaron. It’s not like finding out Grayson was killed to keep Jean safe. No motive, no reason, only Jeremy’s brother being let down by him when all he needed in that moment was someone there for him. And that’s all Jeremy sees - a moment where he failed his brother. This was not supposed to happen, and this was his fault, and this is something he can never, ever change.

Not you! Not like that! Cat is so healing for Jean. Touch and love. The way she so casually kisses his palm and all he’s knows in violence but he can still say no, not you, this isn’t the life that was ever supposed to touch you. It’s all he’s known and STILL he knows it’s not what he deserved. Because he KNOWS that it never worked, it was never meant to work, it was just cruel and unjust and he could never do that to someone he loves. Someone who shows him love like she does.

Who’d question it once USC got involved? They signed you, Jeremy, the moment your brother fucking died because you were too busy getting off to save him, reduced down to you being a whore and that’s it. And look how hard he tries to be known for something different. But a whore and a slut is all he’ll be known for. It’s sex, and Fraser likes to be mean and rough, but fuck, how did he feel seeing WHORE written all over Jean’s notebooks? When Annalise said he was ending the way he started, when he read the rumours and knew to see past them because at some point in his life that’s all he was known for, too. Is he against the idea of Jean as much as Jean is, because he knows his reputation comes with their relationship as much as Jean’s does?

This hurt, this hurt a lot. Imagine having seen your friend at this low point in his life, drunk and high out of his mind, making bad decisions and becoming a bad person. And now he’s reliving trauma he hasn’t been through in four years and he leaves for a few hours and comes back smelling like alcohol and bruised up from bad decisions with a bad person. She had every right to be concerned. Not a day like today. Not after everything.

I SET THE PRECEDENT. It’s not “these rumours are incessant because people have always believed them” it’s “these rumours aren’t going away because of course they must be true. Their captain is a slut, and look at where his fucked up decisions got him. Of course they’d sign another one”. He takes so much blame and fault and so much onto his own back because he feels like he deserves it. He needs redemption, right? He needs to do something good to make up for the bad. And he can’t fight back. There’s nothing he can do except just take it.

“They are not your partners”. Because Jean was fucking betrayed and destroyed and hurt by his partner. it’s not partner meaning hook up or date, it’s partner as in protector, as in the one to keep you safe, as in the one by your side. Your failures are my failures. And Jean being so worried after seeing Jeremy in such a state earlier thinking he’s seen this before, he knows what he’s looking at. Jean, who asked “is cody safe?”. But Jeremy still lying so easily because he can’t tell Jean that the violence in sex is… acceptable to him? Normal? Is it? or is he also just used to heavy hands and finishing with bruises?

This feels like a crumbling of Jeremy’s facade, i think. Like everything he’s been portraying himself as, the person he’s been trying so hard to be, is going to be ruined for Jean in a moment because he asks him about that part of his life. About the coke. It’s easier for him to say he partied than it is to say he destroyed himself mentally and physically for the sake of what, escape? A break? And now Jean, who’s supposed to see him as this unbreakable character in his life, his unmoving and indestructible partner, is going to see through his skin and bones for what he’s always seen himself as; an addict, a slut, a disappointment. A terrible brother. A bad influence. It’s the moment his facade fucking cracks in two and it’s so necessary, it’s so fucking late for his truth to come out, and he’s laying himself bare in front of Jean who needs to see this, hear this, more than anyone else.

#just let me ramble #i need to get it out #tgr spoilers #the golden raven spoilers #nin reads tgr #and there’s more don’t worry

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sysakiddo · 2 days ago

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1,2,3,4,5

To add insult to injury, 007 is already in his office when he opens the door. To his credit, Max only skips a beat before moving again.

Daniel is holding a prototype of a new grenade Max’s been working on in his hands.

“Don’t touch that,” Max barks out and Daniel smirks. “In fact, don’t touch anything in here.”

Daniel has his feet on Max’s desk, the leather of the shoes glimmering in the bright light. “I didn’t even touch anything,” he drawls, which makes Max sigh. He knows Daniel touched all of the weapons in the room the second he entered it. Agents are predictable like that.

“Who let you in?”

Daniel shrugs, tossing the grenade from one hand to another. Max is ready to fight him. It must show on his face because Daniel yields without him saying anything else. “It was the new guy.”

Max opens the door again and yells an angry “Liam!” tapping his foot impatiently. He should have already checked his messages four minutes ago.

Daniel makes a face and says under his breath, “not good, not good,” but to be completely honest, he is glad he escaped Q’s wrath. For now.

The new guy shows up and immediately gets pale when he sees the mood Max is in.

“You can’t let strangers into my office without me. That’s honestly unacceptable and if it happens again, I won’t have no choice but to report it.”

Liam gulps, trying to find a good enough excuse not to get fired. “I am sorry, I thought, well - He is your agent. He told me you were expecting him.”

Your agent. Max wills down the electricity that runs through him.

“And you trusted him? Honestly, I am disappointed. That will be everything.” He turns around and closes the door again. Daniel expected him to make him stand up from his own chair, but Max surprises him by plopping down on the chair across from him, which is meant for the visitors.

Max doesn’t say anything else, just focuses on massaging his forehead, where he has been feeling a throbbing pain since he woke up.

“That was brutal, Q.”

Max huffs. “Well, maybe his day would have been nicer if you didn’t fuck him over,”

Daniel’s smile is so sharp it looks macabre. “I want to return to the field,”

The blonde tries to calculate if he can take another pain medication so early after the previous one. “Splendid, did you just return from the centre? I haven’t received the certificate yet, that’s weird. I’ll call them,”

Daniel is quiet for a beat too long, and it makes Max look up from his phone.

“I’ve done them a week ago,”

Max has seen the results. He has barely passed the physicals, limited rotation in his wrist, it said. He completely failed his psych evaluation, post-traumatic stress disorder, major depressive disorder, insomnia. Agent referred to therapy and not allowed to carry out any tasks until further evaluation.

The note next to Daniel’s photo at the top of the document was blaring red.

“Yeah, go there again, you know the procedure,” Max rolls his eyes. Daniel is not a rookie and he is making him lose time.

He is still holding the damn grenade. “I’m not going to pass them,”

Max shrugs, “Nice, paid vacation,” he says, like he hasn’t checked if Daniel has already visited the mandatory therapy sessions. He would rather die than watch Daniel become as broken as Sebastian is. “Now, if you excuse me, but some of us don’t have that and need actually to work, so like - fuck off, yeah?”

“Q, I said I want to get back,”

The throbbing behind his eyes is slowly blinding him. He is pretty sure he tastes copper on his tongue. “And I said come back when the med teams clear you. What does that have to do with me?”

Daniel clicks his tongue, his hold on the grenade steady. “Well, for one, you are my quartermaster. You are also the only person who can fake the clearance.”

The worst thing is that Max feels like he should have predicted this. He should have known.

“I’m going to report you to your superior officer,” he says, voice like ice. Max regrets getting out of bed today.

Daniel’s right eye twitches. “I dare you to knock on M’s door right now.”

Daniel noticed Max’s contempt for the older man a long time ago. He secretly thinks it’s because M doesn’t let him test his gadgets on mice.

Truthfully, Max thinks it all started when Lewis took away his lion plushie when he was 10, claiming it was too childish.

