hii, first time requesting so kinda nervous...😗
if it's possible can you please write something cute and fluffy for jungwon and reader that go from friends to lovers (basically idiots in love?)
i really love the way you write
thank you so much💗
he's the cutest i'm combusting i love him and thank you so much for requesting 🥹
warnings: kissing and playful teasing
the first time you realize you might be in love with yang jungwon, it’s because he’s trying (and failing) to open a packet of ramyeon seasoning with his teeth.
“you’re gonna chip a tooth,” you say, already reaching over the tiny dorm table to take it from him.
he leans back dramatically, clutching the packet to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “this is character development. let me struggle in peace.”
“you’ve been struggling for forty seconds. that’s not character development, that’s a cry for help.”
he narrows his eyes, but the corners of his mouth keep twitching. “you’re so mean to me lately.”
“i’m literally saving your smile.”
“my smile is already saved. it’s your favorite thing about me.”
you freeze for half a second — long enough for him to notice.
he notices everything lately.
you snatch the packet anyway, rip it open with one clean motion, and dump the powder into the boiling noodles like nothing happened. jungwon just watches you with that quiet, cat-like stare he’s been doing more and more often. the one that makes your stomach feel like it’s full of baby butterflies trying to learn how to fly.
“thanks,” he murmurs, softer than necessary.
you shrug. “anytime.”
but it’s not anytime. it’s every time. every single stupid, small thing.
he forgets his umbrella? you wait under the awning of the convenience store holding yours over both of your heads even though your shoulder gets soaked.
he loses his favorite hoodie? you find it behind the couch in the practice room and wear it once “just to check if it still smells like him” (it does, and you panic-fold it back exactly how you found it).
he falls asleep on your lap during a movie night? you don’t move for two hours even though your leg is numb and tingling, because his cheek is squished against your thigh and he’s making tiny sleepy noises and you think maybe you’ve never been this happy and also maybe you’re going to die of happiness, which would be embarrassing.
the worst part? he does the same things back.
brings you the exact iced americano you like without you asking. waits for you after your late class even when his schedule is hell. saves the last slice of convenience-store cake for you every single time. calls you “my cutie” once — once — and then pretends he didn’t, but his ears were so red you could see them from across the room.
you’re both so stupid.
it finally snaps one rainy thursday.
you’re both soaked from walking back from the convenience store (he insisted on going with you even though you said you’d be quick). your shoes are squelching. his bangs are plastered to his forehead. he looks ridiculous and perfect.
inside the dorm hallway he stops suddenly, grabs your wrist, and tugs you under the little awning above the entrance so you’re not getting rained on anymore.
you look up at him. water droplets cling to his eyelashes.
he’s breathing a little fast.
“you’re shivering,” he says, like that explains why he’s holding your wrist so gently.
“i’m fine.”
“you’re not fine. you’re always cold.”
“i’m really—”
he steps closer. not a lot. just enough that you can smell rain and the faint peach of his shampoo.
“i like that you’re always cold,” he says quietly. “because then i get to do this.”
he takes both your hands in his and cups them near his mouth, blowing warm air over your fingers. slow. careful. like he’s been practicing this moment in his head for months.
your heart is so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
“jungwon…”
he lifts his eyes. they’re so close. so warm. so scared and brave at the same time.
“i think i’ve liked you for a really long time,” he whispers. “like… embarrassingly long. since the convenience store cake thing. maybe earlier. i don’t know. i just know i keep looking for excuses to be near you and then i panic when i’m actually near you and— i’m really bad at this, aren’t i?”
you laugh. it comes out shaky and wet and happy.
“you’re the worst,” you say, voice cracking. “you’re so bad at hiding it. everyone knows.”
his eyes widen. “everyone?”
“literally everyone. riki made a powerpoint.”
he groans, drops his forehead against your shoulder. “i’m gonna kill him.”
you lift your hands and gently hold the sides of his face, making him look at you again.
“i’m also bad at hiding it,” you admit. “i stole your hoodie once. on purpose. and then put it back like a criminal.”
he blinks. then smiles — slow, big, devastating.
“you wore my hoodie?”
“…maybe.”
“did it smell nice?”
“shut up.”
he laughs, bright and boyish and everything you’ve wanted to hear forever.
then he leans in — hesitant, giving you time to pull away — and when you don’t, he kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it.
soft. sweet. a little clumsy because his nose bumps yours and you both giggle into the kiss.
when you finally pull back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing like he just ran ten laps.
“i’m keeping you forever, okay?” he mumbles.
you smile so wide it hurts.
“okay.”
he kisses the tip of your nose. then your cheek. then your forehead. tiny, fluttering kisses like he can’t decide where to stop.
in which you dance like nobody’s watching, and he loves every minute of it.
pairing record store employee! jay x female reader wc 416 genre fluff, crack(?) warnings maybe secondhand embarrassment idk — note GUYS I HIT 100 FOLLOWERS 🥹🥹 tysm i promise i will finish my jake smau soon and maybe release a teaser for something bigger??? hehe
jay had never seen anyone like you.
he’d been working an afternoon shift at the record store in his town, a shift he wasn’t particularly mad at, considering his love for music and the opportunities his shift gave him. people tended to fill up the store in the afternoon, so he enjoyed taking those shifts for a thicker paycheck.
but he never would have expected anyone as special as you to visit the store.
you walked in with an unusual energy, awfully lively for the cloudy weather outside. you greeted jay with an enthusiastic wave, treating him as someone you’ve known for years, despite this being your first meeting. jay perked a confused brow up, tilting his head as he watched you take confident steps towards the classics section.
you picked up a record of bon jovi, heading towards the corner of the store where you could listen to the records with any free pair of headphones.
you inserted the vinyl into the record player, put the headphones on, and immediately started… dancing?
it was completely absurd– you were completely bouncing around, humming rather loudly to the songs on the record. jay stared at you quizzically from the cash register, turning his head to meet gazes with his coworker, jake.
“bro, is she… good?” jay shrugged his shoulders, turning back to you curiously.
you stopped for nobody, not even when they shot you dirty looks passing by, or when they pulled their kids away from where you were. you just didn’t care, it was insane to him.
his feet moved on his own, taking him from his spot behind the register to right behind you. he tapped your shoulder, making you snap your head back. you took the headphones off, looking at him with a smile.
“livin’ on a prayer– a classic,” jay smirked.
you gasped. “how’d you know?”
“you aren’t exactly quiet, you know.” you flustered, cheeks red as you chuckled. “i didn’t notice,” you took the record out of the player, putting it back in its packaging. “I’m sorry, i just love this song.”
“fan of bon jovi?”
“of course!”
“well,” jay moved closer, slowly taking the vinyl from your hands. “if you ever need recommendations, i’m here.” he smiled, which you returned. he didn’t know much about you– he actually didn’t know anything about you– but he wanted to learn more.
he was intrigued by you, and he’d do what he could to learn more about the shameless girl from his record store.
☐⠀⠀this was so fun to write omg⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ FEEDBACK⠀♥︎ ⠀appreciated
LEE HEESEUNG ───✿ ⠀ ace / outside hitter
on the court he's the guy who makes everything look stupidly easy. game-winning spike? yawn. incredible save? whatever. the only time he actually tries is when he catches you watching.
before a crucial serve, he'll lock eyes with you and mouth "watch this" with the most annoying smirk. he never misses.
you're always the last one locking up the gym. almost every night, heeseung's still there, practicing serves alone.
first time you caught him, he got so flustered he hit the ball into the wall. now it's routine. he'll even ask, "was that one better?" like your opinion is the only one that matters.
off court:
off court he's the calm, popular guy who somehow always ends up leaning against your locker between classes. doesn't say much. just exists in your space like it's natural.
his flirting is stupid subtle. "accidentally" brushing hands. remembering you mentioned liking something specific three weeks ago. leaning in to whisper sarcastic comments about the teacher.
he notices everything. stack of flyers too heavy? he's already taking half. ball cart stuck? he kicks it loose before you even see the problem.
with the team:
jake: finds his energy hilarious. pats his head like a puppy. "save some of that for the actual game, jake."
sunghoon: quiet rivalry. "stop being a stupid, hoon." / "stop being so lazy, heeseung." (they trust each other completely)
sunoo: plays along with the dramatics. "my bad, sunoo. i'll make sure to mess up next time so you can look better."
jungwon: respects him completely. goes to him with serious strategy concerns.
riki: sees him as a kid gives real advice. "stop relying on your height. read the setter."
jay: gets lectured about looking like he cares. "i do care. i'm just not gonna scream about it like you."
bus rides:
claims the window seat, saves the aisle for you. shares his earbuds, lets you pick the music. doesn't talk much but his knee stays pressed against yours the entire ride.
the real him:
late night after practice, the cool guy act drops. he talks about stuff he loves, fears about the future. his voice goes soft.
bonus:
the gym is empty except for the rhythmic thwack of a volleyball against hardwood.
you should've left twenty minutes ago. instead, you're sitting on the bleachers, clipboard forgotten beside you, watching heeseung practice his jump serves.
he's been at it for over an hour.
"that's thirty-two in a row," you call out.
heeseung turns, surprised. his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, shirt clinging to his frame. "you're counting?"
"someone has to. your form is getting sloppy."
"sloppy?" he walks over, grabbing his water bottle. "that last one would've been an ace in any game."
"your shoulder is dropping." you stand, demonstrating. "you're compensating with your wrist."
he stares at you for a second, something unreadable in his expression. then he laughs, quiet and genuine. "how long have you been watching?"
"long enough to know you've been practicing that dumb crosscourt angle for three days."
"it's not dumb if it works." he takes a long drink, eyes never leaving yours. "and it's gonna work because you told me the other team's libero favors his left."
oh. he actually listens to your scouting reports.
"try it again," you say. "fix your shoulder."
heeseung walks back to the service line, tosses the ball up, and adjusts his form. the serve cuts through the air with a satisfying whoosh, slamming into the exact corner he was aiming for.
he turns to you with that lazy smile. "better?"
"adequate."
"adequate," he repeats, walking back over. he's close now, close enough that you can see the flush across his cheekbones from exertion. "you're brutal, you know that?"
"you literally asked for feedback."
"i did." his voice drops lower. "i like that you don't bullshit me."
there's a moment where neither of you moves.
then heeseung reaches out and flicks your forehead gently. "go home. it's late."
"you're still here."
"yeah, but i'm stupid. you're supposed to be the smart one." he grabs his bag, then pauses. "walk you to your bus stop?"
it's not really a question.
the night air is cold when you step outside, and heeseung notices you shiver before you do. his track jacket lands on your shoulders without ceremony.
"you're gonna be cold," you protest.
"i just did cardio for two hours. i'm good." he shoves his hands in his pockets. "besides, you can give it back tomorrow."
"i could give it back right now."
"nah." he glances at you sideways, the corner of his mouth lifting. "looks better on you anyway."
you're glad it's dark enough to hide your face.
PARK JONGSEONG ───✿ captain / opposite hitter
on the court he plays like every point is personal. he's not just hitting the ball, he's trying to obliterate it. loudest hype man alive. "NICE RECEIVE, JAKE!"
loses a stupid point? he'll turn his back to the net, run his hand through his hair, and mutter curses for exactly three and a half minutes. the team knows not to interrupt. after that, he's back and ready.
someone talks trash to his players? jay's in their face immediately. calm but deadly. "you got a problem with my team, you got a problem with me." ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
off the court:
the responsible one. organizes study sessions, checks that everyone's keeping their grades up. carries the weight of the team on his shoulders.
his caring is aggressive. spots you in the hallway: "did you eat? you look tired. skip breakfast again?" shoves a protein bar in your hand and watches until you take a bite.
refuses to let you carry anything heavy. ball cart? he's got it. net bag? already on his shoulder. "i'm not letting my manager throw out her back. go do paperwork."
with the team:
heeseung: "i know you can do it easy, but try looking like you care for once."
jake: uses his energy to fuel everyone. "jake, you're on hype duty. keep niki's head in the game."
sunghoon: pokes at him to keep him from overthinking. "stop calculating and just hit it."
sunoo: soft spot for the dramatics. "yeah, yeah, you were good. now get ready for the next set."
jungwon: relies on his strategy. "what are you seeing? give me something."
riki: tough love. "stop being late, nishimura. your height doesnt mean shit if you're slow."
bus rides:
unofficial bus dad. does headcount, checks gear, yells at anyone too loud. saves you a seat up front. doesn't listen to music, just talks, using you as his sounding board.
the jealous one:
his jealousy is primal and hot. player from another team looks at you too long? jay's intensity on the court multiplies by ten. hits harder, jumps higher.
after the game, he'll throw an arm around your shoulders, pull you against his side. "he was bothering you." not a question. a fact.
if anyone says anything negative about you, they answer to him. "say that again. i dare you."
bonus:
the bus is loud with post-game energy. they won, barely, and everyone's still riding the high.
except jay.
he's sitting next to you in the front seat, jaw tight, staring out the window. his knee is bouncing.
"you okay?" you ask quietly.
"fine."
"jay."
he finally looks at you. there's still adrenaline in his eyes. "that ref was blind. three calls in the last set that were complete bullshit."
"we still won."
"barely. we shouldn't have had to—" he cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. "sorry. i'm not mad at you."
"i know." you pull out your phone, opening your notes app. "for what it's worth, i logged all the bad calls. i'm filing a report."
jay blinks. "you're what?"
"filing a report. that ref has a history of favoring home teams. i've been tracking it." you show him your detailed spreadsheet. "three other schools have complained about him this season."
he stares at your phone, then at you. something in his expression softens. "you're insane."
"you're welcome."
a smile tugs at his mouth, the first one since the game ended. "how long have you been tracking refs?"
"since i became manager. someone has to have your back when you're too busy yelling at them to document anything."
jay laughs, real and genuine, and the tension finally bleeds out of his shoulders. he leans back in his seat, letting his head fall against the headrest.
"i don't deserve you," he mutters.
"correct. I'm the best manager."
"not what i meant." his hand finds yours on the seat between you, fingers threading through yours with easy confidence. his palm is warm, slightly calloused. "thanks. for caring about this stuff."
"it's literally my job."
"it's not your job to stay up making spreadsheets about shitty refs."
you don't have a comeback for that.
behind you, jake's voice rises above the noise: "jay and manager sitting in an a tree—"
jay doesn't even turn around. "jake, i will make you run until you puke."
"k-i-s-s-i-n-g."
"three laps."
"worth it." jake cackles.
you try to pull your hand away, embarrassed, but jay's grip tightens. he shoots you a look that says stay.
so you do.
his thumb traces absent patterns on your knuckles for the rest of the ride, and he doesn't let go until the bus pulls into the school parking lot.
even then, it's reluctant.
SIM JAEYUN libero
on the court jake's a human blur. he's everywhere at once, diving horizontally for balls that look impossible. his uniform is always the dirtiest by the end.
after a good save, his first instinct is finding you in the stands. pops up from the floor, panting and grinning, looking for your approval.
lives for the team's energy. "NICE SET!" keeps momentum alive with enthusiasm.
the unnecessary trip:
tries to look cool for you, gets his feet tangled, face-plants. pops back up immediately, red-faced and grinning.
off the court:
doesn't try to be smooth, just is. calls you pretty like it's a fact. holds doors, offers his jacket, remembers specific things. it's so genuine it makes your heart hurt.
the fake injury:
his signature move. comes up after practice holding his wrist with a perfect pout. "manager, it hurts. can you wrap it?"
you know he's fine. you saw him doing acrobatic dives five minutes ago. but you play along.
the second your fingers touch his skin, he blushes from neck to ears. gets quiet, won't meet your eyes, suddenly fascinated by the floor. mission failed successfully.
with the team:
heeseung: biggest cheerleader. "i got your back, just hit it!"
jay: first to hype him up during the sulk. "come on man, we'll get 'em next time."
sunghoon: tries to get a reaction, fails. drapes over his shoulders. "sunghoon, did you see that?" / "ew, you're sweaty."
sunoo: chaos duo. constantly bickering about who got the bigger cheer from you.
jungwon: trusts completely. if jungwon says cover a spot, he's there.
riki: annoying older brother. steals his water, messes up his hair, challenges him to dumb contests.
bus rides:
the entertainment. portable speaker, terrible sing-alongs, dumb pick up lines. saves you a seat, talks your ear off the entire ride, shares all his snacks.
unintentional hotness:
wipes sweat with the back of his hand, shirt riding up. smiles with his whole face. has no idea how attractive he is, which makes it worse.
touchy by nature, but with you it's different. sits too close, thigh pressed to yours. leans over you to grab things. celebrates with quick hugs that leave you breathless.
bonus:
"manager."
you don't even look up from the equipment checklist. "what'd you hurt this time?"
"my ankle."
"your ankle."
"yeah, i think i rolled it during that last dive." jake limps over dramatically, collapsing onto the bench beside you. "it hurts."
you finally look at him. he's doing the pout thingy.
"jake, i watched you do four more dives, after the first one."
"adrenaline. it's wearing off now. the pain is setting in." he extends his leg, wiggling his perfectly fine ankle. "see? swelling."
"there's literally no swelling."
"internal swelling."
you sigh, setting down your clipboard. "which ankle?"
jake pauses. "uh, left?"
"you're holding your right."
"it's both."
"you're an idiot."
"an injured idiot. your injured idiot." he's grinning now, all pretense dropped. "please? you haven't wrapped anything for me in like three days. i'm feeling neglected."
"you're feeling neglected," you repeat flatly.
"yeah. it's a medical condition."
despite yourself, you laugh. "fine. give me your ankle."
jake lights up, immediately extending his leg across your lap. "i knew you cared."
you pull out the athletic tape, unrolling it with practiced ease. the gym is mostly empty now, just a few guys still cleaning up on the other end.
the second your fingers touch his skin, checking for actual tenderness, jake goes quiet.
you glance up.
"you okay?"
