Suguru knows better than to flirt with his pretty little wife when you’re high off your ass on anesthesia.
He does. He's reminded himself countless times.
But then again, you’re blinking up at him like he’s the moon itself, all soft and slow with that syrupy smile pulling at your lips, holding onto every word he''s saying. Your pupils blown wide, unfocused, cheeks warm and a little flushed, and he’s weak for you like this. Loopy. Dazed. Sweet as honey.
He adjusts the monitor, fingertips brushing the edge of your wrist where the pulse oximeter clips gently to your finger. It’s steady. So is his hand. (Even if the rest of him isn’t)
“You flirt with just anyone like this?” he asks, low and quiet, just a hint of teasing in the edge of his voice. Violet eyes softening as they find their way to yours, lidded. Dark hair pulled back into a neat tie, though a few strands have managed to slip loose. He even wore your favorite scrubs, little kitties, an anniversary gift.
You giggle. All sticky-honey and with the sweetest smile. “Only the white-haired doctor gets it this good.”
Suguru huffs a soft laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he makes a little note on your chart. Nothing medical. A doodle. He just needs somewhere to put his hands. “Ah. Well. I guess I’ll let that one pass.”
You still haven’t noticed the silicone band glinting on his finger.
Still haven’t realized the man standing at your bedside, gently adjusting your blanket, has already kissed you good morning today. Already whispered you’re okay, I’ve got you before the anesthesia hit. Already threatened three different interns not to mess up your IV.
And then you sigh, all dreamy and lost in the soft lighting of the recovery room, eyes fluttering up to his face like it’s the first time you’ve seen him.
“My husband won’t put a baby in me,” you whisper, voice confidential and sing-song. “Maybe you would.”
Suguru freezes. Still polite. Barely composed.
But his ears go pink. Just a little. He presses his lips together. Fights the smirk twitching its way up.
“…Maybe your husband just thinks the three of you don’t have the time right now,” he murmurs, smoothing your blanket down pretending like you haven’t just turned him into hospital gossip for the evening. His warm hands, fingers long and careful as they brush over your thighs, just enough pressure to settle you, not enough to rattle.
Somewhere beyond the curtain, a familiar voice whines:
“That’s my wife,” Satoru’s saying, exasperated and loud enough for the whole wing to hear. “What do you mean I can’t be her doctor anymore?! What do you mean I can’t crawl in bed with her?!”
“Dr. Gojo,” the charge nurse says, unamused, “please leave the hallway.”
Suguru just sighs. Tucks your hair behind your ear with one gentle finger. You lean into it instinctively.
“Such a handful,” he murmurs under his breath, though whether he means you or Satoru, even he’s not sure.
You reach up for him again, fingers forming a wobbly little heart in the air. And he melts. Lets you catch his hand, lets your fingers trace the edge of his palm while you giggle and hum and blink at him. Acting as if this is the first time you've ever fallen in love.
You don’t remember much right now. Not the wedding. Not the matching rings. Not the way you cried the first time he called you his.
He remembers enough for both of you.
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