“I want to get back,” Daniel says again. “We need to finish this,”

Max is so tired. “What’s in it for me? Why would I endanger my agent?”

“Q, you are not finding him without me,”

Max averts his gaze and huffs out a puff of air. “006 has actually done a good job-”

“It’s not good enough, we both know it.” Daniel finally puts the grenade on the table. “Meet me at nine, we have to talk this through somewhere that’s not here,”

Max did his own mandatory six-month health check-up just a few weeks ago. The psychiatrist made him do word associations at the end of the session. He did well, like always.

But then the shrink said weak and the first thing that came to his mind was me.

#bond verse #maxiel #f1 rpf #f1 fic #daniel ricciardo #max verstappen #max/daniel #my writing #my ficlets

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scary-grace · 24 hours ago

Note

um and [pda]. for you know who of course. THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you for the prompt! Since I'm apparently incapable of answering these cute prompts normally, I'm going to extend my usual offer of a rewrite if you really aren't vibing with it. In any case, this is a part 2 to magnum opus, aka the serial killer Tomura AU. 10.8k, all the standard warnings for a fic about serial killers, Tomura being Like That. Dividers by @cafekitsune

videre licet

Six months after he kidnapped you, the Symbol of Fear's laid out his most gruesome crime scene yet - and this time, he's taken the victim's heart hostage. While the rest of the police force grasps at straws, you follow the clues Shigaraki Tomura left you, hoping to find the heart so his victim can be laid to rest. Tomura is hoping for something else. (cross-posted to Ao3)

The call this time came from four hours away. With the cops well aware of where you and the others are headed, you can speed, and you and the rest of the forensics team make the trip in a cool three hours and fifteen minutes. No one will tell you exactly why you’ve been summoned there, but you know. Monoma knows, Aizawa knows, Shinsou knows, Hagakure knows – but you’re the only one with a sick, guilty pit yawning open in your stomach. You know what you’re going to find when you get to the new crime scene, and you know why. For the last six months, Tomura’s been quiet. If you and the team are getting called outside your jurisdiction, it means he’s back.

It’s been six months since Tomura kidnapped you for a photoshoot, and you didn’t tell anyone what happened. You should have. You know you should have, and at the same time, you couldn’t. If you told them that Tomura had come after you, they’d take you off the case. You can’t let that happen, not when you’re the only one who knows where to look for the clues Tomura leaves, the clues that you have a bad feeling he’s been leaving just for you. You’ve tried your hardest to get everyone else inside his head with you, but they can’t or won’t – you’re not sure which. You couldn’t tell anyone. You have to stay on Tomura’s case.

Tomura’s case, which has gone six months without a new murder, until tonight. Why did he go quiet for so long? Why did he come back now?

“We treat this like any other crime scene,” Aizawa says as Shinsou parks the car. “Regardless of what we find.”

He’s never said that before. Whatever’s happening at this crime scene, you know it’ll be bad. Tomura’s savagery is unparalleled, matched only by his obsessive need to make himself known, heard, seen. Based on your conversation, the former serves the latter, but that’s not particularly comforting. When you’re looking down through your camera lens at another mutilated body, it doesn’t matter why Tomura does it.

“His motive’s changed,” Shinsou says, after you all have stared at the gutted corpse for a solid ninety seconds. “It’s sexual.”

You can’t stop the scathing noise that exits your mouth. “It’s not sexual just because the victim’s a woman.”

“This isn’t even the first female victim,” Monoma adds in. “One of the early ones was a woman, too. He treats them the same as he treats the others.”

“So he’s a bisexual sexual sadist. There’s no way he goes to all this trouble if he’s not getting off on it.”

That’s not it. You know it isn’t it. “No,” Aizawa says flatly. “There is a message he wishes to convey. Shinsou and I will retreat. The rest of you, catalogue the crime scene, and then we’ll search.”

Monoma sketches while you take pictures, and Hagakure follows behind you, dusting every possible surface for prints. You work your way inwards to the body from the perimeter of the site, noting the direction the victim’s wide-open, staring eyes are angled. He hasn’t done anything with the hands or feet this time. The victim’s hands are folded over her abdomen, and there’s something folded up between them. You zoom in, snap photos from every angle, and then call for the others.

“It seems he’s growing less subtle.” Aizawa pulls on gloves while Hagakure carefully separates the item from the victim’s hands. It’s a paper flower, clumsily folded out of what appears to be a copy of a court order. That fits Tomura’s MO – almost. Tomura leaves hints, but not in plain sight like this. And Tomura never leaves bloody fingerprints all over whatever clue he’s left.

You try to point that out, but no one listens to you. They’re all congratulating themselves over how all serial killers make a mistake eventually, how he’s slowing down and losing his touch. You’re the only one who’s looking at the body itself, the only one seeing that something’s wrong with the ribcage. “Look at this,” you say. Then: “Hey! He didn’t just open her up. He –”

You reach down with a gloved hand, and the victim’s sternum splits open at the slight pressure. Next to you, Monoma makes a strangled sound and yanks out his sketchbook, drawing fast with a heavy hand. You peel off your gloves and lift your camera again. No wonder Tomura left such an obvious clue. He wanted the team to focus on that. Not on the fact that the victim’s heart has been carved from her chest.

Tomura removes his victims’ organs not infrequently, but he leaves them at the crime scene, artfully and disgustingly arranged. The heart’s nowhere to be found, and although you follow the victim’s eyeline, the heart’s not there. What’s there instead is a message scrawled on a piece of paper, in Tomura’s handwriting. It’s yours if you can find it. He’s taunting you. That asshole. You turn the piece of paper over, only to find an instruction. An awful instruction. Start where we met.

Where the two of you met? You met in his basement. Or you met in the park where he chloroformed you. No way are you going back to either of those places. Tomura’s sending you on a scavenger hunt for a victim’s heart – and worse, he’s guaranteed that no one is going to help you look. You’re dead certain that the fingerprints on the court order aren’t his, but they’re taking up all of your colleagues’ attention, just like he must have known they would. If you’re going to go looking for his latest victim’s heart, you’ll be doing it alone.

So you’ll do it alone. Tomura’s other victims, as mutilated as they were, at least got to be cremated whole. This victim deserves the same, whoever she was. You remember Tomura’s instructions to look up, the one he left at multiple crime scenes, and do it of your own accord this time. Tomura watches his crime scenes somehow. He must have, in order to spot you, which means he’s probably watching now, waiting to see what you’ll do in response to his challenge. You nod a few times to let him know that you’re willing to play. It’s uncomfortably easy to picture his smile.

You show the note to the others, but they aren’t interested, except to tell you to go through the crowd photos from the previous crime scenes. “Start with the earliest one,” Aizawa says. “If he’s referring to his first encounter with the police, he won’t have been as skilled at hiding his trail. You might find him in the crowd.”

You already tried that. Your first day at work after the kidnapping, you went over all the crowd photos with a fine-tooth comb, searching for the identifying features you remember – messy blue hair, red eyes, scratched-raw patches on the sides of his neck. There was nothing. Even from the beginning, he was too smart for that. By the time you came to one of his crime scenes –

It clicks into place for you all at once. Tomura’s mind doesn’t work the way a normal person’s does. To him, your first meeting wasn’t the kidnapping. Your first meeting is the first time he saw you. And if he’s watching his crime scenes, the first time he saw you is the first time you took pictures of one.