"mhm." his voice is slightly strangled.
you hide your smile, wrapping the tape around his ankle with careful precision. his leg is tense under your hands, muscles jumping every time your fingers brush against him.
"you know," you say casually, "for someone who fakes injuries three times a week, you'd think you'd be better at handling the actual treatment part."
"i'm handling it great."
"you're not breathing."
jake lets out a breath he was definitely holding. "i'm breathing fine."
"uh-huh." you secure the tape, smoothing it down. your hand lingers maybe a second longer than necessary on his calf. "all done, faker."
he doesn't move his leg.
you look up, and he's staring at you with an expression that's softer than his usual puppy energy. almost nervous.
"thanks," he says quietly.
"for enabling your fake injuries?"
"for playing along." his smile is smaller now, more real. "i know you know i'm full of shit."
"oh, i'm fully aware."
"and you still do it anyway."
you shrug, feeling your own face heat. "well. can't have my libero feeling neglected."
jake's grin returns full force. "so you admit i'm your libero."
"you're the only libero, jake."
"but i'm yours."
"i'm taking the tape back."
"no, i'll shut up." he laughs, finally moving his leg. then, quieter: "but i am. just so we're clear."
before you can respond, sunoo's voice echoes across the gym: "JAKE, STOP FLIRTING AND HELP US CARRY THE NET!"
"I'M INJURED!" jake yells back.
"YOU'RE LYING!"
you shove his shoulder. "go help them."
jake stands, testing his "injured" ankle with a theatrical wince. then he leans down, close enough that you can smell his practice sweat and deodorant.
"same time tomorrow?" he asks, eyes sparkling.
"you're not gonna be injured tomorrow."
"i might be. you don't know. volleyball is dangerous." he's already backing away, that stupid grin plastered on his face. "i'm very fragile!"
"you're very annoying!"
"you love it!"
you throw a roll of tape at him. he catches it easily, laughs, and jogs off to help the others.
PARK SUNGHOON ───✿ opposite hitter
on the court he's considered "the ice prince." cold, precise, devastating. calculates every shot like he's doing physics. opponents find his lack of expression deeply unsettling.
doesn't waste energy on flash. every movement is economical and perfect. shuts down aces with blocks that feel like statements, then just turns away.
doesn't look for you like jake does. his attention is quieter. you'll feel his eyes on you between plays, checking that you're okay, hydrated, paying attention. silent check-ins.
the perfectionist:
makes a single error? internally furious. won't yell or sulk. just becomes more focused, movements sharper, expression colder. silently vowing to never make that mistake again.
off the court:
quiet observer. leans against walls, watching everything. knows everyone's business but rarely shares.
his attempts at being nice are awkward. sees you struggling with the ball cart, wordlessly takes over. when you thank him, he nods sharply, ears pink. "no problem."
the jacket ritual:
after long practice, he'll walk over while you're packing up. won't say a word. just shrugs off his jacket, still warm, and hands you his jacket. then leaves.
you're left standing there in a jacket that smells like him—clean, crisp, a little like sweat.
with the team:
jay: the only one who can tell jay to calm down. "captain, you're being emotional. it's clouding your judgment."
heeseung: rivalry of respect. "try using your legs, heeseung." / "try having fun, sunghoon."
jake: finds his energy exhausting but secretly admires it. gives the smallest nod of approval after incredible saves. huffs a soft laugh at his dumb jokes.
sunoo: favorite sparring partner. "you never compliment my spikes!" / "i would if they were compliment-worthy."
jungwon: trusts his intellect. "that set was a little off. intentional?" fellow strategist.
riki: tough love. "your timing was lazy. you're relying on height again. do it over."
bus rides:
quiet in the back, headphones on. seems in his own world but hyper-aware of everything. one look silences the entire bus.
saves the seat next to him for you. wordlessly offers an earbud, sharing whatever he's listening to.
the facade cracks:
late at night, waiting for rides, he opens up. talks about figure skaters he admires, difficult assignments, how he hates his english teacher, admits he was nervous. voice gets lower, softer. the whole "cold ice prince" title melts completely.
controlled intimacy:
his hand brushing yours when reaching for water, lingering too long. intense eye contact from across the room that makes you feel like you're the only person there.
won't make grand declarations. will slowly, methodically, make you his with quiet intensity.
bonus:
it's the fourth time this week.
you're packing up after practice, organizing the first aid kit, when you feel the weight of sunghoon's jacket settle over your shoulders.
you don't even turn around. "you know i have my own jacket, right?"
"you never wear it." his voice is close behind you. "you just shiver and pretend you're fine."
"i'm not cold."
"you're lying."
you finally turn. sunghoon is standing there in just his practice shirt, hair still damp from exertion, expression unreadable as always.
"you're gonna be cold now," you point out.
"i'll live." he reaches past you to grab his bag, arm brushing your shoulder. "keep it."
"sunghoon, i have four of your jackets at home."
something flickers in his eyes. "i know."
"you… know?"
"you think i don't notice when you wear them to practice?" he zips up his bag. "you wore the all black one on tuesday. then the black one with the orange yesterday."
"you're keeping track?"
"I'm just observant." he finally looks directly at you, and there's something almost challenging in his gaze. "it's not my fault you look good in them anyway."
park sunghoon, they guy who hardly compliments anyone just said you look good in his clothes.
you're definitely malfunctioning.
"i—you—that's—"
"eloquent." the corner of his mouth twitches. it's not quite a smile, but it's close. "you should go. it's late."
he's already walking away, bag slung over his shoulder.
"wait," you call out. "don't you want this one back?"
sunghoon pauses at the gym doors, glancing back. "tomorrow. wear it tomorrow."
"why?"
"so everyone knows."
"knows what?"
but he's already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
you stand there, drowning in his jacket that smells like his cologne.
your phone buzzes.
sunghoon: you're still standing there, aren't you?
you look up. he's outside the gym windows, bag down, clearly waiting to walk you to your bus stop.
you: creep
sunghoon: once again, observant. there's a difference.
you: fine. give me two minutes
sunghoon: take your time. i'm not going anywhere.
you pack up faster than necessary.
when you step outside, sunghoon doesn't comment. just falls into step beside you, hands in his pockets, close enough that your arms brush with every other step.
"you're gonna run out of jackets," you say.
"i have seven."
"i have four. that leaves you with three."
"i can do math."
"so what happens when i have all seven?"
sunghoon is quiet for a moment. then: "guess you'll have to give me a reason to come get them back."
your heart does that stupid acrobatic thing again.
"that's pretty forward of you," you manage.
"heeseung taught me a few things about this stuff."
"is it working?
you glance at him. he's not looking at you, but his ears are red.
"maybe," you admit.
this time, he does smile.
"good."
KIM SUNOO ───✿ ⠀ wing spiker / pinch server
on the court sunoo looks like the sweetest guy ever, but could actually kill you. runs up to serve with a cute bright smile, then delivers a ball so vicious it's basically unhittable.
ruthlessly precise. doesn't just hit hard, hits smart. master of sneaky cross-court shots. constantly underestimated, uses it to his advantage every time.
the dramatic pout:
needs your attention like air. you clap for heeseung? he turns with the most theatrical pout. "you clapped louder for him. i'm the best spiker, aren't i?"
keeps it up until you specifically praise him. then the pout vanishes, replaced by a smile.
the victory cling:
not a hugger, a clinger. after a win, finds you and latches onto your arm, bouncing with excitement. "did you see me do that cross court shot?"won't let go until he's fully decompressed.
off the court:
ultimate helper. stays late to help clean without being asked. turns chores into fun, chattering the whole time.
social butterfly. knows everyone. stops you in hallways to introduce you to friends, always making sure you're included.
the bicker king:
primary hobby is bickering with sunghoon. near-constant war of wits. "you're like a robot." / "you're too loud." it's their weird bonding.
with the team:
heeseung: teases about the lazy genius thing. "try to look like you're sweating you know, like you care."
jake: chaotic duo. compete for your attention in playful ways.
sunghoon: self-proclaimed rival. lives to get reactions. "accidentally" hits balls at his head.
jay: a little scared of his intensity but biggest supporter. first to pat his back after tough plays.
jungwon: goes to him to vent when frustrated.
riki: mischievous older brother. steals snacks, ruffles hair, gives terrible advice. (but riki teases him more. all the teammates tease him actually.)
bus rides:
brings snacks and gossip. insists on sharing with everyone, especially you. tells stories the whole ride. sleeps a lot on the bus.
the jealous flirt:
jealousy is theatrical and whiny. another manager talks to you? he appears at your side, arm around your waist, head on your shoulder. "manager, who's this?
possessive in a cute way:
claims you as his favorite person. calls you his manager leaves his jacket on your chair "so you don't get cold."
lighthearted, playful possessiveness that makes it clear he adores you.
the sweet-talker:
when not being dramatic, incredibly smooth. compliments with disarming sincerity. "you're the reason we win. your water bottles are just better." says it straight-faced, then breaks into giggly smile.
despite all the energy, can actually be very calm and composed.
bonus:
the practice match against the other school is friendly.
the way their manager keeps talking to you is not.
"so, do you guys need anything?" he asks for the third time, leaning way too close. "water? towels? i could show you where we keep our—"
"we're good," you say politely. "thanks though."
"are you sure? because i could—"
"she said we're good."
you turn. sunoo is standing there, smile bright and dangerous, holding an armful of water bottles.
"oh," the other manager blinks. "i was just—"
"being really helpful, we noticed." sunoo's voice is sweet. too sweet. "but our manager is very capable. best in the district, actually. aren't you?" he looks at you expectantly.
"uh. sure?"
"see? best in the district. she doesn't need help." he's still smiling but his eyes are sharp. "but thanks so much for the offer!"
the manager retreats.
the second he's gone, you turn to sunoo. "what was that?"
"what was what?" he starts distributing water bottles with excessive focus.
"the whole 'best in the district' thing."
"you are the best in the district."
"sunoo."
"what?" he finally looks at you, and his pout is back. "he was being annoying. you were too nice to tell him to leave."
"so you did it for me?"
"obviously." he shoves a water bottle into your hands. "someone has to protect you from overly friendly managers with ulterior motives."
"ulterior motives?"
"he was clearly trying to poach our strategies."
"by offering us towels?"
"it's how it starts!" sunoo insists. "first it's towels, then it's 'oh, what formation do you guys run?' and suddenly she knows all our plays."
you stare at him. "you're insane."
"i'm protective. there's a difference." he crosses his arms. "and you're my manager. he can get his own."
something warm blooms in your chest. "your manager?"
sunoo's ears go pink. "the team's manager. obviously. that's what i meant."
"uh-huh."
"it is!"
jungwon walks behind you pushing the ball cart whispering: "he's jealous"
"i'm not jealous!"
sunoo turns back to you, face flushed. "i'm not jealous."
"okay."
"i'm not."
"i believe you."
"you don't." he deflates slightly. "was it that obvious?"
"extremely."
he groans, covering his face. "this is emabrassing."
you gently pull his hands away. "for what it's worth, i think it's cute."
sunoo peeks at you through his fingers. "cute?"
"yeah. protective sunoo is cute."
his entire face lights up. "really?"
"don't let it go to your head."
too late. he's already grinning, confidence restored. "so what i'm hearing is, you like when i get jealous."
"she thinks I'M cute!" he announces to the entire gym.
you're going to kill him.
but also, you're definitely smiling.
YANG JUNGWON ───✿ ⠀ setter / captain #2
on the court he's the quiet general. doesn't lead with his voice, leads with his mind. constantly observing, processing, thinking two plays ahead.
knows his hitters' moods better than they do. heeseung feeling lazy? sets a ball that forces him to move. jake losing energy? easy ball to build confidence.
the perfect conductor:
his sets are art. doesn't just toss the ball, places it exactly where his hitter needs it. every single time. makes the impossible look easy.
silent eye contact:
primary communication with you is through his eyes. between plays, he finds you. team struggling? small nod that says "i'm handling it." doing well? tiny proud smile meant only for you.
the unwavering leader:
after a tough loss, while jay sulks, jungwon is already moving. quietly pulls each member aside, pats backs, offers calm encouragement. "we'll fix it next practice. don't worry!"
absorbs the team's disappointment, transforms it into motivation.
off the court:
not loud, always watching. notices small things. sees you rubbing your temples, water bottle magically appears on your desk later. notices different hairstyle, soft "it looks nice" as he passes.
efficient helper:
help is practical and precise. notices wobbly ball cart, quietly tightens screws before you deal with it. reorganizes first-aid kit so band-aids are easier to find.
makes your job easier by anticipating problems before they happen.
the calm voice:
naturally soothing voice that cuts through chaos. when he says "good job today," it's not casual. said with such quiet sincerity it feels profound, leaving you flustered and appreciated.
with the team:
jay: jay's anchor. only one who can talk him down. hand on jay's arm: "jay, not now. let's talk on the bench." jay listens without question.
heeseung: deep mutual respect. trusts heeseung to handle sets, heeseung trusts jungwon for perfect opportunities. minimal but effective communication.
jake: finds his energy endearing, uses it wisely. "jake, this next point is all you. setting to you no matter what."
sunoo & sunghoon: unofficial mediator in their bickering. listens to sunoo's complaints, gently points out flaws in logic until sunoo begrudgingly agrees.
riki: patient mentor. takes extra time to explain plays. trusts riki's talent, guides with subtle cues.
bus rides:
quiet in aisle seat, usually with notebook open, sketching plays. conserving energy, occasionally laughing at a joke one of his teammates makes. window seat saved for you. comfortable silence. might point out landmarks or share random thoughts. enjoys your calm presence.
the subtle touch:
affection in smallest, most deliberate ways. handing you water, fingers brush for a second longer than necessary. squeezing past in crowded equipment room, hand rests gently on your lower back to guide you. respectful.
the intense focus:
when he talks to you, undivided attention. noisy gym could be falling apart, but his eyes are locked on yours, listening intently. makes you feel like the most important person in the world.
protective leadership:
protectiveness is extension of captaincy. someone rude to you? steps in front, demeanor shifting from calm to dangerously cold. "is there a problem?" voice low and steady. doesn't need to raise it. quiet threat is enough.
defends you with same quiet, strategic precision he uses on court.
bonus:
you're in the equipment room, reorganizing the volleyball cart for the third time because riki keeps putting things back wrong.
"you know you don't have to do that."
you jump. jungwon is leaning in the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from the showers.
"someone has to. riki thinks organization is a suggestion."
"i'll talk to him." jungwon steps inside, closing the door behind him. the equipment room suddenly feels much smaller. "you staying late again?"
"just finishing up."
"you always say that." he's closer now, close enough that you can smell his clean scent—soap and something woodsy. "you stay later than anyone. later than me, even."
"someone has to make sure you guys don't fall apart."
"we'd fall apart without you," he says simply. "you know that, right?"
you pause, volleyball in hand. "i'm just doing my job."
"you do more than your job." jungwon takes the ball from you, sets it in the cart with perfect precision. "you make detailed scouting reports that most managers don't bother with. you track every player's individual stats. you notice when jake's knee is bothering him before he says anything. you know exactly how jay takes his coffee after a loss."
"you notice all that?"
"i notice everything about you."
the equipment room is definitely smaller. and warmer.
"jungwon—"
"i'm not good at this," he interrupts, and for the first time, he looks uncertain. "the whole… talking about feelings thing. i'm better at reading plays than reading—" he gestures vaguely between you. "—this."
"what this?"
"i don't know. that's the problem." he runs a hand through his damp hair, frustrated. "i just know that you're the first person i look for after a game. win or lose. i know that your opinion matters more than the coach's."
"i know," he continues, voice quieter now, "that i save the window seat for you on every bus ride. that i reorganized the first-aid kit because i noticed you always struggled to find the athletic tape. that i've been trying to figure out how to tell you this for like three months."
"tell me what?"
jungwon steps closer. his hand comes up, hesitates, then gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. the touch is feather-light, careful.
"that you're not just the team's manager to me."
oh.
"won—"
"you don't have to say anything," he says quickly. "i just needed you to know. no pressure. we can pretend this never happened if you want. i just—" he takes a breath. "i couldn't not tell you anymore."
you stare at him. yang jungwon, captain of the volleyball team, strategist extraordinaire, looking genuinely nervous for maybe the first time ever.
"the window seat?" you finally say.
he blinks. "what?"
"you said you save the window seat for me."
"i—yes?"
"i thought you just liked the aisle."
"i hate the aisle. i always get hit by riki's legs when he stretches."
despite everything, you laugh. jungwon's expression softens, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"for someone who notices everything," you say, "you're really bad at noticing that i reorganized the first-aid kit back to my original system because your reorganization made no sense."
"it made perfect sense. everything was color-coded."
"band-aids don't need to be color-coded, won."
"efficiency—"
you kiss him.
it's quick, impulsive, and you pull back immediately, face burning. "sorry, i just—"
jungwon kisses you back.
it's soft, careful. his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. when he pulls away, he's smiling—a real, full smile you rarely see.
"so," he says, "to be clear, you're okay with the window seat thing?"
"i'm okay with the window seat thing."
"and the color-coding?"
"that not so much. we're changing it back."
"we can negotiate."
"this is non-negotiable."
"everything is negotiable." but he's still smiling.
"we'll discuss it on the next bus ride."
"presumptuous."
"strategic," he corrects. then, quieter: "is this okay? this?"
you kiss him again as an answer.
from outside, you hear jay's voice: "HAS ANYONE SEEN JUNGWON?"
you both freeze.
"WE NEED TO GO OVER PLAYS FOR TOMORROW!"
jungwon sighs against your lips. "i have to—"
"go. yeah." you step back, already missing his warmth. "captain duties."
he catches your hand, threads his fingers through yours, and squeezes once. "window seat tomorrow?"
"window seat tomorrow."
he kisses your knuckles—devastating and unfair—then leaves.
you stand in the equipment room, face burning, heart racing, and absolutely no idea how you're supposed to act normal now.
NISHIMURA RIKI ───✿ ⠀middle blocker
on the court he's like a untouchable wall. all legs and arms, timing downright unfair. opponents see an opening, go for a spike, suddenly riki is just there. doesn't just block, erases the attack from existence.
the lazy genius:
notorious for being late to block drills, jogging in last with a yawn. coach yells, riki shrugs. then blocks every single ball during the drill. raw talent so immense he doesn't need the same warm-up. infuriating and impressive.
the cocky smile:
best part of his block is the aftermath. lands, turns to the bench, gives a slow, cocky smirk that says "was there ever any doubt?" ultimate quiet confidence.
the reader:
real talent isn't just his jump—it's reading the setter. knows where the ball is going before it leaves their hands. gets into position with lazy, deceptive speed.
the changed man:
ever since you became manager, his tardiness vanished. still one of the last to arrive, but never late anymore. team teases him relentlessly. he denies it. the way he seeks you out first thing says otherwise.
the annoying tease:
primary interaction method: being a little shit. loves teasing you about your height even if your an inch shorter than him. holds things out of reach, constantly reminds you you're "too short to see over the net." his clumsy way of getting attention.
the secret sweetheart:
for all his teasing, surprisingly sweet. bus rides to away games, he disappears to vending machines, comes back with your favorite snack, drops it in your lap without a word like it's no big deal.
you praise someone else's blocks? he gets uncharacteristically quiet and competitive for the rest of the day, determined to show you whose blocks are really the best.
with the team:
heeseung: sees him as ultimate challenge. wants to be the one to block the unblockable ace. constantly asks heeseung to spike at him during practice.
jake: thinks his energy is hilarious, eggs him on. "yeah, tell them how amazing my last block was. describe it in detail."
sunghoon: intimidated by his coolness, tries not to show it. attempts to mimic sunghoon's stoic expression, ends up looking like he's pouting.
sunoo: easy target for sunoo's dramatics. "riki, you're not clapping loud enough!" / "i was saving energy to block for you."
jungwon: respects his quiet leadership more than anyone. listens to jungwon's advice without argument. wants to make his captain proud.
jay: a little scared of jay's intensity but loves pushing his buttons. shows up "late" (by 30 seconds) just to watch jay's eye twitch.
bus rides:
in the back, either sleeping with headphones on or annoying other members. long legs stretched into the aisle, clear trip hazard.
saves you a seat next to him under the guise of "you're small, you won't take up much room." falls asleep on your shoulder during the ride home, long frame curled awkwardly, trusting you completely.
the lean:
signature move. when you're talking, he leans down, way down, bringing his face level with yours. rests forearm on the wall above your head, effectively caging you in.
"what was that? couldn't hear you from all the way up here." eyes dancing with mischief. you're acutely aware of how close he is.
competitive flirting:
affection shown through competition. you praise someone else? personal challenge. "heeseung;s block was good? watch this."
proceeds to have the best blocking game of his life, constantly looking over to make sure you're watching. wants to be the best in your eyes.
awkward sweetness:
when not teasing, surprisingly sweet in clumsy way. notices you're cold, instead of offering jacket like sunghoon, drapes his long arm around your shoulders, pulls you against his side. "you're shivering. it's annoying."
awkward, slightly pushy gesture, but the warmth radiating from him and faint blush on his ears tell you it's his version of caring.
bonus:
"can you grab that for me?"
you don't even look at riki. "no."
"come on, manager. it's so high up."
"you put it up there. you get it down."
"but my arms are tired from blocking all day." he's grinning, you can hear it in his voice. "from all those amazing blocks. that you saw. that were very impressive."
you finally turn. riki is pointing at a box of volleyballs on the top shelf—a shelf that was definitely within your reach before he moved it higher.
"you're the worst."
"i'm the best middle blocker in the district."
"you're the worst person i know."
"that's not what you said when i blocked that spike in the third set." he's right next to you now, leaning down to your eye level. "i believe your exact words were 'holy shit, riki, that was insane!"
"i don't remember that."
"really? because i remember it very clearly. you also clapped. a lot."
your face heats. "just get the box down."
"say please."
"riki."
"say 'riki, you're the best middle blocker ever, please get the box down.'"
"i'm going to murder you."
"you're too short to reach my vital organs."
you grab the nearest volleyball and throw it at his head. he catches it easily, laughing.
"okay, okay, i'll get it." he reaches up, barely has to stretch, and brings the box down. but instead of handing it to you, he holds it above your head. "actually, one more thing."
"i swear to god—"
"why'd you reorganize the equipment room?"
you blink. "what?"
"the equipment room. you reorganized it last week. put all the stuff i use on lower shelves." his voice is different now, less teasing. "why?"
"because you kept complaining about having to get the step stool."
"i never complained."
"you literally complained every single practice."
"that was just—" he pauses. "that was banter."
"it was annoying."
"but you still reorganized everything."
you shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "it's my job. making sure you guys have easy access to equipment."
"jungwon's stuff is still on the top shelf."
"jungwon doesn't complain."
"so you did it specifically for me."
"i—" you falter. "stop reading into it."
riki finally lowers the box, setting it on the ground. but he doesn't move away. instead, he does the stupid lean—forearm on the wall above your head, bringing himself down to your height.
"you do a lot of stuff specifically for me," he says quietly. "you bring extra snacks on bus rides because you know i'm always hungry. you carry band-aids in your pocket because i always get blisters from my shoes. you reorganized the entire equipment room."
"i do stuff for everyone."
"not like you do for me."
your heart is racing. "you're imagining things."
"am i?" he's close enough that you can see the exact moment his confidence wavers. "because i've been trying to figure out if i'm making this up. if i'm just seeing what i want to see."
"and what do you want to see?"
"you." the word comes out rough. "i want to see that you care. that all the teasing and the height jokes and the stupid excuses to talk to you—i want it to mean you care. even a little."
"what—"
"you don't have to say anything," he says quickly, straightening up, running a hand through his hair. "forget i said that actually—"
you grab his wrist.
he freezes.
"you're a dumbass," you say.
"i'm pretty aware."
"i reorganized the entire equipment room for you. i bring snacks i don't even like because they're your favorite. i stay late every practice because i know you stay late. i—" you take a breath. "i care. obviously i care. how could you not know that?"
riki stares at you. then, slowly, that cocky smile returns. "so what i'm hearing is—"
"don't."
"—you think about me."
"i'm going to take it back."
"you stay late specifically to see me."
"you care about me." he's fully grinning now, confidence restored. "you like me."
"i tolerate you."
"you like me."
"you're impossible."
"say it."
"no."
"manager," he leans down again, and this time there's no teasing in his expression. just something soft and hopeful and nervous. "say it. please."
you look at him—this tall, cocky, secretly sweet idiot who's been taking up space in your head for months.
"fine. i like you. happy?"
the smile that breaks across his face is devastating.
"extremely." then he's hugging you, lifting you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm. "i knew it. i told jake you liked me and he said i was delusional but i knew—"
"you talked to jake about this?"
"i talked to everyone about this. the entire team has a betting pool."
୨ৎ Summary : Dr. Sim thought surviving trauma surgery would be the hardest part of his new job. Until he met Dr. Y/N. Cold, terrifying, and impossibly competent, the trauma surgeon quickly becomes the center of every exhausting shift and every thought he can’t seem to turn off. Somewhere between overnight surgeries, coffee runs, and years of working side by side, Jake realizes falling in love with her is the easiest thing he’s ever done. The problem? Dr. Y/N doesn’t believe in making space for people in her life. Especially not someone as persistent as him.
୨ৎ Pairing : anesthesiologist! Jake x traumasurgeon! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 9.4K
୨ৎ Song : Crush - Ego
୨ৎ Warning : STILL A SLOW BURN!! Jake highkey down-bad, FLUFF!!, a bit angst, comedic (if you squint), co-worker to.... (idk) but there's a progress chat!, a lot of banter (please bear with me).
part I
Jake spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at the vending machine. A deep sigh escaped him as he leaned his forehead against the glass. His reflection stared back, looking significantly less charming than usual. Tragic.
First day as an attending anesthesiologist, he already got yelled at in front of an entire operating room.
Jake still couldn’t fully process it.
Not during med school. Not during residency. Not even by Professor Kwon, who once made a grown orthopedic resident cry over improper intubation positioning.
But you?
You had looked up from an actively bleeding patient with the coldest expression he had ever seen and said—
“Dr. Sim, are you planning to keep up, or should I ask for someone faster?”
The room had gone silent. Even the cardiac monitor suddenly sounded awkward. Jake winced at the memory and rubbed a hand down his face.
Okay.
In his defense, trauma surgery was insane. Things moved at approximately the speed of light in your operating room. Instruments flew into your waiting hand before people even registered that you asked for them. Residents looked second away from cardiac arrest. Nurses communicated through eye contact alone.
And you?
You were terrifying.
Not loud, not emotional, just brutally efficient. Which somehow made it worse.
Jake grabbed an Americano from the vending machine and muttered under his breath.
“One rough induction and suddenly my career flashed before my eyes,”
“You were slow.”
He nearly fumbled the drink. Turning around, he found you standing there in navy scrubs, arms crossed loosely over your chest.
No warning. No footsteps. Psychotic behavior, honestly.
“You always stand there like a disappointed ghost?”
“You always complain this much?”
“Only after public humiliation.”
You grabbed your drink from the vending machine. “Then get used to it.”
Jake stared at you in disbelief as you started walking away.
“Wow,” he called after you. “That was kinda mean.”
Jake watched you walk down the hallway without looking back once.
Sure, you were dragging your steps like each one weighed at least fifty pounds after a brutal shift, but somehow you still moved through the hospital corridor with the intensity of someone seconds away from giving a TED Talk titled Why Med School Was The Worst Decision Of My Life.
Jake took a sip of his coffee.
“…I kinda respect her, actually.”
“Don’t let her hear that.”
"Jesus!"
Jake's heart almost evaporates. A nurse stood beside him now, casually punching numbers into the vending machine. Slowly, and trying to make things more embarrassing, he calmed himself down.
“Why?” he asked.
“Compliments make her violent.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “That explains a lot.”
“You’re new, huh?”
“That obvious?”
The nurse grabbed her drink with a hum. “You’re still smiling after getting yelled at.”
Ouch.
Jake leaned back against the vending machine. “Does she hate everyone equally, or should I feel honored?”
“Oh, Dr. Y/N definitely hates incompetence more.”
“…That somehow feels personal.”
“You’ll survive,” the nurse said. “Probably.”
Probably?
Before Jake could question that deeply concerning choice of words, his pager suddenly buzzed against his waist.
OR TWO — TRAUMA ACTIVATION.
“Well,” he muttered, pushing himself off the vending machine, “time to go disappoint a woman again.”
“Good luck,” the nurse called out, already laughing.
He took one last sip of his americano before tossing the empty can neatly into the trash bin.
Missed.
Jake stared at the can lying sadly on the floor.
“…That feels symbolic somehow.”
Then, with what remained of his dignity, he picked it up and headed toward OR Two. Straight into the beginning of his problems.
.
.
.
.
Six months later, Jake learned three important things.
First, trauma surgeons operated entirely on caffeine, spite, and unresolved psychological issues. Second, the emergency department smelled permanently like stress and antiseptic. And third, you still hated him. Maybe hate was a strong word. Strongly disliked him? Yeah, probably that.
“Dr. Sim.”
Jake didn’t even look up from the patient chart anymore. “That tone usually means I’m about to get criticized.”
“Because you’re leaning on the sterile table.”
He immediately stepped away. “See, this is why morale in this hospital is terrible.”
“Morale is not my department.”
“Neither is emotional damage, yet somehow you excel at both.”
Around the operating room, two residents immediately looked down to hide their laughter.
Six months ago, they would’ve been terrified to witness conversations like this. Now the trauma team had simply accepted that Dr. Y/N and Dr. Sim existed in their own strange ecosystem. Jake adjusted his gloves before glancing sideways at you. Same cold expression. Same sharp eyes. Same terrifyingly competent hands are currently preparing for surgery.
Still terrifying. Still brutally honest. Still the prettiest person he’d ever seen in an operating room.
Which honestly felt medically unprofessional at this point.
“You’re staring again,” you said flatly.
Jake blinked once. “See, now you’re just making things awkward.”
“Focus on the patient.”
“I am.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly. Jake grinned behind his mask. Ah. There it was. Progress. Six months ago, you would’ve ignored him completely. Now you looked mildly homicidal instead.
Relationship development.
.
.
.
.
A year later, Jake still couldn’t decide whether meeting you had improved his life or permanently damaged it.
Probably both.
You were still terrifying. The difference was that he had unfortunately started finding it attractive. Deeply attractive. Catastrophically attractive, even.
Somewhere between his third overnight trauma call and the time you silently handed him half your sandwich during a fourteen-hour shift, Jake realized he was in serious trouble. Not crush trouble. Real trouble.
The kind where he automatically searched for you first every time he walked into the trauma department. The kind where hearing your voice over the intercom somehow made his shifts less unbearable. The kind where your approval started mattering more than it should.
Which was ridiculous, considering you still criticized him like it was a professional obligation.
“BP’s dropping.”
“I know.”
“Well, that response feels unnecessarily hostile.”
You didn’t even look up from the patient. “Clamp.”
The scrub nurse immediately placed the instrument into your hand.
“Pressure’s at eighty over fifty,” Jake continued, eyes moving across the monitor. “She’s bleeding faster than you’re closing.”
“That sounds judgmental coming from someone sitting down.”
Jake gasped softly behind his mask. “See? This is why people fear trauma surgeons.”
“People fear incompetence.”
“And yet you continue allowing residents into your OR.”
One of the residents nearly choked. You held your hand out wordlessly.
“Suction.”
Jake watched you work for a second.
Fast hands. Steady movements. Zero hesitation. Honestly, it was getting hard to focus professionally when you looked like that during surgery.
“Dr. Sim.”
He blinked. “Hm?”
“Focus.”
Jake stared. “You sensed me being distracted?”
“Your monitor alarm has been going off for seven seconds.”
“…Right.”
He silenced it quickly while muttering under his breath, “This is psychological warfare.”
“Heart rate stabilizing,” he said a moment later. “You’ve got a better window now.”
“How much time?”
Jake glanced at the monitor again. “If you want the patient alive? Ten minutes.”
“I only need seven.”
“That confidence is either very attractive or deeply concerning.”
Silence. Then the scrub nurse quietly turned away to hide her laughter. Your eyes narrowed above your mask.
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Only in rooms where I feel emotionally safe.”
“Then feel unsafe.”
Jake grinned immediately.
Ah. There it was. His favorite thing in the world: the tiny look of irritation you got whenever he made you this close to losing composure.
.
.
.
.
Three years later, Jake could read your moods purely based on how aggressively you tied your surgical gown.
Today?
Dangerous.
Not angry enough to kill someone, but definitely irritated enough to emotionally damage a resident.
“Why is everyone breathing so loudly today?”
Ah.
Definitely dangerous.
Around the operating room, three residents immediately lowered their heads like civilians avoiding eye contact with a predator. Jake, meanwhile, didn’t even look up from the anesthesia monitor anymore.
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”
“I’ve been awake for twenty-two hours.”
“And yet somehow your personality still finds ways to worsen.”
“Scalpel.”
The instrument landed perfectly into your waiting hand before the scrub nurse could react. Your eyes flicked toward Jake briefly. Not surprised. Just accustomed. Three years working together had turned your operating rhythm into something almost automatic.
Jake adjusted medications before you asked. You anticipated his timing without looking. The entire trauma surgeries passed with conversations made up of half-sentences because neither of you needed explanations anymore. Honestly, it was a little insane.
“BP stable,” Jake said.
“Mm.”
“Heart rate’s improving.”
“Good.”
“You know,” he continued casually, “most surgeons say thank you.”
“Most anesthesiologists don’t complain during active hemorrhages.”
Ouch.
The surgery continued smoothly after that.
Three years working together had turned both of you into something almost terrifyingly synchronized. You moved. Jake adjusted. He spoke. You already anticipated the problem before he finished the sentence.
Somewhere along the way, working together stopped feeling difficult and started feeling natural. Which was honestly dangerous for Jake emotionally.
Nearly an hour later, you finally stepped away from the operating table with a tired exhale.
“Closing complete.”
Jake glanced at the monitor one last time before nodding. “Vitals stable.”
“Good.”
The residents visibly relaxed like prisoners being granted freedom.
You peeled off your gloves with the same exhausted irritation you carried through most shifts nowadays. Twenty-two hours awake. Midnight surgery. Terrifying attitude is somehow still fully operational. Jake watched you walk toward the scrub room sink before following behind casually.
“So,” he started, washing his hands beside you, “coffee?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Jake sighed. “You reject me concerning efficiency.”
“Practice.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
Water ran quietly between both of you for a moment. Your shoulders looked tense. Heavy. The kind of exhaustion that sleep alone probably couldn’t fix. Jake leaned slightly against the sink.
“Okay,” he tried again, “then lunch tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“No.”
“Breakfast?”
“I’d rather intubate myself.”
Jake stared at you in disbelief. “See, comments like that are exactly why HR avoids our department.”
Finally, finally, the corner of your mouth twitched upward slightly. Barely there. Tiny.
But Jake noticed immediately anyway. And there it was. The reason he kept trying. Because every once in a while, after long shifts and impossible surgeries, you let tiny cracks show through the armor. Never for long. Never intentionally. But enough. Just enough to completely ruin him. You grabbed a towel, drying your hands before speaking flatly again.
“Go home, Dr. Sim.”
Jake smiled lazily. “Worried about me?”
“I’m worried your face will still be here when my next shift starts.”
“That’s the meanest possible version of concern.”
You turned to leave the scrub room. Then paused briefly near the doorway.
“…There’s coffee in the residents’ lounge.”
Jake blinked once.
“Wait.”
You kept walking.
“Was that an invitation?”