It’s a painfully long night at work, and there’s no rest for you even when you do clock off. You head straight to the first of Tomura’s crime scenes, long since cleared away. There’s a small memorial featuring a moldering teddy bear, which you can’t look at too long, and some graffiti that you’re not interested in reading. You walk to where the victim’s body lay and try to put yourself inside Tomura’s head. He wants to be noticed. Everything he does is in the service of getting noticed, of making sure that people can’t ignore him or what he wants them to see. And for a while now – at least a few crime scenes – he’s been trying to get you to notice him specifically. Not his crime scenes. Him.

You’re good at noticing things, but at this first scene, you missed something. You noticed the direction the victim’s eyes were looking, but you didn’t follow it, which means that whatever message Tomura left here went unnoticed. Maybe he wants you to find that message and get it out there, and then he’ll give back the heart. You call up your memory of the crime scene and follow the corpse’s empty gaze. Sure enough, there’s something tucked into a carved-away portion of the concrete wall.

It’s not the original clue. You know what kind of clues Tomura leaves, and this isn’t it, which means that he came back here at some point to leave something new. And he came back recently – the date on the receipt he left here is from three days ago. Did he already have the victim when he bought whatever this was? You and the others have had a hard time figuring out Tomura’s timeline. He does such a good job destroying the victims’ identifying features that it takes weeks to identify each one, and the longer it takes, the more likely it is that people’s memories of the last time they saw the victim alive will be too faded to use.

Whatever he’s planning, he started it in the last three days, which means his planning for it overlapped with the murder, if not the capture, too. You can’t decide which is worse – the thought that he had the victim already, and decided to carve out their heart to mess with you, or if he had the idea for the scavenger hunt and killed the victim specifically to set it up. Either way, it feels like it’s somehow your fault.

You’ve had dumber thoughts, but not in a while. You know there won’t be fingerprints on the receipt, so you take it with you bare-handed, studying it on the train. It’s a pickup receipt for something that’s already been paid for, and Tomura’s obscured the price, the transaction ID, the form of payment, and most of the letters in the name of the business. He’s good. You write out the number of spaces in the business’s name, fill in the letters you know, and start trying to guess what on earth Tomura bought.

Tomura bought coffee and a bagel, but he’s too wound up to eat them. Just like he was too wound up to sleep last night, or the night before, or the night before that. If he’s being honest, he hasn’t slept since he had this idea. Tomura needs you to hurry up and find all his clues, so he can finally get some rest. He got a little too used to getting some rest over the last six months. He needs to be careful, or he’ll lose his edge.

The high from his photoshoot with you lasted for weeks. Whole weeks where Tomura could look at the pictures you took of him, and the footage of you from the hidden cameras in the basement, and feel instantly calmer. He slept better at night, too. Killing people who deserved it and forcing everyone else to see the truth didn’t feel quite as urgent as it did before. The police were on it, as useless and corrupt as they are, and thanks to you, the whole world knows that Tomura has something to say. Tomura didn’t need to widen his victim pool for more crime scenes, more chances for the cops to figure it out. He could be selective, and make his crime scenes even more spectacular for you.

It was a great plan, until Tomura remembered that you’re only paying attention to him when he’s killing people. Six months where he doesn’t kill anyone is six months where you’re not looking at him, and once Tomura figured that out, he was so pissed at himself and so desperate to do something that he killed someone off his list on purpose, in a messy, ugly crime scene that you’d never associate with him. Then he got his shit together and started thinking about what he’d really need to do to recapture your attention. Something to give the so-called detectives a hard-on so they wouldn’t get in your way, and something to make sure that this time, you’d have to seek him out yourself.

You found Tomura’s first two clues already, and he told himself that he was going to wait to see you until you found them all – but then he had some stupid dream about you taking his picture again and knew he couldn’t wait that long. So now he’s here, staked out in the park across from the shop where he left the third clue, with a coffee that’s getting cold and a bagel he feels too nervous to eat, waiting to see if today’s the day you’ll come looking.

It’s not like Tomura hasn’t seen you at all. He’s been watching you since the second he brought you back to your apartment, carried you up the stairs and used your keys to unlock the door and took off his shoes and yours to carry you inside. He’d set the drone up already, so he could be in and out in five minutes rather than lingering, and he still ended up staying longer than he should have. He’s had that drone at your house, and there’s another one that follows the forensics unit to crime scenes so he can watch you work, and every so often he hacks into the CCTV cameras nearest your favorite places to hang out in case you’re there.

Tomura likes seeing you. Likes seeing you go about your day sometimes, even if he has to stop himself from adding new people to his hit list any time you come across somebody rude. But watching you through a camera isn’t the same thing as seeing you in person. And you taking photos of his crime scene isn’t the same thing as seeing him.

He forces himself to drink some of the coffee, and to eat some of the bagel, but his hands are shaking so badly that he ends up with cream cheese everywhere. Having cream cheese all over his hands turns out to not be the worst, because it attracts somebody’s off-leash dog over to him, and Tomura gets way too much satisfaction over being the better offer than the dog’s actual owner. He feels calmer by the time the owner finally lures the dog away, but it doesn’t last long. There you are, right across the street, walking fast with headphones in your ears and headed straight for the shop Tomura’s been staking out.

You look tired. Like you’ve been losing sleep over Tomura the same way he’s been losing it over you, which isn’t a thought Tomura should be having in public. He hides behind his coffee and watches you make your way into the store. He should have picked a better place to camp out than the park across the street. He wants to be closer. He wants to hear what you’re saying. And why shouldn’t he get closer if he wants to?

Because it’s stupid. Because you’re smart. Because you’re smart enough to guess that Tomura’s watching you, and you might be expecting to see him here. Tomura doesn’t let any of that stop him from crossing the street and sneaking into the store, browsing with his back to you while you discuss his clue with the shopkeeper.

“Can you tell me anything about the person who bought it?” you’re asking. “What else were they looking at when they came in?”

“The young man only came in to pay,” the shopkeeper says. “This wasn’t a purchase, but a repair. He brought the item in, made his specifications, and informed me that you would be by to pick it up.”

“The person with the receipt.”

“No, you. By your name,” the shopkeeper says. Tomura wishes he could see your face right now. You probably look surprised, even though you should already know that he knows your name. “Wait here a moment. I’ll bring it up to you.”

If you get bored and start looking around, Tomura’s screwed, but Tomura hasn’t lasted this long by freaking out for no reason. Just because he prefers to watch through drones doesn’t mean he can’t handle himself in public. He pretends to browse, keeping his back to you, fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder and see what you’re doing. That’s an amateur mistake. He can watch you as much as he wants later. Right now, he just needs to make sure you get his next clue.

Your voice is quiet when you speak up – quiet, and rattled with exasperation. “You’d better not have left me a murder victim’s jewelry.”

Tomura almost shits himself. You know he’s there. How do you know he’s there? Did you see him across the street before you came in, or did you expect him to be following you this closely? Why haven’t you called the cops yet? If you knew he was there, you’d have called immediately, which means you don’t know he’s there. You’re just talking to yourself. Tomura’s drones catch you doing that sometimes. You’re just not usually talking about him.