Silence.
Jake grinned slowly to himself before following you anyway.
.
.
.
.
Jake realized he was in love with you at 3:17 in the morning.
Which was deeply unfair, honestly.
Not because the timing was inconvenient— although falling in love during a trauma activation probably counted as psychological damage— but because the realization happened over something incredibly stupid.
You were eating crackers.
That was it.
Just you sitting on the counter in the residents’ lounge after eighteen straight hours awake, still wearing navy scrubs while quietly eating stale crackers like they personally offended you. Jake stood frozen near the coffee machine.
Yet somehow, while watching you silently eat crackers at an ungodly hour in a fluorescent hospital lounge, that was the only thought Jake had left.
Oh, this was bad.
Because suddenly every annoying thing about you became weirdly endearing. The permanent frown. The exhaustion in your eyes. The way you looked homicidal before caffeine. Even your silence felt familiar now instead of intimidating.
You noticed him staring almost immediately. Of course you did. You looked unimpressed already. Comforting, somehow. Jake grabbed two coffees automatically before setting one beside you. You glanced at the cup.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You also haven’t gone home in twenty hours. I’m taking creative liberties.”
You stared at the coffee for a few quiet seconds before taking it anyway. No, thank you, just acceptance. Jake smiled before he could stop himself. And there it was again. That horrible feeling in his chest. Warm. Heavy. Stupidly soft.
God.
He was genuinely done for.
You frowned slightly at him over the coffee cup.
“…Why are you smiling like that?”
Jake leaned against the counter beside you.
“Nothing.”
Suspicious silence.
“You’re being weird again.”
He laughed quietly. Again. Like this was normal now. And maybe that was the exact moment Jake realized the problem wasn’t that you were difficult to love. It was that loving you had become the easiest thing he’d done in years.
.
.
.
.
“Fine,” you said flatly. “Lunch.”
Jake blinked. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy.
Ridiculously, openly happy.
“Seriously?” he asked.
You immediately regretted everything. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird, you just said yes.”
“To lunch.”
“With me.”
“To food.”
He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. “Right. Yes. Of course. Food.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like you won something?”
“Because I did.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
That exact moment had permanently altered his brain chemistry.
But Jake couldn’t help it. Because for everyone else, lunch was just lunch.
For you?
Saying yes to anything personal felt nearly impossible. Which meant Jake remembered every tiny detail of that day with horrifying clarity. The way you sighed before agreeing. The way you rolled your eyes when he smiled too much. The fact that you stayed even after finishing your food.
Tiny things. Meaningless things. Things Jake treasured anyway, like a complete idiot.
“Dr. Sim.”
He looked up instantly. And there you were at the end of the hallway, already dressed in scrubs for the next surgery. Same exhausted expression.
Same terrifying aura.
The same woman is currently ruining his emotional stability.
“Are you coming to OR Three,” you asked flatly, “or are you planning to stand there looking emotionally compromised all afternoon?”
Jake blinked once.
“See, comments like that are exactly why I’m obsessed with you.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“It is.”
You stared at him for a long second before turning around toward the operating rooms again.
“Five minutes.”
Jake immediately pushed himself off the counter to follow after you.
Of course he did.
The hallway lights reflected against the polished floors as both of you walked side by side in familiar silence.
“Why are you smiling again?”
Jake looked over innocently. “You notice me a lot.”
“You’re visibly weird.”
“That’s hurtful.”
God. Even your insults sounded fond lately. Or maybe Jake was just deeply delusional at this point. Honestly hard to tell anymore.
“You know,” he said casually as both of you stopped outside the OR doors, “we should do lunch again sometime.”
“No.”
Immediate. Jake sighed dramatically toward the ceiling.
“And yet you already said yes once.”
“Temporary lapse in judgment.”
“One of the best days of my life, actually.”
Your hand paused briefly against the OR door handle. Tiny. Almost invisible. But Jake noticed anyway. He always noticed. You glanced sideways at him with narrowed eyes.
Silence.
“Dr. Sim.”
“Yeah?”
“Go monitor your patient.”
Ah.
Deflection again. Interesting.
.
.
.
.
The problem with Jake openly liking you was that nobody in the hospital found it surprising anymore.
Not the nurses. Not the residents. Not even the janitors at this point. After three years, Dr. Sim orbiting around Dr. Y/N had simply become part of the hospital ecosystem. Jake brought you coffee. You rejected him. Jake flirted during surgeries. You threatened violence.
Nature healed.
“You know that our hospital scrubs look good on you, right?”
“Move.”
Jake sighed, stepping aside so you could reach the patient's chart behind him.
“See, this is what I mean. You never take me seriously.”
“Because you say things like that while blocking the hallway.”
“That’s not related.”
“It’s extremely related.”
You flipped through the chart with your usual flat expression while Jake leaned beside you like a man with absolutely no survival instincts.
“I’m serious, by the way.”
“Mm.”
“That response feels disrespectful.”
“That’s because I don’t respect this conversation.”
Brutal.
Jake watched you scribble notes onto the chart, completely unaffected. Which honestly felt offensive at this point. Most people got nervous when they confessed to. You looked mildly inconvenienced.
“Three years,” Jake continued. “Three years of emotional dedication.”
“Three years of workplace harassment.”
“Wow.”
“You asked.”
Fair enough.
A resident passing by suddenly changed direction immediately after spotting both of you together.
Coward.
Jake narrowed his eyes at your profile. “Do you genuinely not believe me?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“That’s crazy, actually.”
“You flirt with everyone.”
Ouch.
Jake straightened slightly.
“Not like this.”
Finally, your pen paused. Just briefly. Tiny enough that nobody else would notice. But Jake noticed everything about you. Your eyes lifted toward him slowly.
“Dr. Sim.”
“Yeah?”
“You tell nurses they look pretty at least twice a day.”
“That’s basic workplace morale.”
“You winked at a pharmaceutical representative yesterday.”
“In my defense, she gave us free pens.”
Your expression flattened further somehow.
“Exactly my point.”
Jake stared at you for a second before laughing quietly under his breath.
God.
This was the issue. You genuinely thought this was just how he was. That he was naturally charming, affectionate, and absolutely naturally unserious.
You finally closed the chart and handed it to him. Your fingers brushed his glove briefly. Accidental. Meaningless. Yet Jake still felt like an idiot.
“Trauma consult in ten,” you said.
Then, just before walking away—
“…And stop flirting in hallways. You’re disturbing the residents.”
Jake blinked. Slowly, a grin spread across his face.
Not stop flirting.
Just—not in hallways. Oh. Interesting.
.
.
.
.
The next morning, you looked terrible.
Not visually terrible. Objectively, annoyingly, you still looked good. But Jake had worked with you for three years. He knew your normal expressions, your normal silences, your normal levels of hostility.
Today? Something was off. You were quieter. Not calmer. Just exhausted in a way that sat too heavily on your shoulders.
You adjusted your gloves with visible irritation before looking over the trauma scans clipped beside the monitor.
“Patient’s unstable. We don’t have time.”
Jake kept watching you carefully.
Pale.
“Dr. Y/N.”
“What.”
“You have a fever.”
“You diagnosed that from across the room?”
“I diagnosed it from your personality, somehow getting worse.”
No response. Which, honestly, worried him more. Usually, you’d insult him by now.
“Pressure dropping,” Jake said sharply.
“I know.”
“You’re too slow.”
“I said I know!”
Your voice cracked harshly through the operating room. Everyone froze instantly. Not because you yelled. You yelled all the time. But because your hands trembled afterward. Barely noticeable. Barely there.
Jake’s stomach dropped immediately.
“Dr. Y/N.”
“Focus on your side.”
“Dr. Sim,” you said flatly, though your voice sounded weaker now, “either help me keep this patient alive or stop staring at me.”
Jake looked at the monitor again before adjusting the medications quickly.
“BP stabilizing.”
“Good.”
Your shoulders lowered slightly in relief.
The surgery ended nearly four hours later.
Successful. Technically. But the entire day had gone horribly for you. Two emergency traumas back-to-back. One difficult family consult. Three residents are asking questions at the exact wrong time. No proper meal since yesterday afternoon.
And now this surgery.
By the time you stepped out of the operating room, your face looked noticeably pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Jake noticed immediately. Of course he did.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Automatic. Flat. You didn’t even look at him while stripping off your gloves. The second the operation ended, you scrubbed out quickly and walked straight out of the hallway without your usual post-op lecture to the residents. Jake frowned immediately. That wasn’t normal. The residents looked confused, too. You never skipped the chart review. Never disappeared first.
Jake watched you push through the heavy emergency stairwell door before it shut behind you. For a moment, he stayed where he was. Then, without really thinking about it, he followed quietly down the hallway.
The stairwell door didn’t close completely. Just enough of a gap remained for him to see through the narrow opening.
And there you were.
Sitting halfway down the stairs with your elbows resting against your knees, eyes closed briefly as your head leaned against the wall. Still wearing your scrubs. Still carrying exhaustion in every inch of your posture. Silent.
Jake froze near the doorway. Something unpleasant tightened in his chest immediately.
Because he’d spent three years watching you survive impossible shifts without slowing down once. Three years watching you carry entire trauma rooms on your shoulders like it was normal. Yet right now, sitting alone in a quiet emergency stairwell, you looked tired in a way he’d never seen before.
Not the kind fixed by sleep. The deeper kind of doctors ignored themselves constantly.
Jake’s hand rested lightly against the stairwell door. He could go inside. You’d probably insult him for following you. Tell him to leave. Tell him you were fine.
But for once, he didn’t think you wanted someone talking to you. You just wanted silence. So Jake stayed where he was. Quiet. Hidden behind the door like an idiot. Watching long enough to make sure your breathing evened out slightly. Watching until some of the tension slowly left your shoulders.
The exhausted one sitting alone on emergency stairs because the hospital never stopped needing pieces of you. Jake lowered his eyes briefly before exhaling quietly to himself.
Hopeless. Completely hopeless.
Then, careful not to make noise, he stepped away from the stairwell door and walked back toward the hallway—leaving you your five minutes alone.
.
.
.
.
The emergency department immediately dissolved into organized chaos the second the paramedics pushed the gurney through the trauma bay doors.
“Male, thirty-eight,” one of the paramedics reported quickly. “Blunt abdominal trauma, hypotensive en route, possible internal bleeding—”
You were already moving before they finished speaking.
“Prep OR Two,” you ordered sharply. “Get blood ready. FAST ultrasound now.”
Jake watched you take over the room instantly. Like always. Fast hands. Fast decisions. No hesitation. The exhaustion from earlier disappeared beneath pure instinct the second a patient’s life landed in your hands.
That was the terrifying thing about you.
No matter how exhausted you were, trauma mode always came first. The patient groaned sharply as nurses transferred him onto the trauma bed. Disoriented. Agitated. In pain.
“Sir, stay still,” you said firmly while checking the abdominal tenderness.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped immediately, trying to shove your hand away.
Jake frowned slightly from beside the monitors. Pain response. Confusion. Not unusual. But the patient kept going.
“Where’s the real doctor?” he barked harshly.
Silence flickered briefly across the trauma bay. One of the residents visibly stiffened. You didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. Just continued checking his injuries calmly.
“I am the trauma surgeon,” you replied evenly.
The patient laughed bitterly through clenched teeth. “Yeah? Then why do you look about sixteen?”
Bad move.
Jake saw several nurses immediately avoid eye contact. Because everyone in the trauma department knew one thing very clearly: You hated incompetent men. But you hated disrespectful ones even more.
Still, your expression never changed.
“You have internal bleeding,” you said flatly. “You can either cooperate with treatment or continue arguing while your blood pressure drops.”
“Unbelievable,” the patient snapped loudly. “You people always act like you’re smarter than everyone else.”
Jake’s jaw tightened slightly.
Because normally? Normally, you’d shut this down immediately with one terrifying sentence and move on. But today you just looked tired. Not offended. Not angry. Just tired.
“OR is ready,” a nurse interrupted carefully.
You nodded once. “Move him.”
.
.
.
.
The silence between you stretched quietly beneath the fluorescent lights.
Cold water still ran over your hands. The steady sound echoed softly through the scrub room while the rest of the hospital continued moving somewhere beyond the walls—pages overhead, hurried footsteps, distant monitor alarms.
Jake stayed near the doorway. Not leaving. Not speaking. Just there.
You finally shut the water off with a tired exhale before reaching for a paper towel. “You’re hovering.”
Jake leaned lightly against the doorframe. “You look like you’re about to commit aggravated assault on the next resident that breathes wrong.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“…Fair.”
The corner of your mouth almost twitched upward. Almost. Jake noticed immediately anyway. Three years later, and he still reacted to every microscopic change in your expression like a man discovering religion. You tossed the paper towel into the trash before finally looking at him properly for the first time since surgery.
“What?”
Jake shrugged slightly. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“You got yelled at by an idiot patient and still saved his life thirty minutes later. I think I’m allowed to stare a little.”
Your expression flattened automatically at that. Deflection. Distance. Armor back up.
“It’s part of the job.”
“I know.”
“And I’m fine.”
Jake looked at you quietly for a second too long. Because that word again.
Fine.
Your favorite lie.
The thing was—you probably believed it too. You’d spent so many years surviving impossible shifts and impossible expectations that exhaustion became normal. Hurt became background noise. You kept functioning, so technically nothing was wrong.
Jake hated that.
Not because he thought you were fragile.
God, no.
You were probably the strongest person he’d ever met. But strong people still deserved someone noticing when things got heavy.
“You know,” he said softly, “being good at handling something doesn’t automatically mean it doesn’t suck.”
For the first time that night, you looked caught off guard.
Tiny reaction. Brief. But real. Your eyes lowered for a second before you shook your head lightly, almost annoyed at yourself for reacting at all.
“Since when did anesthesiologists become therapists?”
Jake grinned faintly. “Since trauma surgeons became emotionally constipated.”
“Watch your tone.”
“There she is.”
That finally earned him a quiet scoff from you. Small. Tired. But genuine. And somehow that felt like victory.
It wasn’t the first time a patient had looked at you and questioned your abilities. Wasn’t the first time someone assumed you were too young, too cold, too arrogant to be good at your job. And it definitely wasn’t the first time a man raised his voice at you because you refused to soften your tone for his comfort. None of it was new. You learned years ago that being a trauma surgeon meant growing thick skin fast, so you did. You became sharper. Colder. Harder to offend. Most days, it worked. Today just wasn’t most days.
The trauma patient was eventually stabilized after agreeing to surgery at the last possible second. The operation itself went smoothly—efficient, controlled, another life saved. Everyone in the OR moved on quickly afterward. Residents talked about the procedure, nurses cleaned up, and another trauma page already echoed somewhere down the hallway. The hospital kept moving. It always did. You stripped off your gloves quietly before stepping out of the operating room without saying much to anyone.
Jake noticed immediately. Of course he did. He watched you stop near the scrub room sink, hands braced lightly against the counter while cold water ran over your fingers. Just breathing. Just existing for one second without somebody needing something from you. Jake stood near the doorway quietly, not interrupting this time. No flirting. No teasing. Because he knew. Not exactly what it felt like, but enough. Enough to understand that being hurt by something didn’t mean you were weak for it. You could hear the same insult a hundred times and still feel it on the hundred-and-first. Especially on days when you were already running on nothing.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then quietly, without looking at him, you muttered, “…He’s alive.”
Like that was the only part that mattered. Jake’s chest tightened painfully.
Because even after getting screamed at, doubted, and disrespected, your first concern was still whether the patient survived. Not your pride. Not your feelings. The patient. And standing there beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, exhausted down to the bone yet still worrying about somebody who had insulted you to your face, Jake felt himself fall in love with you all over again.
A few weeks after that night, the hospital didn’t get any quieter.
It never did.
But something between you and Jake had shifted in a way neither of you said out loud. He still trailed after you through corridors, still made unnecessary comments during surgeries, still acted like your personal irritation in human form. And you still told him to move, still rolled your eyes, still treated him like he was one bad joke away from getting kicked out of your OR.
But it wasn’t just that anymore. It had started to feel consistent. Familiar in a way that didn’t belong to colleagues.
That night, another trauma page came in just after midnight. Jake was already in OR Two when you arrived, tying your gown with sharp, efficient movements that didn’t quite hide how exhausted you were.
“Male, forty-two, MVC,” Jake said as you stepped in. “BP unstable en route but responding to fluids.”
“Start transfusion protocol,” you replied immediately.
No hesitation. No wasted movement. Just instinct and control.
The patient came in fast. Too fast. The room snapped into controlled chaos the moment the gurney crossed the threshold.
And Jake noticed it again. You were tired. Not obvious to anyone else—but obvious to him. A fraction slower between movements. A tighter set to your jaw. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t show up in posture, only in timing.
“Dr. Y/N,” Jake said quietly while adjusting anesthesia, “you slept at all this week?”
“I sleep.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you’re getting.”
He sighed under his breath, but didn’t push further. He’d learned that pushing didn’t help with you. Not like that. The surgery progressed. Bleeding controlled. Vitals stabilizing. Everything is technically going right.
Until a resident hesitated at a critical step. A second too long. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to.
“Step aside,” you said flatly.
The resident froze.
“I said step aside!”
They moved immediately. The room went tense for half a second before stabilizing again. Jake watched it happen, not with judgment—but recognition. Because he knew that silence. That tone. It wasn’t anger for the sake of control. It was exhaustion protecting something fragile underneath it: the patient not dying on your table.
The surgery finished cleanly after that.
“Vitals stable,” Jake said.
“Close,” you replied.
And just like that, it was over.
You moved to the sink afterward, stripping off gloves with slightly slower hands than usual. The kind of tired that had started to settle into your bones lately instead of passing with the shift.
Jake stayed with you this time. Not behind. Not beside like a passing colleague. Just there. Close enough that it was intentional. The water ran quietly between you for a moment before he spoke.
“You’re not fine.”
Your hands paused under the stream.
Not startled. Just… aware. He didn’t continue immediately. Didn’t push. His voice stayed steady, lower than usual.
“I’m not saying that as your anesthesiologist,” he added. “I’m saying it as someone who actually cares about you.”
Silence. That landed differently. You slowly turned off the water and reached for a paper towel.
“…That’s not your job,” you said flatly.
Jake gave a quiet, humorless exhale. “Yeah. I know.”
You finally looked at him then. Properly. Tired eyes. Controlled expression. Walls still up, but thinner than they used to be.
He didn’t look away. Because he meant it. Not as a colleague. Not as a coworker orbiting your OR schedule. As someone who had spent too many nights noticing when you stopped being okay before you ever admitted it.
“I don’t care about this job boundary thing,” Jake said more softly.
That made your expression tighten slightly. Not anger. Something more complicated.
“…You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
He just stayed there beside you in the harsh fluorescent light, like leaving you alone wasn’t something he was willing to do anymore.
“You should stop,” you said.
“Stop what?”
“This.”
A beat.
You gestured vaguely between the two of you, like it explained everything and nothing at once. Jake’s expression tightened slightly, but he didn’t back off.
“No,” he said simply.
That one word landed harder than expected. Because Jake didn’t usually refuse you like that. Not seriously. Not like he had decided something.
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I am deciding it,” he corrected, voice calm but firm. “Because you’re not actually asking me to stop. You’re telling me to leave you alone so you don’t have to deal with it.”
Your jaw tightened.
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” he said quietly. “And I get it.”
That stopped you for a second. Not because you agreed. Because he wasn’t arguing your competence. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t pushing your patience just to get a reaction.
He was just seeing it. Like he had been paying attention longer than you realized.
Jake stepped slightly closer—not invading, not cornering, just closing the distance enough that you couldn’t ignore him without effort.
“I’ve watched you for three years,” he said. “Not just in the OR. Everywhere.”
Your eyes flicked to his face briefly, guarded. He continued anyway.
“You don’t slow down. Not when you’re exhausted. Not when people are disrespectful. Not when you’re clearly running on nothing.”
A pause.
“And I used to think that was just who you are.”
His voice softened slightly, but didn’t lose its edge.
“But it’s not strength when it’s constant depletion.”
The word hit differently. You hated that it did. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.
“I’m fine,” you repeated automatically.
Jake shook his head once.
“No,” he said again, quieter this time. “You’re functional. There’s a difference.”
Silence stretched. The hum of the hospital overhead felt louder now. You looked away first, which annoyed you more than anything else.
“…You’re overstepping,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” Jake admitted immediately.
That made you look back at him. He didn’t apologize. Just nodded slightly as he accepted it.
“I am,” he said. “But I’d rather be annoying than watch you keep pretending you don’t need anything from anyone.”
Your throat tightened slightly—something you refused to name. Jake exhaled slowly, then added, softer but steadier:
“And I’m not doing this because you’re my colleague anymore.”
That part landed differently. He held your gaze. No grin. No flirting. No easy exit. Just honesty, stripped down.
“I care about you,” he said. “More than I should for someone I work with.”
A pause. Then, more firmly.
“And I’m not going to pretend I don’t anymore.”
The space between you felt too quiet after that. Not empty. Just full in a way neither of you had labeled yet.
.
.
.
.
You didn’t hate people.
Jake had stopped believing that version of you a long time ago. What you hated was the aftermath—the chaos left behind when someone else made a mistake, and you were the one expected to turn it into something survivable again. The delay. The preventable damage. The clean-up that always landed in your hands. Inconvenience disguised as responsibility. That was what irritated you, not humanity itself.
Because if it had truly been hatred, you wouldn’t pause the way you did when a patient’s voice cracked in fear. You wouldn’t adjust your tone when someone was too scared to understand instructions. You wouldn’t stay late when there was nothing in it for you except making sure things didn’t fall apart after you left. Jake had seen it too many times now for it to be an accident.
You had always told yourself engagement with people was complicated—that it meant getting pulled into problems you never agreed to take on, responsibilities that didn’t belong to you, emotions that would slow you down. So you built distance. Sharpness. Efficiency. Cold professionalism that made everything easier to manage and harder to reach. A system that worked, most of the time.
But life didn’t let you stay detached. Not here. Not in trauma. Because here you were anyway—standing in the middle of chaos, cleaning up what other people broke, making impossible decisions in seconds while others hesitated. Everything you said you didn’t want, you were already doing. Jake watched you for a moment longer and thought, quietly, that maybe it was never about hating people at all. Maybe it was just that you cared too much and never permitted yourself to call it that.
So when others called you cold, Jake no longer agreed. Because to him, you weren’t the coldest person in the hospital. You were the one who cared the most. Just in a way that didn’t ask for credit, didn’t ask to be seen, and definitely didn’t ask to be understood. And somehow, that made you the warmest person he had ever known.
.
.
.
.
The trauma page came in just after midnight.
MVC. High speed. Multiple casualties.
By the time you reached the ER, the chaos was already organized into sharp, practiced motion. Gurneys rolling in, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in a frantic rhythm.
“Male, early thirties,” one paramedic reported quickly. “Severe chest trauma, hypotensive, possible internal bleeding. Passenger vehicle. Wife is also incoming—pregnant, third trimester, conscious.”
That made your steps pause for half a second. Then you kept moving.
“Bring him to OR One. Prep blood now,” you ordered immediately. “Call OB for standby.”
The husband was already fading when they transferred him. Too much damage. Too fast. Internal bleeding, you couldn’t fully stop, even as you worked. Jake was there, but he didn’t speak much, just watched the numbers, adjusted what he needed to adjust, stayed exactly where he was needed.
And you?
You didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t break rhythm. Didn’t allow anything to slow your hands. But even before the final moment, you knew. That quiet, awful certainty that sometimes came in trauma. When effort stopped being about saving and started being about not losing control of the room.
“BP dropping,” Jake said softly.
“I know,” you replied.
You pushed harder anyway. Longer than most would have. Longer than was reasonable. Long enough that everyone in the OR understood what was happening without saying it.
Finally—
silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The final kind.
Jake’s hand slowed on the monitor. No dramatic announcement. No unnecessary words. Just a small pause before he looked at you.
“…Time of death,” he said quietly.
You didn’t respond immediately.
For a second, your hands stayed where they were, still in position, still doing the job your body refused to stop doing. Then slowly, you stepped back.
“Stop,” you said flatly to the team. “Call it.”
Your voice didn’t shake. Not outwardly. The room moved again after that—procedures, documentation, cleanup—but everything felt muted now because the patient wasn’t just a case. Not this one.
When the OR finally cleared, you stood at the sink longer than usual. Washing your hands even after they were already clean. Jake didn’t say anything. Just stayed nearby.
And then the wife was brought in.
She was still in pain. Still in shock. Heavy pregnant, barely able to sit up properly, one hand gripping her abdomen while the other reached for the space beside her.
“Where is he?” she asked immediately.
No one answered right away. Not the nurses. Not the resident. Not Jake. Your name was the only one that mattered now. So you stepped forward. The hallway suddenly felt too small.
“I’m your trauma surgeon,” you said calmly.
Her eyes locked onto yours instantly.
“Where is my husband?” she asked again, sharper now, fear breaking through.
A pause. One that stretched too long. Jake watched your posture carefully. Saw it before you even spoke. That moment where you were still composed—but only just.
“He didn’t survive the surgery,” you said.
Simple. Direct. No decoration. The words hit her like an impact.
“No,” she whispered immediately, shaking her head. “No, that’s not—he was fine. He was talking to me. He said he was going to see the baby—”
Her voice broke. And you stood there, still. Holding it together in the only way you knew how. stillness, control, distance. But then she started crying properly. Not quietly. Not politely. The kind of grief that filled the space.
“He promised,” she said, voice cracking. “He promised he would be there. We waited so long—this baby—he—he can’t just—”
Her hand tightened over her stomach like she was trying to hold everything together physically. And something in you shifted. Not visibly. But deeply. Because it wasn’t just grief. It was love. It was a future that had already existed in her head, being taken away mid-sentence.
Jake saw it immediately. The way your expression didn’t change, but your silence did. He stepped slightly closer, not to intervene, but to stand near you. A quiet presence. Because he knew you. And he knew what moments like this did.
The wife reached forward suddenly, grabbing your sleeve with shaking hands.
“Please,” she cried. “Please, you have to do something. You’re the doctor. You’re supposed to fix it. You can’t just—he can’t be gone—he can’t—”
Your breath stopped for a fraction of a second. Just one. Barely noticeable. But Jake saw it. And so did you. Your hand lifted slightly, then paused mid-air, unsure whether to hold her wrist or let her hold on. For the first time all night, your voice didn’t come immediately.
And when it did, it was quieter. Not clinical. Not sharp. Just human.
“…I’m sorry,” you said.
The wife broke completely then.
And you stood there while she cried into the reality you had just given her, your composure holding like something inside you had taken a hit it couldn’t cleanly repair.
Jake stayed beside you. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there. Because for once, there was nothing to fix.
The hospital kept moving as if nothing had happened. Paperwork was completed, the OR was reset, and another trauma page already echoed somewhere down the hall. But you didn’t go back. You didn’t speak. You just walked until you reached the emergency stairwell, the one place in the hospital where the noise couldn’t follow you. The door shut behind you with a soft click, and suddenly everything went quiet.
You sat down slowly on the steps, as your body had finally decided it couldn’t stay upright anymore. At first, there was only silence. Then your breath broke. Small, uneven, almost imperceptible. You pressed a hand over your mouth like you could contain it, like control was still something you could choose. But it wasn’t. The grief came anyway, quiet and heavy, slipping through every restraint you’d built over years of training and survival. Tears fell without sound as you stared at the floor, unable to look away from the memory of a wife holding onto hope that had just been taken from her.
The stairwell door opened softly behind you, but you didn’t turn immediately. Jake didn’t speak when he stepped in. He didn’t rush toward you or try to fix anything. He just closed the door carefully and sat one step above you, close enough that the space didn’t feel empty, far enough that you didn’t feel cornered. For once, there were no jokes, no teasing, no words at all—just him staying there with you in the quiet, so you didn’t have to break alone.
“Hey.”
Your shoulders tensed slightly, but you didn’t look up.
Jake shifted down one step, slower this time, closer without invading. “You don’t have to stop,” he said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That did something worse than comfort, it loosened the last bit of control you were still holding onto. Your breath hitched again, shorter this time, and you turned your face away instinctively as you could still hide it. But Jake had already seen enough. He lowered himself fully in front of you now, careful, steady, not rushing. “Look at me,” he said softly.
You didn’t at first. So he waited. No impatience. No teasing. No pushing. Just him, there. Eventually, your eyes flickered toward him, tired, wet, unguarded in a way you never allowed anyone to see. Jake’s expression softened immediately.
“There you are,” he murmured.
That was it. Something in you broke properly then. Jake didn’t hesitate. He reached forward and pulled you into him. Arms around you, firm and steady, like he was catching something he refused to let fall further. One hand came up to the back of your head, holding you gently against him. The other stayed at your upper back, grounding you with quiet pressure.
“It’s okay,” he said softly, close enough that you could feel his voice more than hear it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to hold it right now.”
Your hands froze for a second in the air, uncertain, before finally gripping his scrubs like you needed something real to anchor yourself to. Enough that you knew you weren’t alone in it.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Just breathe.”
And for the first time since the hospital had swallowed the night whole, you let yourself fall apart without standing back up immediately afterward.
.
.
.
.
A few months after the stairwell incident, things between you and Jake felt strangely normal again. At least on the surface.
You were back in the OR. Back to correcting residents before they make mistakes. Back to moving through trauma consults like exhaustion had never touched you at all. And Jake? Jake was back to orbiting around you like usual. Except now there was something quieter underneath it.
Something harder to joke away.
It happened late at night after a long surgery. The residents had already left, the nurses were finishing cleanup, and the hospital had finally slowed into that eerie post-midnight stillness.
You stood at the scrub sink washing your hands while Jake leaned against the counter nearby. For once, neither of you spoke immediately. Then Jake sighed softly.
“You know,” he said, “I don’t think you understand how I see you.”
You glanced at him briefly. “Unfortunately, I hear enough from you already.”
Usually, that would’ve made him laugh harder. This time, he only smiled faintly.
“I’m serious.”
That made you pause slightly. Not because he’d never said things like this before—he had, constantly. But lately, he sounded different when he did. Less playful. More certain.
You shut off the water slowly. “Jake.”
“No, listen to me for a second.”
His voice stayed calm. Steady. Not forcing, but not backing away either.
“You think I like you because I enjoy bothering you.” A small exhale left him. “And yeah, okay, I do enjoy that a little.”
“A lot.”
“A lot,” he corrected easily. “But that’s not why.”
Silence settled briefly between you. Jake straightened slightly, eyes fixed on you now with an honesty that immediately made you uncomfortable. Not because it was unpleasant. Because it was real.
“I like the way you care about people even when you pretend you don’t,” he said quietly. “I like that you keep showing up for everyone, no matter how exhausted you are. I like that you’re honest even when it makes people dislike you.” His mouth softened slightly. “I like that you’re strong without making it everyone else’s problem.”
Your chest tightened faintly. You hated conversations like this. Not because they were insincere. Because you never knew what to do with sincerity once someone handed it to you directly.
Jake continued before you could interrupt.
“And I know you think I flirt with everyone.” He smiled a little, tired this time. “But what I feel for you stopped being casual a long time ago.”
The room suddenly felt too quiet. You crossed your arms instinctively. Defensive.
“That sounds like a bad idea.”
Jake’s expression barely changed. “Because you don’t feel the same?”
Your jaw tightened immediately.
“That’s not what I said.”
Something flickered across his face, then small, hopeful enough to annoy you. You looked away first.
“I don’t…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think about relationships.”
“That’s a lie.”
You frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You think about everything.” Jake’s voice softened slightly. “You just avoid things that feel complicated.”
You hated how accurate that sounded. He stepped closer, careful, measured.
“And I know this is complicated,” he admitted. “We work together. We spend almost every day together. If things go wrong, it could affect everything.”
“Exactly.”
“But I still want you anyway.”
Your throat tightened slightly at the directness of it. Jake looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, quieter this time.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything right now,” he said. “I just need you to understand that I mean it.”
A pause.
“That this isn’t a joke to me anymore.”
The honesty in his voice made something shift uncomfortably in your chest. Because the problem wasn’t that you thought Jake was lying. The problem was that you were starting to believe him.
The problem wasn’t Jake.
That was what made this difficult. If he had been careless, immature, or insincere, you could’ve dismissed this easily. You could’ve rolled your eyes, told him to stop being dramatic, and continued your life the same way as before. But Jake meant it. You knew he did now.
And somehow, that made everything worse.
The hospital had taught you how to manage almost everything—pressure, exhaustion, grief, and responsibility. You knew how to function in chaos. You knew how to make impossible decisions without freezing.
This felt uncertain in a way trauma never did.
Because surgeries had protocols. Complications had procedures. Even death had steps you could follow after it happened. Relationships didn’t. Especially not with someone who worked beside you every day.
You sat alone in the attending lounge long after your shift ended, staring blankly at the untouched coffee in your hands. Jake’s words kept replaying, whether you wanted them to or not.
I still want you anyway.
Your jaw tightened faintly. You hated complicated things. And relationships felt like the most complicated thing possible. Not because you thought love was impossible. You saw it all the time. Families crying in waiting rooms, spouses refusing to leave hospital bedsides, people holding onto each other through impossible situations.
You knew it existed. You just never imagined it fitting into your life. Your life was sharp corners and unpredictable hours. Trauma calls at three in the morning. Twenty-hour shifts. Emotional exhaustion, you barely knew how to process yourself.
Jake already knew this life, too. Which meant if things went wrong, there would be no clean escape from it. You would still see each other in the OR. Still work trauma cases together. Still stand across operating tables pretending nothing happened while everyone around you noticed the tension anyway. The idea alone sounded exhausting.
You exhaled quietly and leaned your head back against the chair. The worst part was that you still didn’t know what you felt. Not fully.
Jake mattered to you. That much was obvious now in ways you couldn’t comfortably deny anymore. His presence had become something familiar. Important. He irritated you constantly, yet somehow made the hospital feel less unbearable at the same time.
But caring about someone and wanting a relationship weren’t automatically the same thing.
Were they?
You genuinely didn’t know. And that uncertainty unsettled you more than anything else. Because for the first time in years, this wasn’t a situation you could solve by being competent enough.
.
.
.
.
Jake, unfortunately, did not know how to quit.
After that conversation, any normal person probably would’ve backed off a little. Given you space. Allowed you time to process your feelings without constantly hovering around your existence like an emotionally persistent golden retriever in surgical scrubs.
Jake did none of those things.
“You know I’d marry you tomorrow if you asked, right?”
You didn’t even look up from the patient file. “I’d rather induce my own coma.”
“That’s not a no.”
“That is absolutely a no.”
Yet somehow, he never made it feel like pressure.
Jake didn’t confess because he expected something from you immediately. He confessed because he wanted you to know the feeling still existed. Constant. Unchanged. Certain.
And every time you dismissed him, he just smiled like someone who already understood your language better than you realized.
“Morning,” he greeted one day, falling into step beside you while you speed-walked toward trauma rounds. “You ignored three of my messages.”
“They weren’t messages. You sent me photos of hospital cats.”
“They reminded me of you.”
You stopped walking immediately. “Explain that statement carefully.”
“Mean eyes. Doesn’t trust people. Hisses when approached.”
“You’re brave today.”
“Love makes people fearless.”
“You need a psychological evaluation.”
Jake grinned like that was a compliment. That was the issue with him. Every rejection somehow fueled him, rather than discouraging him.
A week later, he cornered you at the vending machine at two in the morning while you aggressively tried to choose caffeine.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if we dated, I’d let you steal my fries.”