But now you are, and you’re thinking about him, too. And he didn’t leave you a murder victim’s jewelry – at least, not one of his victims’. Tomura stays put, trying to calm his racing heart, as the shopkeeper comes back with the clue. “The clasp and fastening on the locket have been repaired,” the shopkeeper says, “and the new picture has been included. Would you like it wrapped, or would you prefer to wear it out?”

Tomura can leave now. You’ve got the clue. He doesn’t need to hear your answer. “I’ll wear it out,” you say, and all of Tomura’s efforts to calm the fuck down go out the window in an instant. “Thanks.”

“That’s cute,” Hagakure says, leaning across the lunch table to examine the necklace a little more closely. “Where did you get it? It looks old.”

“Thrift shop,” you say, wishing for the billionth time that you’d taken it off. “I’m not sure it’s my style, though.”

“It’s a locket, right?” Monoma slurps his soda. “What’s in it?”

“Not sure. It doesn’t open.”

It opens, all right. One of the photos you took of Tomura is in it, and on the other side, there’s a pressed flower, one that you’re pretty sure has been there for decades. But Tomura wouldn’t have left the flower in there if it wasn’t important somehow, so you’ve spent the last couple nights going blind on the internet, comparing the tiny flower to picture after picture and trying to figure out what it is. You’d rather fixate on the flower than on the picture of Tomura, which unfortunately is a really good one – one of the best ones you took during the photo shoot six months ago. You wonder why he picked it.

Regardless of why he picked it, you’re treating both the photo and the flower as a distraction. Tomura might think he’s leaving you clues towards the heart, but he’s also leaving clues towards himself.

You had a feeling the locket was old, so you went to an antique dealer to have it looked at and found out that it’s close to seventy years old. The maker’s mark on the back of it is from an obscure but well-respected jeweler whose better-kept pieces go for quite a bit of money. All his pieces were numbered, the antique jeweler told you. If you’d like, I can look up who it was sold to first.

He gave you the owner of the locket, a man named Shimura who reportedly bought it for his daughter. You tracked down photos of the daughter, Shimura Nana, and found multiple photos in which she’s wearing it. You also found out that she was murdered, her case never solved, which means that Tomura did give you a murder victim’s jewelry – a murder victim whose death he can’t possibly have been responsible for, since he’s close to your age and wouldn’t have been born for another forty years. But that begged the question of how he got the locket in the first place. And who the locket actually belongs to. According to the articles you read about the murder, Shimura Nana was survived by her only son, Kotaro.

You looked him up, thinking you’d give it back to him once you figured out the flower clue, only to discover that the Shimura family’s bad luck didn’t stop with Nana’s death. The entire Shimura family was murdered twenty-five years ago, and their case was never solved, either. You’ve requested the original files from the jurisdiction where the murders occurred, working under the assumption that there’s some kind of connection. Tomura wouldn’t have had this locket if there wasn’t some connection to the family who owned it. You’re just not sure what it is. Or why he’d give it to you. Pieces of paper with clues scribbled on them are one thing. Jewelry looks suspiciously like a present.

“Hey,” Monoma says from next to you, and you snap out of it in a hurry. “Is that thing an evil amulet or something? You were checked out.”

“Maybe there’s a cursed spirit inside it,” you deadpan. Hagakure snickers. “No, I’m just tired. What were you saying?”

“I was just saying we’re having trouble with the fingerprints,” Hagakure says, and you nod. “Have you had any luck finding the heart?”

You shake your head. “I’m still looking.”

You get your big break with the flower after work when you discover that it’s a rare species of miniature orchid, something that’s only grown under specific conditions. The botanical gardens in Tokyo are the only place that has them. It looks like you know what you’re doing on your next day off.

Tomura’s never staged a crime scene in Tokyo, so you’re not sure why he’d send you here, but you go anyway. It seems like a weird move for him, given how many people are around, given how hard it’ll be to get a close look at whatever he’s left you. If he’s even left you anything. You wander the gardens until your feet hurt, inspecting the orchids every time the crowd parts enough for you to get close. There’s nothing. You thought he might have buried something in the plot where the orchids grow, but the earth’s undisturbed. Did you follow the wrong clue?

Maybe. Tomura will be disappointed, but it’s his own fault. He should have given you something less ambiguous to work from.

At least that’s what you think, until you stick your hand in your pocket on the train ride back and come out with a folded piece of paper that you don’t remember picking up. The first thing you see is his handwriting on the back of it: You’re getting warmer. When you flip it over, you see that it’s a movie ticket for tomorrow night. That’s your clue. You didn’t make the wrong guess about where to look. You were just wrong about where you’d find it, and a bolt of terror and anticipation runs down your spine.

Tomura was here. Tomura got close enough to you to plant this in your pocket, and you didn’t even notice. That’s why he picked the botanical gardens – not to send you on a wild-goose chase, but to give himself crowd cover, and to make sure you’d be so distracted looking for the clue that you’d completely miss him giving it to you himself. Tomura’s not just dangerous. Not just better than you thought he was. Tomura’s brilliant. And for some reason, he used that brilliance to plant a movie ticket in your pocket, for a theater in your town that’s showing exclusively Best Picture winners as a lead-up to the Academy Awards.

You remember seeing posters advertising Silence of the Lambs and wonder if Tomura’s really that much of jackass. Or if he forgot what happens to the serial killer at the end of the story. You didn’t have plans tomorrow night, anyway. It looks like you’re going to the movies.

Tomura shouldn’t be here. At all. He’s already taken way too many risks, and he doesn’t even like this movie. He had to buy a ticket in order to plant your next clue, and since it didn’t matter which seat he was in – since he wasn’t staying – he picked one two rows behind yours. But then he sat down. Sat through six or seven previews. Put up with idiot couples in his row and the row between your seat and his. It’s your fault Tomura’s still here, because you haven’t shown up yet. As soon as he knows you’ve made it, he can leave.

You slip into the theater just as the lights are dimming, when it’s too late for Tomura to get out without causing a scene. Now he’s going to have to sit through an entire movie in a theater, and as bad as Tomura is at sitting still through movies he’s actually interested, he’s going to be even worse at sitting through fucking Titanic. He wishes he’d had the idea to send you to the movies last week instead. Then you could have watched Silence of the Lambs.

It's three hours of Tomura’s life that he won’t get back, but so what? He’s got things to think about. Based on how badly the press is freaking out about his most recent murder and the fake fingerprints he left all over the scene, he’s got their attention, so now he needs to capitalize on it. He’s spent enough time screwing around on the lower tiers of his list, figuring out how to stage a crime scene for maximum impact. Now it’s time to go after the lying hypocrites who let this happen.

Who to start with, though? Tomura doesn’t want to bite off more than he can chew by tackling his biggest target too soon, but if he starts with the others and his main target catches on, the bastard will beef up his security and make himself all but inaccessible. Tomura needs to get him second, maybe. Or third. And he needs to be careful. His targets might not be able to put the pieces together, but Tomura knows you can, and you’ll be the one taking pictures at his crime scene.

Most of the couples sitting in the same row as Tomura are making out, like Tomura’s wandered into some bullshit PG-13 orgy by accident. Your row isn’t much better, but at least the seat to your right is empty, so you can get an armrest to yourself without picking up an STD. You got popcorn and a soda, which is what Tomura should have done if he was planning to stay, and you don’t look like you’re hating the movie. It’s hard to tell when Tomura can’t see your face.

Tomura wonders what movie you’d have picked, if you were the one buying the tickets. You can probably handle a horror movie, given what your job is, but Tomura’s willing to bet that you don’t like them. He doesn’t like them, either, and he can handle blood and guts even better than you. What other kinds of movie are there, really? He can’t picture you being into romcoms or something stupid like that. Tomura doesn’t think he’s ever watched a romcom. He’d put up with one if you wanted to see it.

This movie’s not a romcom. The more time Tomura spends paying attention to the movie, the more annoyed he gets, until he finally gets up and leaves in the middle of some stupid car sex scene, not caring about how much of a scene he makes. He’ll hang out outside the theater, make sure you leave with the clue, plant it on you if you didn’t find it, and go home.

You’ve got the clue with you when the movie lets out close to midnight, and Tomura watches you – but he’s not the only one. The guy from the concession counter is still here, even though Tomura watched him clock off an hour ago, and he stops you partway to the doors. Tomura drifts a little closer, close enough to hear that this guy wants to know why you were going to see a romance movie all by yourself on – Valentine’s Day? Is it really fucking Valentine’s Day? You shoot back that you’re only in it for the shipwreck and shrug him off, but Tomura sees you glance back over your shoulder as you step out onto the street. The guy from the concession stand doesn’t wait more than a few seconds before he follows you.

Fucking amateur. Tomura tells himself that’s why his blood’s boiling. Watching another criminal, one who’s not even good at it, always bothers him. If the concession stand asshole knew anything, he’d know he’s already blown it – you’re wary of him, and you’ll be watching out for him, and you’ll change your behavior to minimize his chances to get you alone. If Tomura was this creep, he’d find a new target. This creep keeps following you. Tomura doesn’t think twice about following him.

He memorized the grid of streets around this theater, just in case he had to make a quick getaway, and he knows exactly where to be. When the creep walks past the alley, so intent on following you that he doesn’t question whether anyone’s after him, Tomura grabs him and yanks him into the darkness. It’s not how Tomura likes to deal with people, but it’s how he learned to do it, and there are some things it’s not possible to forget.

The creep is bigger than Tomura, heavier than Tomura, and he must have been serious about whatever he was planning to do to you, because he’s got a knife. He takes a swing at Tomura that scores across Tomura’s ribcage, then grabs Tomura by his shoulder and throws him against the wall of the alleyway, hard enough to rattle Tomura’s teeth in his skull. But victims have fought Tomura before. Stronger victims, in better shape, with actual training. He’s killed cops and former soldiers. This guy is nothing.

It gets messy, and Tomura gets hurt, but he wishes he had time to drag this out. He wants this guy to suffer, and he wants to leave you a pretty crime scene, one that’ll tell you exactly what Tomura did for you. When Tomura knocked you out to bring you back to your apartment after you took his picture, he could tell that you didn’t believe him when he said he wouldn’t kill you. He’s not going to kill you. Killing for you, though – Tomura’s got no problem with that.

He guts the creep with his own knife, his sleeve wrapped over his hand so he won’t leave a fingerprint, and steps back to admire his handiwork. It’s not his best, but you’ll understand. And if you don’t – you’ve got his last clue now. Tomura can explain it to you when he sees you in person.

Tomura’s last clue is straightforward – a location, a time, and a warning that you’ll never get the heart if you tell anyone or if you don’t come alone. How badly do you want the victim’s heart? Really badly, and after Tomura’s led you on an unhinged scavenger hunt halfway across Japan, you’ve got no interest in backing down. Maybe he’s gotten distracted setting this up for you. Maybe he’ll make a mistake, and you can find a way to bring him in.

When you get to work the morning, the Shimura files are in a carton on your desk, but before you can even lift one out, a call for forensics goes out, summoning you to a murder scene downtown. Aizawa’s off for the day, so Shinsou’s running the show. Monoma’s off, too, which means it’s just you and Hagakure, and you’re going to have to sketch the scene in addition to photographing it. You have time for a longing look at the Shimura files before you’re hustled out the door.

Three seconds after looking at the scene, Shinsou declares it as a copycat of the Symbol of Fear, and you have to admit that it doesn’t look like Tomura’s work. The body’s barely been gutted, the limbs haven’t been removed or rearranged, and the victim’s eyes look like they’ve had thumbs jammed into them. This wasn’t Tomura, even if it did happen only a few blocks away from the theater you were at last night. Tomura must have been there to plant the clue, but there’s no way he left after you did. Tomura doesn’t strike you as a movie type, but of all the movies he could possibly sit through, you don’t think Titanic is anywhere on the list.

It’s not Tomura’s work, but something still feels odd to you as you sketch the scene and pick up your camera to do your real job. Hagakure is dusting for prints, and Shinsou’s thinking out loud, the way Aizawa never does. “The victim’s been partially eviscerated, but that likely occurred postmortem, due to the lack of blood spatter. The true cause of death appears to be strangulation with a rope or some other object, which is not present at the scene. The killer must have taken it with them.”

You keep snapping photos, starting at the victim’s feet, then working your way upwards, trying not to trip on Hagakure in the bargain. Shinsou’s still talking. “The victim’s phone and wallet are missing. Combined with the short distance between the scene and the victim’s workplace, it’s likely that this was a crime of opportunity.”

“His workplace?” you repeat. “How do you know where he works?”

“Nametag,” Shinsou says, and you take a picture of it. “He worked at the theater a few blocks away.”

The victim’s face is a distorted mess, but you remember the name on his nametag. You made sure you remembered it, because the vibe was off when he stopped you on your way out the door, and you took the slow train home just to ensure that you’d be surrounded by people for as long as possible. He creeped you out last night, and he’s dead this morning. That can’t be a coincidence. You need it to be a coincidence, because if it’s not –

“Detective! Look!” Hagakure is bent over the victim’s right hand. “He must have fought his attacker. There’s hair in his hand.”

The strands of hair she’s lifting from between the victim’s fingers with tweezers are longer than you remember, but it’s been six months since you last saw Tomura. That’s enough time for his hair to grow. They have his hair now. They’ve got his DNA. “Check under the fingernails on that hand,” Shinsou is saying to Hagakure. “I’ve got skin fragments here, too.”

“Over here!” The officer who called in the body is beckoning to you, and you make your way over. “Blood spatter. Think it could be something?”

You’re not a detective, just a photographer, but the distance between the blood spatter and the body is significant – and it’s pointed in the wrong direction. The victim would have been trying to move out of the alley, back towards the street, but the blood spatter is close to the other end of the alley. Tomura left it when he was escaping, which means Tomura’s injured, which means that the police now have his skin, hair, and blood attached to an open murder case. This was a stupid kill for Tomura to make. Why would he take this kind of risk?

For you.

The thought is horrific, but once it’s in your head, you can’t shake it loose. It clings to you through the rest of the crime scene documentation, and it’s in your head as you upload your photos and write your report back at the station. It’s still there when you finally get to sit down and read through the Shimura file, documenting the annihilation of an entire family. Shimura Nana was murdered almost fifty years ago, and twenty-five years after that, her descendants were murdered, too. Shimura Kotaro, his in-laws, his wife, and his children.