You stared at him flatly. “I can already do that.”
“Yeah, but romantically.”
“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Not true. Remember when I said epidurals were easy?”
Your expression darkened immediately. “I almost reported you to HR for that.”
“Yet here we are. Stronger than ever.”
You genuinely couldn’t tell if Jake was flirting or simply surviving on a level of confidence normal people didn’t possess. The worst part? He somehow adapted to your personality instead of fighting it. When you ignored him, he kept talking anyway. When you insulted him, he looked entertained instead of offended. And when you got exhausted enough to stop responding entirely, he just walked beside you quietly until you recovered enough to threaten him again.
It was deeply inconvenient.
One afternoon after a brutal trauma surgery, you dropped heavily into a chair in the staff lounge while reviewing scans. Jake appeared two minutes later like a curse.
“You look terrible,” he said sympathetically, handing you coffee.
You accepted it automatically before narrowing your eyes. “Why are you here?”
“I sensed emotional distress.”
He sat across from you casually, watching while you drank the coffee in exhausted silence.
“You know I’m still trying to date you, right?”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“Jake.”
“I’m just making sure we maintain clear communication.”
“You confessed to me yesterday.”
“And today.”
“You’re proving my point.”
“That I’m consistent?”
“That you’re insane.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered.
“Okay, but statistically speaking, eventually you’re gonna accidentally fall in love with me.”
You looked at him over the coffee cup.
“…That’s not how statistics work.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Then I’ll simply have to increase exposure.”
You stared at him for a long moment before muttering, “I actually understand why residents avoid you now.”
Jake looked delighted.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Jake shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head slightly.
“So?” he asked lightly. “Any progress on accidentally falling in love with me?”
You stared at him. Jake stared back hopefully. And despite everything, the exhaustion, the complicated feelings, the fact that relationships still sounded terrifying and inconvenient and deeply impractical, you felt your mouth twitch slightly.
Small. Real. Jake immediately pointed at you.
“That’s improvement.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Too late. I’m celebrating internally.”
You shook your head under your breath.
Still no answer. Still uncertain. Still not ready to call whatever this was by its real name. But this time, when Jake called after you—
“See you tomorrow, Dr. Y/N. I’ll continue loving you then too.”
You didn’t tell him to stop..
Jake watched you disappear down the hallway until the automatic doors closed behind you with a soft hiss. Around him, the hospital kept moving the same way it always did—pages overhead, hurried footsteps, another resident sprinting toward a consult somewhere down the corridor. Nothing had changed. And yet somehow, everything had. Because for the first time since falling in love with you, Jake realized he no longer needed an immediate answer just to keep going.
And honestly?
For now, that was enough.
tag list : @en-chantedtomeetyou, @ni-kiswife, @sunsetgenie, @jaeunaria0-0, @asa-is-acinggg, @mydearestdongwook, @mrs-r1zzimura, @chxrlz-mxr, @nlylilac, @coatedlily, @d3adaf, @lightyagamigooner, @woninlove, @imsimjaeyunswife, @maishee
synopsis ⨾ resellers aren’t really that annoying . . . right? wrong! when you repeatedly miss out on clothes from your usual source, only to see the exact pieces you wanted pop up on different girls online, it doesn’t take long to realise a mysterious reseller has been beating you to it every time. after some digging, you discover the account belongs to not only a man, but one of your favorite mutuals — nishimura riki.
content warning ⨾ none
𐔌ㅤ taglist open >_<
note: thank yew for 1k followers :3 and sorry for another late update i said i was locking in when i was infact not doing the opposite
synopsis ⨾ resellers aren’t really that annoying . . . right? wrong! when you repeatedly miss out on clothes from your usual source, only to see the exact pieces you wanted pop up on different girls online, it doesn’t take long to realise a mysterious reseller has been beating you to it every time. after some digging, you discover the account belongs to not only a man, but one of your favorite mutuals — nishimura riki.
content warning ⨾ none
𐔌ㅤ taglist open >_<
note: late update oops?? sorry i genuinely think studying is gonna kill me off IM NOT BUILT FOR THIS
synopsis ⨾ resellers aren’t really that annoying . . . right? wrong! when you repeatedly miss out on clothes from your usual source, only to see the exact pieces you wanted pop up on different girls online, it doesn’t take long to realise a mysterious reseller has been beating you to it every time. after some digging, you discover the account belongs to not only a man, but one of your favorite mutuals — nishimura riki.
[ the “jungwon’s litter box” universe ]
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ ni-ki x female reader
featuring˙⋆✮ minju & yunah (illit)
GENRE ➛ smau. fake dating. romcom. crack & fluff.
synopsis ✧˖° riki has never been the type of person to be at a loss for words. so, when he found out you were working at the library down the street, he decided to try to talk to you. but every time he came remotely close to that chance, he grew ridden with nerves and convinced himself to try again tomorrow. the thing is… tomorrow turned into a week, and now he’s trying to convince you that he’s not a stalker.
⤷ very very loosely inspired by the song liberian girl
contents & warnings: profanity; suggestive jokes (?); one use of a petname lmao;
taglist: OPEN !!!
[profiles] ༺☆༻ [next]
notes; after many months (i am so so sorry) the first chapter is finally hereee YAYYYYY !!! i hope you guys enjoyed and that it was worth waiting for. also i’m watching the michael jackson movie on fridayyyy. i’m so excited. his music was legit my entire childhood. but we have a chaotic journey ahead of us chat lmfaoo.
— yang jungwon made a pact with you, fair and square. if you're both single by 25, you date. simple. legally binding, if you ask him. jungwon is 22, three years is easy. the only problem is that you decided NOW would be the perfect time to start going on dates. with his best friend, riki, of all people. so jungwon arrives at the only logical conclusion available to him: sabotage. all of them. every single date. should be fairly simple :)
pairing: bsf! jungwon x female reader
warnings: a lot of crack, like a lot, seriously; riki is a menace, some riki x reader, sunwon shippers: you're in for a treat, lots and lots of jealousy, jaywon shippers: you get crumbs if you squint, a lot of rambly writing which is intentional because i'm trying to emulate jungwon and reader's internal monologue (which tends to jump between several different things, my mcs lowkey have adhd), jungwon is soo down bad you guys, ot7, bts mentioned cuz hot girls stan bangtan (jungwon is a hot girl)
w.c: 7.7k words
risa's thoughts:i'm really proud of this one, it's my first full length fic and it was soo much fun to write yay! as always, i would love to hear your thoughts, feel free to comment or message me :)) hope you enjoy!
masterlist
“Sometimes, just sometimes, I want someone. You know?”
It’s 2.23 am on a Saturday night. The window is open and the not-so-thin draft blows the curtains in every direction. The sitcom playing is terrible and your shared ice cream tub is half-empty despite buying it only today. Jungwon is sprawled on his couch with you beside him. Your feet are tucked under his thigh because you run cold and Jungwon runs warm and this is just a thing that happens, it doesn’t mean anything—
“Like I know it makes me sound kind of desperate, but it would be nice to have someone who shows up. Who’s, y’know, there.” You continue.
“There.” Jungwon hums. He’s quiet for a second, and then suddenly he’s shuffling to face you.
“Okay, hear me out.” And that glint in his eyes makes you let out an exasperated chuckle.
“Jungwon, no. Whatever you’re gonna say, just no—”
“Just listen to me. If we’re both single at 25—“
You’re laughing before he even finishes. “Oh my god.”
“—we date.”
“You’re insane.” You’re just laughing in his face.
“No, c’mon. It’s practical!”
“It's insane!”
"it's a safety net!" he says it so seriously, like he’s giving a presentation for a class in university. "you want someone who's there. I'm there. I'm literally always there, it’s kind of a problem how much I’m there—“
“I have to live with the decision I make right now, don’t I?”
“So, that’s a yes then?”
You look at him for a moment and he just blinks back. “You do realise how absurd you sound, right?” You’re smiling and he’s mirroring your lopsided grin. He thinks you look really pretty with the wind blowing your hair everywhere and the lamp casting a faint glow in your chocolate eyes. “You’ve done stupider shit, though.” He’s not wrong.
“Ugh. Fine.” You roll your eyes. “if we're both tragically single at 25, we date.”
“Great.” He nods. Decisive and done, like he just signed a business contract. He’s grabbing your hand, “It’s a pact.”
“This is not a pact—” You’re laughing again.
“We literally shook on it—”“Jungwon, you grabbed my hand—“
Jungwon has stopped listening. His head is already resting on the back of the couch and he’s staring at the ceiling. He can’t help the smile that’s threatening to stretch into a full-blown toothy grin. He’s 22. 3 years. He can do 3 years. 3 years is nothing. He’s already been pining for 3 years, just means he’s halfway there, what’s 3 more?
~
Jungwon swears he’s a good guy. He really is. Atleast, everyone around him seems to think so. He’s been called an angel more times than he can count. By every other person he has met. All except you. Can you blame him though? You’re cute when you’re irritated and Jungwon has the time of his life riling you up.
But he thinks you would agree to some degree, if your very drunken and half conscious stupor is anything to go by. Jungwon had blushed 5 shades of crimson that night, with you on his back, pulling and squishing his cheeks and rambling, 'you're like the cutest human ever, you know that, *hiccup*, like you're a samoyed, no wait actually you're a cat, *hiccup* but like a floofy cat, with the big tail, do you think your tail would wag?’
He whined when you called him cute despite the red in his ears. 'wha- what no, im a man, im NOT a cat, im manly, my shoulders are atleast 50cm, im a manly man *voice crack* got it?’ (he screams when he sees spiders by the way, almost jumps into your arms at the sight of them).
Regardless, everything about him being a big soft ball of positive energy right about flew out the window of Jay's car that Jungwon is forcing Jay to drive him around in, at a pace that could definitely get Jay pulled over. But, who cares? Jungwon is speed. He is as fast as light. He is lightening mcqueen.
Ummm… in hindsight he should probably stop yelling at Jay to speed up because if they end up getting a ticket…. Money? Haha. Ha. Ha. What is that?
But these are pressing matters! You are on a date.
A dATe.
He repeats, please copy, A DATE!!
Firstly, how?
Secondly, lol, poor guy.
Thirdly, NOOOOOO!
If it's hard to guess, the third point is the most important.
You see, under normal circumstances, he wouldn't be making a big deal out of this. He would be chilling in your apartment with cold pizza and diet coke and a rerun of some shitty sitcom. His feet would absolutely be up on YOUR coffee table because you hate it and has he mentioned that you're cute when you're annoyed? (your cheeks are all flushed and you have a pout and you huff a little and look like you need a kiss on your cheek from him, specificaLLY. If anyone asks, he never EVER said any of this, liars). And he'd be least concerned about your date because then the most important point would be ‘lol, poor guy’.
However, these are not usual circumstances. This is the third date.
The THIRD date. With the same loser (his friend).
How? Quite seriously, how?
Either the guy is just losing a screw (he is, lol, Jungwon knows his friend).
Or you’re getting free food out of this.
At least, that's what he had hoped.
But then, you came out of your room in your black halter neck and miniskirt. You have worn that halter neck a grand total of one (1) times. Just once. Where, one may ask? To a BTS fansign. That is your lucky favorite super cute top. You met bangtan wearing it, are you kidding?
And Yoongi said it looked cute on you. THE min yoongi (the love of your life *dreamy sigh*)
Jungwon has to admit Yoongi is very very correct.
And he understands the hype behind it too. He has his own lucky favorite super cute item (Namjoon complimented his watch! and also almost wore it!!) AFBF.
Anyway, back to the present. Jungwon can spot the black uber in front of him and jay is tailing from two cars behind. They are under cover. Jungwon is following the eagle, do you copy?
And following.
Still following.
Two cars is too much distance, Jungwon can't see shit. This is why Jungwon carried binoculars.
And now, Jungwon is peering through tiny binoculars. (They're from his cousin's play detective set! They're really cute and have a lanyard that you can slip around your neck!! You'd love them, he's sure).
(It's a story for another time that Jungwon snatched them from his crying cousin, but to be fair, that kid needs to learn to share. It is also a second, other, story that the strap is too small to fit around Jungwon's neck and that he almost choked and Jay and Sunoo had to get it off. Yes, it took two people to accomplish the task.).
Basically, he's spying. So far, nothing interesting. You guys are just talking.
More talk.
And some more.
God, people yap too much.
Okay, he sees movement. Stop. Mr Nishimura RiKI STOP. Jungwon can see Riki's hand. Rising. As Riki pretend-yawns. And now Riki is leaning over the back of your seat.
Drop it.
Drop the hand this instant.
Drop it or Jungwon will THROW HANDS.
Honestly, Jungwon wonders what you see in Riki. Who pulls a move like that? in 2026?
Like everyone appreciates vintage, but this is just lame. Now, one places the hand on the ~thigh~. Actually, don't do that, arm behind is better. Jungwon wants to do the thigh thing so Riki better keep his hands oFF.
For those wondering, Jungwon is not deranged. This is NOT an overreaction. He has been completely sane over the course of the first 2 dates. CompleTELY.
Date 1, Jungwon barely acknowledged at all.
You’re going out with who?
Riki.
His friend, Riki?
Bahaahaha.
Jungwon burst out laughing, had tears in his eyes. As if. Riki could never beat him. The greatest joke of the year actually. He got a hefty laugh out of it. For a full week post you telling him, at random times of the day, he was falling out of his chair, hysterically laughing.
Ahh, good times.
But then, you and Jungwon were lounging around on his couch, per usual. He was being annoying, per usual. With his face in your lap, per usual (not usual at all, Jungwon was rED.)
He was tossing fries up in your face and stinking up your coffee table with his nasty sock clad feet, having an ESPECIALLY hard time trying to stay put and not lean over and bite your squishy soft and tempting cheek right there. And you mentioned a second date, planned for the very next day. Jungwon paused and stared at you for a full 15 seconds.
‘Huh? Was Riki actually charming?’ He blinked.
Bahahaha.
Jungwon thinks his brain is funny when it wants to be. Yeah no, you’re doing this for free food for sure. He had laughed straight in your face as you huffed some more and shoved him off your lap and on the floor with your feet; where Jungwon kept laughing.
“You’re such a menace." But you couldn’t help but smile as Jungwon kept losing his shit.
“Good luck with the date!’ He had said finally, mid obnoxious laugh. And your hangout had proceeded as always.
It did feel weird though. None of your dates progressed to a second date, like ever. Now that he thinks about it, you did not go on many dates at all. Weird.
But as one can confirm (can one?), he was completely normal about it.
You were out on the second date and Jungwon swears he was just bored. It really wasn’t deeper than that (bullshit, if you ask Sunoo). Just pure boredom (sure, Jungwon, sure, Sunoo’s not judging at all). That made him text you.
Spam text you.
With the stupidest shit.
Strategically.
Every 4 minutes.
(You can verify timestamps for anyone interested).
Jungwon: how’s the food?
Jungwon: didn’t you eat before you left, what are you even gonna do lol
Jungwon: actually, i looked it up on naver and that place has a 3.8 which is basically a 2
Jungwon: i think they might not have food for you at all, all their menu items look like they have your allergens in the dishes
‘you should just come back, i will not take care of you when you fall sick again’ (He did not send that one, someone (Jake) pointed out that Jungwon sounded desperate.)
You had not replied to a single message. (Jungwon has to say, you’re a bad texter in general, but this was annoying him more than usual.) It was only a whole 3 hours later that Jungwon’s phone ding-ed.
You: the food was great actually :)
Do we see why this is concerNING?
Do we see why Jungwon is having heart palPITATIONS?
Do we see why Jungwon gathered all 5 of his remaining friends in an attempt to recruit them to sabotage your future dates the minute you walked out in the halter neck?
And do we agree that this is NOT an overreaction!!!!
Jungwon wonders when his friends will be useful. The one time Jungwon needs their unbridled support and all these stupid good-for-nothing idiots can do is be practical? Now is not the time to be logical, where is the crazy?
Heeseung had looked at him for a very long time. "So let me get this straight." He said slowly. "You want us to sabotage her dates."
"Yes."
"Because?" Heeseung quirks his eyebrow.
"Because."
"Jungwon."
"Hyung."
Another long look. Heeseung chuckled, picked up his phone and started scrolling. Court dismissed, apparently.
Jay, his sweet, beloved, favorite and very treacherous hyung had tilted his head and said "Have you considered just. telling her?" and Jungwon had looked at him like he'd suggested something genuinely offensive.
"That's not on the table."
"Why not—"
"NEXT."
Jake at least had the decency to hear him out fully before saying absolutely not and then asking if anyone wanted ramen. Heeseung did want ramen, thank you for asking Jake!
Sunghoon just said "isn't Riki the one taking her out" and the room went very quiet and Jungwon muttered, "Thank you hyung, for picking at that very fresh wound, you can leave" and Sunghoon did not leave, he just sat there being unhelpful and annoyingly pretty, borderline smug, about it. What is he so smug about? It’s not like he’s got the girl????
And then there's Sunoo. Sunoo, who Jungwon had counted on. Sunoo, who is supposed to be his person. Sunoo, his fellow pocketz. Sunoo, who had listened to the entire thing with his chin in his hands and then said: "She wore the halter neck?"
"Yes—"
"The BTS one??"
"Sunoo hyung, focus—"
"Jungwon she looks SO cute in that top, like she actually looks ethereal—"
"I KNOW." Jungwon says. Pained. "That's literally why we're HERE."
A pause.
"...okay I'll drive." Jay sighed.
"I'll come." Sunoo raised his hand immediately.
"No no no, you’ve lost your field privileges. You were way too enthusiastic calling her cute—"
"But that’s cause she is!" Wow, Sunoo can’t even be honest anymore. Jealous much?
Jungwon points at him, eyes narrowed. "You’re in timeout until you're on my side."
Sunoo considers this very seriously for a moment.
"Okay but she did look really—"
"SUNOO HYU—"
"—really lucky to have someone like you pining after her." He finishes innocently.
Jungwon stares at him. Sunoo beams.
"...okay you can come."
Heeseung doesn't look up from his phone or his ramen. "You're all going to embarrass yourselves."
They absolutely are.
Which is how Jungwon finds himself in the car with Jay outside the damned date spot. Sunoo is in the backseat trying and failing to snatch the binoculars from Jungwon. How is he supposed to help if he can’t even see what’s happening, dammit?
Who even thought of this? Why are you picnic -ing on the banks of the Han river? Why is Riki being romantic? Why can’t Riki also be as useless as his hyungs?
And then, Jungwon sees it. Riki’s pulling the move again. He’s yawning again, (If he was this sleepy, why even go on the date? this fucking dumbass). His arm is most certainly going around your shoulder, he’s pulling you closer, you’re laughing at something he’s saying, he’s leaning in.
Wait. What?
He’s leaning INNNNN????!!!
Jungwon needs to do something. Anything. Right now. NOW.
Sunoo has the binoculars now because Jungwon's hands need to be free.
“Oh my god, they might kiss.” Jay is also gasping. This is scandalous.
Jungwon is panicKING. And suddenly, Jungwon is calling you. He doesn't remember deciding to do this. It's ringing. What is he going to say—
“Jungwon?” Your voice sounds surprised. Beside Jungwon, Sunoo takes a breath. “Okay, yes. No kiss.” Jay cheers.
“Your mom called me.” Jungwon says after a beat.
“My mom…. called you?”
“Yeah. She.. She uh. Needs you home.”
“My mom called you. Instead of me. To tell me to come home?”
“Yeah.” Jungwon is confident. Jungwon is the moment. He should try improv, he thinks he might actually make it big. “It seemed urgent—”
“Jungwon, my mom lives in Busan.” A beat. “ I have an apartment in Seoul, …which you frequent.” You deadpan.
Jungwon should stay as far from as improv as physically possible. “....She called from Busan."
Sunoo has lowered the binoculars. Him and Jay are staring at him like he’s spit hot coffee in their faces. They look murderous. All while both of them frantically mouth something to him. It seems like ‘what are you DOING?’ Or is it ‘what is wrong WITH YOU?’
Jungwon wished he knew what he was doing. Or what was wrong with him.
"I'm hanging up now." you say. You sound like you're smiling. He can't tell if that's good or bad.
"Okay, no, wait—"
Click.
The ride home is silent. Jay and Sunoo seem to know not to bring it up. And Jungwon feels like his mind won’t quiet down. He doesn’t know if he’s grateful for the silence or if he wishes they would spit out what they wanted to say. Sunoo only squeezes Jungwon’s shoulder once when they drop him off and Jungwon hates that his friends know how much it affected him.
His apartment is quiet. He just toes off his shoes and plops onto the couch. His couch, not yours. Which seems weird to clarify because he's on your couch so often now he sometimes forgets which is which. His feet are on the coffee table, but you’re not around to hate it. And so he pulls them down. His eyes land on the throw resting on the armrest, the throw you left once when watching a movie and one that you use every time you hang out here. Then they drift to the mug on the table, the mug that has ‘Won’s won(e) and only’ painted on it that you hide away in his cabinet so only you can drink from it. You have that habit, to make yourself comfortable around him. Jungwon loves it. But for some reason he can’t seem to look at either right now.
All he can think about is that you seemed to be having fun. This wasn’t like your previous dates that he would brush off as nothing. Cause those used to be nothing and you’d talk about them like they were nothing. And Jungwon never had to pay much mind. This one didn’t seem like nothing, though. You seemed to be laughing the way you laugh with Jungwon. With your head thrown back, full with your chest and with your eyes crinkling into beautiful crescents. Not the free food kind. Just genuinely happy and carefree. The one that you had reserved for Jungwon. Or so he had thought.
Riki was making you happy. Possibly, happier than when you were around Jungwon. Maybe Riki wasn’t such a loser at all. Maybe Jungwon was.
He doesn’t text you that night. He just stares at your contact on his phone and wonders what you could be doing right now? If you were with Riki? And for the first time in a while, he doesn’t text you at all. He's not sure you'd notice anyway.
~
You came home smiling.
The halter neck was an excellent idea. One that Riki suggested and takes full credit for. He told you approximately six times over the course of the evening that you looked good. Which means nothing because Riki is your friend and also a professional liar when the situation calls for it. You only know it was a good choice because it bothered Jungwon enough to want to stalk your date with Riki.
Riki had noticed the little stakeout the minute you sat down on the picnic blanket.
“Okay, I need you to trust me. Don’t panic. Just go with whatever I’m gonna do.” He had winked at you. And you knew.
And then the phone rang. You kept it on speaker because Riki insisted he was doing enough to be compensated with entertainment at the very least. You had laughed so hard at Jungwon’s mom-excuse that Riki had to physically hold you down to calm you and not blow your cover.
You’re still smiling about it now, as you change into comfortable clothes. You cannot wait to check your phone to see what absurd spam text Jungwon has left for you.
You swear you’re not evil. It’s just unfair that Jungwon can have his share of fun teasing you and you cannot. You are simply… seizing an opportunity. You are being resourceful. You are a girl with a plan.
The plan started with a hunch. An inkling, if you will, that maybe, just maybe, your crush might be reciprocated. And that hunch was the pact.
(A pact that you said yes to before he even finished the sentence which is a completely normal thing to do. You were tired. It was 2am. Your decision making was a little compromised. It’s very understandable, right?)
Who are you, if not a girl of science? A little brainiac, a scientist in the making. And a scientist needs her own little (failing?) experiment. This is yours. Your (questionable) social experiment, of sorts.
Test Subject: Yang Jungwon.
The hypothesis: Can one, scientifically, reduce the wait time for date impact from 3 years to (optimistically) a couple months? How much of a push does the test subject, Yang Jungwon, need to push him over the edge?
So, it is in the holy name of science, that you wore that halter neck.
And it is in the name of science that you may or may not have asked (bribed with food) your wonderful friend, Riki, to run interference.
And it is definitely in the name of science that you almost agreed to pretend-kiss Riki and gauge Jungwon’s reaction.
Science.
Anyway, the point is Jungwon is definitely going to leave you approximately forty seven increasingly hilarious texts and you're just checking your phone a lot because you're expecting them. That's all. (You've been conditioned by Yang Jungwon's unhinged texting habits to expect a notification every four minutes and your brain has simply adapted to this. Pavlov's dog situation. Very normal.)
Only… it’s been twenty minutes.
Thirty.
Oh my god, Forty. Did he die?
But he’s active in the group chat. This is weird.
Okay so he's not texting. That's fine. People don't text sometimes. Jungwon is a person. Sometimes people who text you every four minutes just. don't. That's a thing that happens. You're not going to be weird about it.
You are being so weird about it. You feel like you’re going to pull your hair out. You’ve been staring at your ceiling for about an hour now. There is a pit in your stomach. You pick up your phone one more time.
Yang Jungwon. Active 12 minutes ago.
You put it down. You're not sure when you stopped smiling.
~
Jungwon messages only during lunch the next day. It’s not out of the ordinary, just some meme you would normally find funny. But it doesn’t land well with you. A part of you still feels heavy. So you confirm if he’s still gonna show up to your place that night. And he says yes. Again, very ordinary, but you can’t help but feel like something is off.
Evening comes around sooner that you expect. And you find yourself cooking some Buldak Ramen (Jungwon argues in favour of Shin Ramen, but who is he to deny your puppy eyes), while Jungwon pretends to assist you. His assistance comes in the form of sitting on the counter beside you while he scrolls on his phone and periodically shares reels he finds funny. And for a while everything looks like it’s going back to its rhythm. He’s poking fun at you (both figuratively and literally poking you with his feet), you’re dodging his attacks, laughter fills your tiny kitchen and all seems right with the world.
But your mind is more observant than you would like sometimes. It seems to be running in overdrive, second-guessing every pause, every clipped reply and you conclude that everything is, in fact, not right with the world. Jungwon is definitely talking in shorter sentences. And he seems to not look at you as much anymore. He’s breathing differently too.
But there’s nothing to bring up. What do you even say? Jungwon, why are you breathing weird? So now you’re not only a creep but also possibly imagining things.
So you ignore it, push it down and pretend like you don’t notice at all. You keep chattering as you usually do. And try to switch off your brain.
And it just slips out.
“Riki is taking me out again. It’s technically our fourth date.” You chuckle and then it hits you. You swear you did not do this one on purpose. Riki just genuinely mentioned craving Italian and you wanted to try this restaurant. It wasn’t even a DATE date. It was a platonic date. A regular hangout. Inconsequential.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jungwon’s finger pause on his phone screen. And then it continues.
“Oh, nice!” He doesn’t look up, just acknowledges it and continues onto the next topic.
Oh, nice.
Oh nice??
That's it. That's all you get. Two words and a subject change like you told him you bought new socks.
You stir the ramen.
Oh nice.
You plate the ramen.
Oh. Nice.
You eat the ramen. Is ramen always this bland?
Dinner passes like that, with you forcing your brain to pause and think through what you say all while psychoanalyzing every word, every pause and every breath Jungwon takes while also replaying his ‘Oh, nice’ with different intonations to figure out which is the one he meant.
On the surface, everything is normal enough. Jungwon eats with you, helps you clean up dishes, and wipes down your counters for you. Everything he usually does. All the normal conversations. But then as you’re migrating to the couch to play whatever shitty sitcom you were watching the last time, Jungwon stops near the couch.
“I forgot to mention. I have a thing, I’ll get going.”
This never happens. Jungwon always has things. He always has things AND he stays anyway because the thing is never more important than your couch and your terrible sitcom and your company and he knows that and you know that.
You don’t know how to respond. Your mouth opens. And shuts. Opens again.
But before you can conjure up a response. He’s leaning down to give you a quick hug. He kisses your temple, shoots a quick ‘see you later’ over his shoulder and he’s walking to the door. You watch him put his shoes on like you're watching it happen to someone else.
“Hey. Is everything okay?”
“Ofcourse. Why wouldn’t it be?” He's already out the door, shooting you a quick grin.
The door clicks shut.
Oh nice.
It comes back to you, sitting alone on your couch.
Oh nice.
You feel the lump in your throat travel down and lodge itself into your heart.
How nice.
~
You’re curled up on the couch with your blanket.
Jungwon is sprawled on his couch in his sweatshirt.
You're watching the sitcom.
Jungwon is watching the sitcom.
Same episode. You've both seen it three times.
Neither of you is watching the sitcom.
You’ve been staring at a corner of the TV screen for a while now. You've made a decision. The plan is off. It was a stupid plan anyway. A scientist with no control over her variables. No control over herself, if you're being honest. And you need some control right now.
You pick up your phone.
You: hey. the plan is off. I think i screwed this up.
Three dots appear immediately. Riki was already on his phone.
Riki: lol no it's not
You: riki I'm serious
Riki takes a little longer.
Riki: are you okay? you seem sad.
You: I’m not feeling the dinner thing tmrw.
Riki: okay, no. you can cancel your plan but don’t bail on me wthh.
Riki: we’re hanging out tomorrow, no excuses. i’m gonna cheer you up. just us, no agenda.
Riki: wear something nice though, that place is fancy and i’m not giving up italian cause you show up looking crusty
You stare at the screen.
You: i do not look crusty.
Riki: are you sure about that?
A pause.
You look at your half finished ramen.
You look at the sitcom.
You look at the empty couch cushion to your left.
You: fine. you better make me laugh.
Riki: girl please.
Jungwon does not know why his TV is on, he hasn’t paid attention even for a second.
He has made a decision.
He just needs to be a little more careful. A little more measured. He can do that. He's been doing it for years already, what's a little more distance? He just needs to not be around you so much. Stop showing up every other night. Stop texting every four minutes. He doesn’t think his cracked heart can handle too much pressure before it breaks completely.
It's a good plan. A solid plan. He's fine. He can be chill. He can keep his distance. He wants to cry.
His phone buzzes.
Sunoo: 7:30 tomorrow. that italian place on hongdae. dress well.
Jungwon: ?????
Sunoo: I'm doing you a favour just show up
Jungwon: what favour. what does that mean. hyung.
Sunoo: 7:30 :)
Jungwon stares at his phone.
Sunoo is already not responding.
He looks back at the sitcom.
Looks at his phone again.
He wants to say no. He wants to stay in. He wants to wallow in self-pity.
Jungwon: fine.
He puts his phone down before picking it up again.
Jungwon: what do you mean dress well
Sunoo leaves him on read.
(Somewhere, Sunoo and Riki are sharing a high-five.)
~
The restaurant is bathed in warm yellow light and smells like garlic and butter. Jungwon is mental-mathing if he has time to yeet himself out of here and run back home but Sunoo spots him before he can bolt.
“Glad you didn’t ditch.” Sunoo joins him as they walk over to confirm their reservation desk.
“I was half way out the door actually—” Jungwon stops mid sentence when he looks up. Right there, in front of him, in line, is the one person he’s been dreading seeing. You look breathtaking in your black dress, sparkly earrings and the wispy hair framing your face. The slit on your thigh does not go unnoticed by Jungwon who gulps down the drool that’s threatening to drop from his open mouth.
Then comes the panic. He’s about to grab Sunoo and take a sharp 180 degree turn when Riki decides to look over his shoulder.
Great. Perfect timing. It seems life really hates him, huh?
“Oh woah, didn’t expect to see you guys here!”
You turn back to see who Riki is greeting. And you think you forget how to breathe for a second. Jungwon looks like a prince in his navy button down. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirt is tucked into his slacks accentuating his proportions criminally well. You have to grab onto Riki’s forearm to not collapse then and there. (Jungwon’s gaze could laser slice Riki’s arm off any second now.)
If only either of you had the ability to not ogle each other for 5 seconds, you would spot the not so subtle wink Riki gives Sunoo.
“Oh my god. Hi, you guys! What are the chances? We’re on a date! As I suspect you guys are too!” Zero hesitation. Sunoo is as bright as ever. Jungwon is choking on aIR. No, like he’s actually wheezing all while looking at Sunoo like he has grown three heads.
Yeah there’s no way you’re gonna buy this, is what Sunoo thinks to himself. You look a little lost glancing between the two men skeptically. And Jungwon is dying way too much to even remotely be able to sell this.
So Sunoo does what any best friend who’s committed to the bit does. His arm circles around Jungwon’s bicep, nails almost digging in and yanks him to his side so they’re now attached at the hip and then proceeds to give his sweetest smile to you (and Riki). Jungwon stops wheezing for only 10 secs. Because now he’s attempting to control his gag reflex. Riki has less of a filter and gags in plain sight. (Thankfully, you’re too shocked to notice. Yeah, you need to work on your situational awareness.) Sunoo has to give Jungwon the nastiest side eye for him to straighten up and mutter, “Yeah, a date.”
You are so confused right now because when and how did this progression even happen?
Beside you, Riki coughs into his hand. “Hey, crazy idea…how about a double date?” Now it’s your turn to gape at Riki’s face. Riki does not so much as spare you a glance.
“Omg yes, that’s so cute!” Sunoo is agreeing immediately. It seems that Jungwon and your opinion is inconsequential. And unsolicited. (As it should be, ask literally anyone.)
Before either of you can object, the hostess is clarifying if all four of you are together and on Riki’s confirmation guiding you all to a table. Riki slips in beside you and Sunoo all but pushes Jungwon in so he’s sitting right in front of you.
Jungwon is going to kill Sunoo in the near future.
The table is small.
Criminally, infuriatingly small.
You are directly across from each other and there is a candle that smells like jasmine between you and nowhere to look that isn't each other.
You refuse to look at anything but the menu.
He refuses to look at anything but the menu.
And, Riki and Sunoo are already talking like this is the most normal evening of their lives.
You both want to strangle your respective dates. Traitors.
The waiter is already at your table, the perk of fancy restaurants, you guess. Riki orders for himself. Jungwon opens his mouth and is about to make a comment about the truffle pasta that he knows you love, specifically to ask if it contains nuts. You’re allergic.
“Does the—”
Riki cuts him off. “Do you want me to ask if the truffle pasta has nuts?” He’s looking at you, his eyes are soft and Jungwon is going to combust.
You blink. "Yeah, thanks."
Riki orders for you when he confirms the pasts does not, in fact, have any nuts.
Jungwon shuts his mouth, clenches his jaw and orders the pesto one without looking at anyone. Sunoo orders the same thing as Jungwon. Nobody asked him to. He just does it. Solidarity. Jungwon is grateful.
The food takes twenty minutes. Twenty minutes feels like forever when you’re trying to avoid someone’s eyes across an unreasonably small candlelit table.
Sunoo, bless his heart, has been yapping away to fill the silence.
“Can I just say,” he turns to Jungwon suddenly, his hand rising to lay on Jungwon’s arm, “you look so handsome today.” Sunoo is turning to face you and Riki, hand not leaving Jungwon’s shoulder, and a smug smile on his face, “Don’t his shoulders look incredible in this shirt?” He’s gesturing, like one would showcase a museum exhibit. “So broad.”
Your eye twitches. Jungwon wishes the ground would swallow him whole.
Riki glances at you, just for a second with one eyebrow barely raised. You squint at Sunoo's hand on Jungwon's arm one more time, then at Riki and then at your own hands.
Game on. Your move.
"Riki, show me that thing on your phone you were telling me about earlier." You lean in before he can even reach for his phone, closing the distance between you and resting your chin almost on his shoulder to peer at his screen. Riki, to his credit, recovers fast. "Oh yeah… uh yeah, s-sure."
Across the table, Jungwon’s knife falls on his plate and he scrambles to pick it up. You don't look up at all, but he sees the tiny smirk on your face.
So we’re playing dirty now?
That’s fine. Two can play the game.