No. Not his children. His daughter was murdered, but not his son. His son, five years old at the time, went missing, and has been missing ever since. You flip through the file one-handed, looking for more information about Shimura Tenko. With the other, you wake up your computer and navigate to the missing persons database. Shimura Tenko is in there, sure. Shimura Tenko’s listed as presumed dead. His profile is bare-bones – no photo, no last known place or last known sighting, no information about any search that was conducted. There’s nothing in the file, either. Did anybody go looking for this kid?

No. Even when you dig up newspaper articles about the murder, Shimura Tenko’s barely mentioned. If people were looking for him, they stopped looking fast. You think of Tomura’s obsessive need to be looked at, of his insistence on drawing attention to the failures of people who are supposed to protect others, and feel sick to your stomach. This can’t be it. This can’t be who he is, where he came from. So what if the locket you’re still wearing belonged to his grandmother? So what if he risked his mission to kill somebody who bothered you? So what if he went six months without killing anybody after somebody looked at him just once? You’ve seen what Tomura’s capable of. There’s no way this is where he started.

There’s a school photo of Shimura Tenko somewhere in the file. You stare at it for an hour, searching for Tomura in the few details you can see, but it’s been more than twenty years since this photo was taken. If you’re right about this, Tomura’s your age, and you don’t look anything like your old school pictures, anyway. And it’s not like you have anything to compare to. You’ve never actually seen Tomura’s face.

He'll be watching you when you go to pick up the heart. Maybe you can find a way to get a message across to him. Knowing who he is won’t make him any easier to catch, but maybe if you let him know you’re looking at him, you can buy a little more time.

You’re almost here. Tomura checks his tablet screen, flipping through drone camera after drone camera to make sure you’re alone, sends one final message, and sets it aside. His nerves hum in anticipation, not quite the same way they do when he’s about to execute a planned kill. Tomura planned this from the beginning. You were always going to end up here on this rooftop, and he was always going to be waiting for you. Tomura just wasn’t expecting to be such a mess.

He's got a black eye and a split lip and scratches on his hands, and he was going to put on clean clothes, but his stupid washing machine broke. The best he can say for his clothes right now is that they aren’t bloodstained, but that’s not going to last – the cut on his ribs keeps opening up, and the bandage he put on it won’t stay in place. Tomura’s not sorry he killed the creep who was after you. He’s just pissed that he got himself beaten up in the bargain.

He hears your footsteps on the stairs, fishes the hand out of his coat pocket, and settles it on his face, wincing like an idiot. He was going to sit down, but if he sits down, he’s going to grimace standing up, and he doesn’t want you to know he’s hurt. Tomura leans back against the wall instead, arms crossed over his chest, as you appear around the corner.

Tomura’s mouth goes dry. He liked carrying you to his workshop, watching you sleep and then wake up, but this is better. You’re wide awake, and you came to see him purposely. You’ve got a backpack, like Tomura’s got a backpack, and your camera bag is slung over your shoulder. You’re still wearing the locket Tomura left as the second clue, but when you see Tomura, you rock back a step in shock. “Hey,” Tomura says, and his voice cracks. “You made it.”

“You’re here,” you say. Tomura doesn’t know how to read the look on your face. “You promised me the heart.”

The heart. Right. That’s how Tomura got you to play in the first place. He knew you wouldn’t be able to leave even the most useless victim to be cremated in pieces, and he knew you’d keep looking, because that’s what you do. “It’s on its way.”

“It’s not here?”

“It’s on its way,” Tomura repeats. Your stare turns accusatory in a hurry. “Look, if you walked up to the police station holding somebody’s heart in a cooler, they’d get suspicious of you. I’m doing you a favor.”

“They’re going to be suspicious of you. Your DNA is all over the crime scene from this morning.”

So you found that one. Tomura’s stomach clenches. “It doesn’t matter. They’re not going to find it anywhere else.”

“They still have it,” you say. “Where’s the heart?”

“I said it’s on its way. You don’t trust me?”

“You tricked me,” you snap. “I’m leaving.”

“No.” Tomura swallows down a surge of panic. He could get ahold of you, stop you – if he hadn’t gotten hurt. His injuries won’t slow him down much, but it’ll be enough, especially since he doesn’t want to hurt you. “I’m having it delivered to the police station, but I’ll cancel it if you leave. Do you want it to get there or not?”

“I want proof,” you say. “Do you have package tracking?”

Tomura takes out his phone, unlocks it, holds it out to you. You’d have to come closer to him to take it, and you won’t. “If you were just going to ship it the whole time, why did you do this?”

Don’t you know? You should know, just like you knew what Tomura meant by his crime scenes, just like you know how to make him look human when you capture him on film. When you speak again, your voice is quieter, anguished. “Why did you kill that guy for me?”

You do know. Tomura feels the knots in his throat and stomach relax slightly. “Why do you think?”

“He was never going to get to me,” you say. “I was in a crowd the whole way home. Nobody’s that stupid.”

“He was,” Tomura says. “Did you want me to just sit there and do nothing?”

“I didn’t want you to do anything!” You look upset. Why are you upset? “I don’t understand.”

You don’t understand, but you came prepared, probably. All this stuff you brought with you in your backpack is probably for transporting the heart safely – except for one thing. “If you don’t understand, why did you bring your camera?”

“I thought you might have left something for me to look at,” you say. It’s quiet for a second. Tomura waits, fixated on the slightest flutter of your eyelids, the way your chest rises and falls. You look up and make eye contact. “But I think you did.”

It’s a good thing Tomura put the hand on. His face turns red so fast that he’s surprised he doesn’t combust. “I’m not leaving until I know the package got delivered,” you say. Tomura nods and gives himself a headache. “And while we’re waiting, I could always take your picture.”

“I brought your camera,” Tomura says. You brought it up first, so he doesn’t feel weird about saying it. He lifts it out of his backpack and hands it over to you, watching as you deftly adjust the settings. “Is the light okay?”

“I’ve worked with worse,” you say. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you look good.”

You said the same thing last time. It was dumb last time, too. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“You have seen it,” you say. “Last time, I – um, I’m pretty sure you liked the pictures I took.”

Tomura liked them. He’s also pretty sure that’s not what you’re referencing. “I’m not going to do that just because you’re taking my picture.”

“Okay.” You take a test shot, then another, and if Tomura hadn’t gotten beat to shit last night, he’d already be ordering himself to calm down. “Do you care if I pose you more this time?”

Posing him was where you got him into trouble last time, but again – beat to shit. “No. It’s fine.”

You want him to sit down in a specific spot, in a spot that’s catching faint afternoon sunlight. Tomura sits cross-legged at first, and you take a few pictures like that, but then you tell him to get comfortable. “Just move when you feel like moving. I’ll take care of everything else.”

At first Tomura does what you said, shifting this way and that, but when he sees how tightly you focus in on everything he’s doing, he can’t resist experimenting a little bit. He draws his knees up and sits forward, ignoring the protest from the cut on his ribs. The pictures you take aren’t of the places he’s expecting. He’s expecting you to take a bunch of shots of his arms wrapped around his knees, but you’re ignoring them. You’re taking a lot of pictures of his face.

Tomura’s not great with eye contact. Eye contact through a camera lens isn’t much better. “Should I make different faces or something?”

“Most of these aren’t of your whole face. Here.” You show Tomura the pictures you’ve taken so far, and he sees photo after photo of his eye, visible through the fingers of the hand. His hair, which he hasn’t cut in forever but did try to brush, and the way it falls over his cheek and his shoulder. A couple shots have zoomed in on the back of his neck, the angle of his jaw to his neck to his shoulder. “What do you think?”

Tomura thinks it’s like his dreams. He’s thinking how weird it is that you see him like this, that you can take a photo of a part of his body that he scratches raw more often than not and make it look normal. “You have really nice features,” you say. Tomura looks away from you in a hurry. “But you’d be worth looking at no matter what.”

Tomura’s stomach twists. “I was wondering,” you continue. “Last time I wouldn’t let you, but this time – I think it might be nice to get some shots of your face.”

“Of my face? So you can tell the police what I look like?”

“This is your camera. You’re not going to let me take the film with me.”

“And I’m supposed to think that will stop you?” Tomura asks. His heart is beating so hard that he’s giving himself a headache. “You could draw me. I’ve seen your crime scene sketches.”

“If you’ve seen my crime scene sketches, then you know I couldn’t draw a person if my life depended on it.” Your voice is softer. Tomura can almost picture you smiling. “It’s okay if not. But if you wanted me to –”

Fuck it. Tomura pulls the hand off his face before he can lose his nerve and looks back at you. He sees your eyes widen in surprise, then worry. “Tomura,” you say, “what happened?”

“What?” Tomura’s expecting you to explain, not to reach out to the side of his face that the creep slammed against the wall. “Don’t. It’s fine.”

“You got it fighting that guy. For me.” You set the camera down. Your hand forms to the curve of Tomura’s cheek, then jerks away. “It’s warm. Hang on –”

You leave, but you’re back a second later, crumpling a single-use ice pack to activate it. Tomura’s expecting you to hand it to him, but you hold it to his cheek instead, and he can’t resist tilting his head against it. “Do you just keep this stuff around?”

“I brought it for the heart. I wasn’t sure what kind of packaging it was going to be in.”

“I kept it on ice,” Tomura says. He’s not an amateur. “What are you doing?”

You’re digging in your backpack again, coming up with a first-aid kit. “There was blood spatter at the scene this morning, leading away from the body. Where else did you get hurt?”

Tomura must have screwed up that crime scene even worse than he thought, and he doesn’t care at all. As long as he’s extra careful with his other crime scenes, it’ll be fine. The weirder part of this is that you’re helping him. You’re not just taking his picture. You want to help. Why?

Tomura decides it doesn’t matter. “He pulled the same knife I gutted him with,” he says, and your eyes widen slightly. “He got me in the ribs.”

“Is it still bleeding?” you ask. Tomura can feel it dripping down his torso. He nods, and although he should have seen what you say next coming from a mile away, it still catches him completely by surprise. “Take off your shirt.”

The cut on Tomura’s ribcage is jagged, deeper in some places than others, and it’s too wide to stay closed without help. The bandage he’s slapped over it is hanging on by a thread. “You should have gotten stitches,” you say nonsensically, trying to avoid the old scars you can see on his torso, or the fact that you can almost count his ribs. “How big was this knife?”

“Big.” The Symbol of Fear watches you, eyes wide and face flushed. He’s still holding the ice up to his cheek, and you see the offensive wounds on the backs of his hands. Shinsou assumed that the killer used a ligature, but based on those, you’re pretty sure Tomura strangled the victim by hand. The victim must have clawed them to pieces trying to get Tomura to let go. “He had a knife, and he waited an hour after his shift to make sure he saw you leave. I had to do it.”

Tomura thinks all his murders are justified. You know that. This is the first time you’ve found yourself fighting the urge to agree with him. “Like you had to kill the others?”

“Someone had to,” Tomura says. He grimaces as you pull the edges of the wound together with a steri-strip. “Did you figure out who the last one was yet?”

Shinsou and Aizawa tracked down everyone whose name was in the court order Tomura left in the victim’s hands. Only one of them went missing recently, and a couple of DNA samples from family members later, you had a positive ID. “She was a child welfare worker. Not your usual type. A real –”

“Bleeding heart,” Tomura fills in, and you groan. “Come on. That was funny.”

“No, it isn’t. What you did to her wasn’t funny at all.”

“She had it coming.” Tomura’s voice turns cold. “Go look at her cases. There’s not one time she didn’t place the kid back with their fucking family.”

You remember something in the Shimura file, something about concerning behavior in the Shimura children, behavior that hinted at something going wrong at home. “What I did to her was over fast, and it only happened once,” Tomura says shortly. “She had it a lot easier than the kids she threw away.”

“I’m not defending that,” you say. Tomura gives you a skeptical look. “I’m not defending her. Almost everyone you’ve killed has done something awful. But there are ways to punish them that aren’t –”

“Like what?” Tomura waits for you to answer, but he doesn’t wait long. “She hurt people who nobody else gives a shit about. Do you think anybody’s going to stand up and defend them? They don’t even want to look.”

You don’t know what to say. “I got tired of waiting for people to open their eyes. They’ll see when I make them see. When you make them see.”

This is why Tomura won’t kill you. He needs you and your photos, or he thinks he needs them, to spread the word, to take his vision and transmit it to the world. It doesn’t matter to your coworkers why Tomura does what he does, but it matters to you. Tomura wants to send a message to the world. He wants to teach the world a lesson. “If they saw,” you start, as you carefully apply another steri-strip. “If you knew they’d seen. Would you stop?”

“They’ll never see.”

“But if they did,” you say. “Would you stop?”

“I’ll stop when it does,” Tomura says. He closes his eyes.

So, never. Why would he? Tomura has power as the Symbol of Fear, so much power that he’s not scared of leaving DNA evidence, that he’s not scared of you seeing his face. If he really is Shimura Tenko, a kid no one cared about when it counted, why would he ever give up the chance to force everyone to care about him? To watch him, to hang on his every word and move, to devote themselves to understanding him at last? Tomura won’t stop. He’ll never stop. But maybe he’ll pause.

Only one way to test. “I thought you might have stopped,” you say. You apply one final steri-strip, then put a bandage down over it. Then you reach for the camera. “Six months without a crime scene is a lot.”

“I was lulling you all into a false sense of security.” Tomura startles when you snap the first picture. “I wanted to see what you’d do when you thought it was over.”

“I never thought it was over.” You take another picture. Golden hour’s in full swing, and the light is perfect as it scatters across Tomura’s body, gilds his eyelashes and his hair. “You’d been busy. Did you take a vacation?”

“No.” Tomura scoffs. His face is flushed, and it’s spreading, down his throat and over his scars until his collarbones are dusted pink. You can’t help taking pictures of that, either. “No. I wanted. I –”

He squirms slightly, even though you aren’t touching him – as if your gaze through the camera lens is something physical, something as tangible as your hands on his skin. It doesn’t stop when you lower the camera. It gets worse. You remember this from last time, and you tell yourself that’s why you’re reaching out to him. You’re trying to recreate the same conditions as before, the ones that led to the six-month pause in his murders, trying to give him what he’s looking for through a different mechanism. It’s not because you know what happens next. It’s not because you want to see it again.

Tomura shudders when you touch the uninjured side of his face, trace over his jaw. You pause with your fingers at his throat, feeling his pulse racing, and force yourself to remember that he choked someone to death less than twenty-four hours ago, that he’d think nothing of closing his hands around another person’s throat. Then you move on to his collarbones, more deeply flushed with pink. The light is beautiful. You’d take pictures if this wasn’t so much –

“More,” Tomura breathes. “Don’t stop.”

You run your fingers lightly along his sternum and remind yourself what it would have taken to carve out someone’s heart. A scalpel to cut through skin and fat and muscle. A sternal saw to crack open the chest, a rib spreader to pry it apart. His hands, the one scratching at his neck and the one clawing for something to hold onto, would have been covered in blood. Human hearts are smaller than people think. He could have held it in one hand.

Tomura’s chest rises and falls rapidly, but it’s not until your hand slips past his sternum to rest on his abdomen that a sound leaves his mouth. You reach for your camera, needing to capture the look on his face, but Tomura’s hand closes around yours, holding on painfully tight. His grip is like iron, even as his hand shakes, and you recoil at the same moment as your heart skips a beat. How far are you planning to go here, with him? He’s a murderer. He’s done such awful things. You can’t hide from them. You’ve seen them up close.

But you see this, too. You see vulnerability alongside viciousness, loneliness alongside rage. Someone who knows what it’s like to be forgotten, someone who would do anything to stop it from happening again, someone who doesn’t make mistakes – except when he’s making them for you. The thought sweeps through you in a hot, painful flood. You can’t tell anyone about what happens here. That means it doesn’t count. You know just as well as Tomura does – if no one sees, it’s like it didn’t happen at all.

You turn your hand in Tomura’s with an effort, one he resists until he realizes that you aren’t trying to make him let go. His eyes fly open when you lace your fingers with his, and for a moment you’re holding his gaze, seeing more than he wants you to see, seeing everything. Then his phone starts buzzing, and whatever tension lies between you dissolves into awkwardness. This isn’t why you’re here. You pull your hands away, and Tomura reaches for his phone. “It’s delivered,” he says. “Look.”

There’s a photo of the package, left on the steps of the police station – a cooler, with a barely-legible message written on it in black marker. Who’s heartless now? A question occurs to you. “Would you have given it back if I hadn’t played your game?”

“No.” Tomura sits up and pulls on his bloodstained shirt. “It was for you.”

“And this.” You touch the locket around your neck. “Do you want it back?”

“Why would I want it back?”

“It’s a family heirloom,” you say, and his shoulders stiffen. “Don’t do that. Did you think I wouldn’t look?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Tomura says shortly. “It won’t help you find me. I don’t care.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” you say. “I think you wanted what you’ve always wanted.”

Your phone starts going berserk, too. You don’t even have to look to know it’s from work, to know that you’re being called in because the heart’s been found, because there’s yet another development in the serial killer case of the millennium. Tomura’s on his feet now, looking away from you. “You don’t have a clue what I want.”

It’s not much distance between the two of you on the rooftop. You aren’t crossing any lines you haven’t crossed already when you step forward and wrap your arms around him from behind. You know how strong he is, but he’s so thin, his vertebrae too prominent when you’re pressed against his back. His breathing catches. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t have to kill someone to make me see you,” you say. His breathing hitches again, and you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to recite what he’s done, even as you speak up again and prove just how pointless you’ve rendered it. “I can’t look away.”

Your phone starts ringing, and you ignore it. Work will call back again. It’s more important that you make this lesson stick. Tomura doesn’t try to pull away from you, and you don’t let him go. You stand there together until the last scraps of the golden hour have faded away.

Tomura examines his body in the mirror. He tells himself he’s checking on the last remnants of his bruises, on the healing knife slash across his ribs, but really, he’s looking for what you see when you look at him. What made you take so many pictures, the kind of pictures Tomura can’t look at without feeling dizzy and hot. What made you touch him like that, hold him that way. Tomura can’t see it yet. But maybe he will, if he keeps looking. He has to find what it is that makes you want to look at him, that makes it so you can’t look away.

Giving the heart back to the cops threw them for a complete loop. Nobody in the department mentioned anything about you being the reason Tomura gave it back, and that’s fine with Tomura, but the press is having a field day trying to figure out why he’d remove someone’s heart just to give it back. Why he took this heart and not somebody else’s. What he wants them to see this time. What it says about him that he’d do something so –

Not good. Good isn’t the word. There’s not a word for what Tomura is, and the sooner everybody remembers that, the better. Tomura’s already got the beginnings of his next crime scene in his head, and all he has to do is decide whose illusion of safety he wants to shatter – Detective Aizawa’s illusion that he can protect his team, or his brat apprentice’s illusion that his mentor can’t be torn down to his level. He’s leaning toward the apprentice – he doesn’t like his attitude, or the way he’s talked to you, and when you see what Tomura’s done, you’ll –

You don’t have to kill someone to make me see you.

No. There’s nothing in Tomura’s reflection to draw you in. Whatever magic you work with your photos, there’s no evidence of it in what Tomura sees in the mirror. He knows the kinds of things you can do with your camera. You take hideous things and make them striking, you take horrible things and turn them beautiful. Turning Tomura into something worth looking for is probably nothing to you. So how come your voice is in his head like that? You don’t have to kill someone to make me see you. Is there any way that could be true? I can’t look away.

There’s a way to find out, and Tomura feels the plan tugging at his thoughts. He could set up another game for you, one without any body parts at the end of it, one that doesn’t have anything to do with his mission or his murders. Something for you to find, because you like finding things, and maybe you’ll like finding Tomura at the end of it. Maybe he could get you another movie ticket, to something he won’t hate this time, and he could sit next to you instead of two rows back. If you want to see him. If you weren’t lying.

Bodies don’t lie. Tomura’s well aware of every tell that reveals disgust or fear. He can spot every crack in a person’s resolve, dig his fingernails in and pry it open to get to the terror beneath, and that’s how he knows you aren’t scared of him at all. There are parts of what happened on the rooftop that he can’t think about without squirming and parts that yank on him like magnets, pulling him back to the memory. Your fingers interlaced with his, your gaze steady on his face, your arms wrapped around him and your body pressed against his back. No one’s ever held Tomura like that. He’s never been that close to someone he wasn’t actively murdering. Not since before.

And you were so warm, not the damp, panicked sweating of somebody whose adrenaline reserves are running dry. Just warm. Just close. Tomura wasn’t anywhere close to done when you pulled away, and he knew even before you left that he’d kill to feel like that again. Anybody would.

But Tomura doesn’t have to, according to you. He’d be stupid to believe it, when it’s the only way it’s ever worked, and he has crime scenes to plan. He’s going to kill your boss, or your coworker, and the crime scene’s going to be a masterpiece, a work of art in real life as well as through your camera lens. Maybe he’ll set up a game for you to go with it, body parts or no body parts. Either way, you’ll have to come looking for him again. It’s the only way to make sure.

Still, though – I can’t look away. Every time Tomura passes by the mirror, every time he finds himself looking at the photos you took of him, every time his drones follow you to somebody else’s crime scene and he sees his locket around your neck, he wonders if you might not be telling the truth. You don’t have to kill someone to make me see you. Tomura hears your voice in his head, remembers the brush of your fingers across his skin, and wonders what it would be like to find out.

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