Jungwon holds it in for a full five minutes, pretends your little stunt didn’t bother him one bit. In fact, he continues the conversation like nothing is amiss. And when Sunoo starts to comment on something, Jungwon turns to him a little more than necessary, and agonizingly slowly, reaches over and fixes Sunoo’s collar. A collar that looked pristine, needed no fixing at all. (If anything, Jungwon’s actually made it messy.) He doesn’t stop there though. His hand continues to rise. Sunoo is not sure what’s happening and is looking at Jungwon with wide eyes. And then Jungwon’s thumb is swiping the corner of Sunoo’s lips. “You had a little sauce there.”
Sunoo could throw up. Riki feels a shudder crawl down his spine. Jungwon looks way too confident, way too hot and way too unbothered. And you feel a scowl set onto your face. Sunoo thinks a hole is going to burn through his skull with the way you’re glaring.
This is war.
You know he’s doing it on purpose.
He knows you’re doing it on purpose.
Oh, it’s on.
You take one deep breath, and then you pivot, “This place is amazing, Riki. You have great taste!” Your palm smacks down on Riki’s thigh who yelps. Then you find Jungwon’s eyes, hold his gaze, before continuing, “Definitely better than cold pizza and diet coke.”
Jungwon scoffs. “Oh yeah, better than Buldak Ramen too, actually.”
Neither of you has broken eye contact. A moment passes. The table is quiet.
Then Jungwon says it like it's a completely separate thought. Casual. Like he just remembered.
“Sunoo is such a good texter, replies almost immediately.” He does not care that anyone and their mother can point out that that was the most ridiculous conversation starter ever. He just wants to edge you further. And Sunoo is wondering how purple the bruises on his shoulder is going to be when Jungwon lets go.
“Riki doesn't send thirty texts in four minutes either.” You're looking at him with narrowed eyes.
“Oh, so I shouldn’t check in with you. Got it.” Jungwon puts down his drink.
“I don’t really check my phone when I’m having a good time.”
“Oh really? Seems like you aren’t having a good time tonight then.”
“Don’t you worry, I absolutely am. Are you?”
“The best.”
“Great.”
“Great!”
Riki and Sunoo have been craning their necks like they’re watching a particularly brutal ping pong match. They look at each other. ‘Do something.’ Sunoo mouths to Riki.
"Sooo, what have you been watching recently?" It's laughable that that’s the only thing Riki could come up with but he genuinely feels like he's next to a ticking time bomb.
"Oh, Jungwon and I watch a lot of sitcoms these days." Sunoo says, in hopes to help diffuse whatever electric tension is buzzing between the two of you.
Wrong move. You go very still.
"Oh, so that's the 'thing' you have?" You glare. "At least, you show up for him."
Jungwon goes quiet.
In three years, he has never not shown up. Not once. He has shown up with cold pizza and diet coke and his feet on your coffee table. He has shown up with his stupid reels and his 2am spam texts. He has shown up when you were running low on caffeine and motivation during finals. He has shown up when you were celebrating a perfect score or an internship offer. He has shown up when you were crying about a boss’s rude comment. And he has always, always been there.
He wanted to be there.
He just couldn't be once. Not like this. Not when being there was slowly breaking something in him he didn't know how to fix.
He wanted to be happy for you.
He is trying so hard to be happy for you.
This is what he gets for wishing you happiness?
Jungwon stares at the table, pulls in a slow breath. “Wow, you really know how to hurt me.”
And you know you’ve stooped too low. You want to take it back.
Sunoo looks at Riki and they seem to agree that this is beyond saving.
Riki coughs, "I have a call to make."
Sunoo nods. "Yeah, I'll help you dial."
You’re both silent. Jungwon hasn’t looked up at you. You don’t know how to fix this.
“Jungwon, I’m sorry—”
“Save it.” Before you can process what’s happening, he’s standing up and walking away from the table.
You spot Riki and Sunoo not far away and hurriedly wave them over, who, thank the heavens, for once in their lives get the memo and rush over. You don’t wait, just rush out behind Jungwon.
You catch up to him out on the terrace extending from the restaurant. He’s walking to the railing, “Jungwon, wait. Please. I really crossed the line right now. I did not mean for—”
“No.” He stops you, turns around and his face looks so pained, it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He looks like he might break down any moment and your heart feels like it’ll shatter.
“Do you even know why I pulled away?”
You don’t answer. You don’t think you can.
“Because I couldn’t keep pretending around you.” He takes in a breath. “You know better than anyone I've never — not once — wanted to be apart from you. Not for a day. Not even for an afternoon.” He laughs, but it sounds so different from his laugh. “I don’t spam text people. I take 2 business days to reply to everyone else, including my sister sometimes. I hate people laying cold feet on me. I love nuts in my truffle pasta and I hate that sitcom we watch. For fucks sake, I’m not even looking at the TV most of the time. I’m looking at you.” He runs a hand down his face.
“Do you think it’s a coincidence that I'm always just. there? That I always show up? That I know you take two eggs in your ramen and that you hate anyone touching the blanket you’ve left at my place and that you laugh at your own jokes before the punchline—”.
He stops.
Breathes.
“I pulled away because I’m in love with you.” He looks at you. You can see the moisture in his eyes. The light from within the restaurant reflects in his eyes and your breath catches. “I have been for an embarrassingly long amount of time. And it never bothered me when you went on dates cause they never got further than the first one. But then I saw you with Riki. And it killed me to see you laugh like that and look like that—” He’s gesturing to you and he’s laughing again, his eyes shine some more now. “I just needed to protect whatever was left of me.”
He can’t look at you. He stares at the floor. It’s silent. There’s sounds of crickets from the potted plants on the railing and clinks of cutlery from within the restaurant.
There goes the friendship as well, he thinks.
His eyes are blurry now. He doesn’t think he has the courage to look at you anymore. He sees your heels come into view. You’re walking to him. He has half a mind to shut his eyes and push you away.
Jungwon looks wrecked. The closer you walk to him, the more your heart breaks. His lashes are wet, his fists are clenched by his side. And then before you can overthink it, you’re in front of him and your hands are cupping his face.
Jungwon shuts his eyes. Your thumbs brush away the tears on his cheeks.
“Jungwon. Look at me.”
“If you’re gonna walk away, just do it now.”
“Look at me.”
Jungwon looks at you slowly. There’s tears in your eyes. The city lights from beyond the terrace reflect on your face. You look so beautiful. Wow, he’s going to miss you.
“I don’t like Riki.”
“That’s nice to know. But really? That’s your response to everything I said?”
You laugh through your tears. “Jungwon, I never liked Riki. I’ve only ever liked you.”
“What?”
“I’m in love with you too, you idiot.” Your voice cracks. ”I have been for a really long time. And I panicked. Because you suggested the pact and I said yes before I processed any of it and I didn't know what to do with that so I just—” You breathe in. “I wanted you to do something now, I can’t wait three years, are you kidding me?”
“So what you’re saying is you were trying to get a rise out of me?” It comes out slow. Like things are clicking into place.
“Yes.”
"You wore the halter neck on purpose."
"I wore the halter neck on purpose."
He stares at you.
"Riki knew?"
"Riki knew."
“And he tried to kiss you.”
You wince.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Jungwon—”
“After.” And he’s pulling you into his arms. “After.”
He holds you for a long moment. You can hear his heart, you can smell his cologne and you can feel his breath in the crook of your neck and it’s the best feeling in the world. Jungwon’s nose is in your neck and you smell divine, his hands are around your waist and he feels like he could pass out like this. Neither of you move.
"So." His voice is muffled in your hair. "The halter neck."
"The halter neck."
"You wore it on purpose."
"We've established this."
"To a date. With my friend."
"Jungwon—"
"Riki." He pulls back just enough to look at your face. "You used Riki."
"You followed me with children's binoculars and roped Jay into stalking me."
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
"That's fair."
You laugh, the full one, the one reserved for him. He smiles. And then he's cupping your face the way you cupped his and he's looking at you like he's got three years worth of looking to catch up on. Your breath hitches. His thumb is brushing your jaw. He pushes a strand of your hair behind your ear and inches closer. You can’t breathe. You’re too scared to move. Your eyes simply travel from his lips to his eyes (which are trained on your lips) back to his lips. And then he’s kissing you.
It’s soft. Slow. Like neither of you is in any hurry anymore. Like you have all the time in the world now. Because you do.
When he pulls back he doesn't go far, just rests his forehead against yours. “Just so you know”, his breath mingles with yours, your lips are barely a centimeter apart, “I’m not letting you go.”
“You better not.” And now you’re kissing him. More confident. Your lips dance with his, hands travel to his neck. He tilts your head and kisses you deeper. And you don’t think you’ll ever want to stop.
Three years for forever? Totally worth it.
~
Somewhere inside the restaurant, Riki and Sunoo are pressed against the window like two kids outside a candy shop.
୨ৎ Summary : known across the hospital as the woman who hates men, you built your name in trauma surgery with skill, sharp words, and zero patience for male ego. Then Dr. Jake Sim—beloved anesthesiologist, annoyingly competent, and impossible to ignore—starts appearing everywhere in your life with coffee, lunch invitations, and a smile you can’t stand. You hate men. So why is Jake Sim becoming the exception?
୨ৎ Pairing : anesthesiologist! Jake x traumasurgeon! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 3.6K
୨ৎ Song : Heart2Heart : Rude
୨ৎ Warning : SLOW FUCKING BURN BABY!! Jake lowkey down-bad, y/n is certified men hater (me too btw), FLUFF!!, comedic (if you squint), co-worker to.... (idk)
You openly disliked men, especially arrogant, entitled ones who moved through the world as if it had been built solely for them. Every man in your life has given you a reason to. A father who dismissed every achievement unless it benefited him. An ex who cheated, then somehow made betrayal sound like your failure. Colleagues whose eyes lingered too long, whose jokes crossed lines, whose confidence was mistaken for competence far too often. You never understood why society bent itself around them as though they were the natural center of everything. As if possessing a dick automatically granted authority, importance, the right to be heard first, and doubted last. Truly, what was so revolutionary about having a third leg that made them act like first-class citizen??
The trauma pager screamed before dawn. Sharp enough to cut through the thirty minutes of sleep you had managed to steal in the on-call room. By the time you pushed through the emergency doors, scrub top half-buttoned and hair still damp from a rushed sink wash. The paramedics were already rolling in a young man slick with blood and road dust—multiple collisions, hypotensive, barely conscious. Nurses moved around you in practiced chaos, monitors shrieking, metal trays clattering, everyone waiting for your first order.
“Or now!” you snapped, gloving your hands as you walked. “Crossmatch six units, call radiology, someone page anesthesia.”
Then, from just behind your shoulder, calm as if the room wasn’t drowning in panic, came a familiar voice.
“Already here, doctor.”
You turned, and there was Jake Sim, leaning into the storm with an easy expression.
Seeing his smile makes your blood boil. Of course, it was him. Even with alarms blaring, blood on the floor, and a man hovering between life and death, Jake Sim still looked unbearably composed, like this was all mildly inconvenient rather than catastrophic.
“Try looking useful for once,” you said sharply, already moving beside the gurney as the nurses rushed the patient down the corridor.
Jake fell into step beside you without missing a beat, one hand adjusting the oxygen mask over the patient’s face while the other checked the monitor leads. “Good morning to you, too, doctor,”
“It was good until I saw you.”
“Then I’ll try standing behind you next time.”
You ignored him. Flipping through the paramedic report clipped to the patient’s chest. Male, twenty-three, motorbike collision, hypotensive on arrival, suspected abdominal bleed, decreasing consciousness.
“BP?” you asked.
“Eighty over palp,” a nurse answered.
Jake glanced at the monitor—expression sharpening despite the teasing tone still lingering in his voice.
“Airway’s deteriorating. I’m tubing now.”
“Do it while moving.”
“Bossy.”
The elevator doors opened, and the team flooded inside with the bed. You stood at the patient’s side, hands pressed firmly over the soaked dressing at his abdomen. Jake positioned himself at the head of the bed, drawing up medication with practiced speed.
“Etomidate. Rocuronium,” he said.
The nurse passed them over instantly. You looked up just in time to catch him glancing at you.
“What?” you snapped.
“You’ve got blood on your cheek.”
“I’m aware.”
“You wear it well.”
Jake laughed under his breath and pushed the medications. Within seconds, he intubated smoothly, securing the tube as the elevator dinged open onto the surgical floor. The door parted.
“Move.”
The gurney surged forward again, wheels rattling across polished floors as the operating room doors were thrown open. Inside, the scrub team was already waiting. You scrubbed at the sink with aggressive efficiency, barking orders over your shoulder.
“Prep for exploratory laparotomy. Massive transfusion protocol. I want vascular on standby.”
Jake entered the room behind you, tying his mask in place.
“Demanding as always,” he said.
“Shut up.”
Jake only chuckled and stepped closer to the scrub counter.
“You look hot when you’re angry.”
You shot him a flat look over your shoulder.
“Maybe seek psychiatric help.”
Jake only smiled again, the same maddening, effortless smile as he moved to the head of the operating table and began preparing to keep your patient alive while you open him up.
By your second year in trauma surgery, the hospital had already given you a reputation you never asked for. Some called you difficult, others called you cold, but most settled on the nickname whispered through hallways and break rooms with equal parts amusement and caution–the men-hater.
It was easier for them to say that than admit how many times male residents had tried to explain their own cases back to you, how attendings praised the same ideas only after a man repeated them louder, how patients searched the room for a ‘real doctor’ after you introduced yourself.
Every sharp reply you gave, every boundary you enforced, every refusal to smile through disrespect became proof of your bitterness in their eyes. Fine. Let them think you hated men. It was simpler than explaining that you only hated what they kept getting away with.
Then there was Jake Sim.
The hospital effortlessly adored him; people adored men who were handsome, competent, and just charming enough to never be threatening. Nurses smiled when he entered a room. Residents straightened when he spoke. Even attendings, people who looked unimpressed by default, seemed to soften around him. Dr. Jake Sim, anesthesiology’s golden boy.
You disliked him on principle.
Men like Jake moved through life cushioned by a grace rarely afforded to women. If he was blunt, he was confident. If he was playful, he was charismatic. If he challenged authority, he was bold. You had done the same things and been called difficult, abrasive, and emotional.
Worse, Jake seemed entirely aware of the effect he had on people, yet wore it lightly enough to seem innocent. He joked with scrub nurses, remembered everyone’s coffee orders, charmed frightened patients before surgery, and still somehow managed to perform flawlessly once the stakes were real. It would have been easier if he were incompetent. Easier if he were arrogant. Easier if he gave you a clean reason to hate him.
Instead, Jake Sim was annoyingly good at his job. He’s kind when no one is watching, and most annoyingly of all, far too interested in you.
You never smiled at his jokes. Never thank him for favors that you hadn’t asked for. Never looked impressed when others did. If anything, you treated him with the same clipped indifference you reserved for men who thought too highly of themselves.
For some reason, that only seemed to make him come closer.
The nurses filtered out one by one, murmuring good afternoon, leaving the two of you alone in the oversized room. You reached for the strings of your gown, fingers slower now that the adrenaline had drained away.
Before you could undo them, Jake stepped behind you.
You stiffened immediately. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” he said, voice low and annoyingly calm. “You’re taking forever.”
His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he untied the knot. Even through layers of fabric and fatigue, the touch felt far too noticeable.
“I can do it myself.”
“I know.”
The gown loosened, slipping from your shoulders. He stepped away if nothing had happened. You turned sharply.
“Then why didn’t you let me?”
Jake was peeling off his gloves, expression unreadable now that the teasing had softened.
“Because your hands are shaking.”
You froze. You hadn’t even noticed. When you looked down, there it was, the fine tremors running through your fingers, the aftermath of hours spent forcing steadiness into chaos. Humiliating.
You curled your hands into fists. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Mm…”
That sound alone made irritation flare again. He tossed the gloves aside and walked toward you, stopping close enough that the scent of antiseptic clung to him.
“You don’t have to act invincible every second of the day.”
Your jaw tightened.
“Don’t act as if you know me.”
“I know enough.”
Jake studied you for a moment, eyes dropping briefly to your clenched hands before meeting your gaze again.
“I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he said quietly. “I know you took over suturing because the resident was panicking. I know you blamed yourself when his pressure crashed, even though it wasn’t your fault.” He tilted his head slightly. “And I know you’re about two minutes away from collapsing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
You hated him.
Hated the calm certainty in his voice. Hated how he said those things without pity, without mockery, without trying to make himself look noble for noticing. Most of all, you hated that after everything—every clipped response, every glare, every deliberate attempt to keep him at arm’s length, yet he still insisted on treating you gently.
It was infuriating.
Why couldn’t he just dislike you properly?
Why couldn’t he return the coldness you handed him so generously? Why couldn’t he be offended, dismissive, petty? Anything easier to understand than this steady, maddening kindness?
Men were predictable when they were angry. Predictable when their pride was bruised. They snapped, sulked, withdrew. You knew how to handle that version of them. But Jake Sim only kept showing up with a warm smile, calm eyes, and observations you never invited.
You wanted to push him into becoming the kind of man you already knew how to hate. Instead, he kept refusing the role.
The next morning began badly.
You had slept for three hours on a call-room mattress thin enough that your bones were screaming in agony. Woken twice by pagers that turned out not to be yours, and spilled half of your coffee down the front of your scrubs while trying to read overnight labs. By the time you stepped into the trauma conference room, patience had already abandoned you.
A cluster of residents fell silent when you entered.
Good.
You dropped into your seat at the end of the table, flipping open the chart for morning rounds.
“If anyone presents nonsense today, I’m sending them back to medical school personally.”
No one laughed.
Also good.
The door opened, and Jake Sim walked in carrying two coffees and looking offensively well-rested. Fresh shower. Crisp navy scrubs. Hair still slightly damp. Not a trace of the sixteen-hour shift he had also worked. You narrowed your eyes immediately.
He noticed, smiled, and changed direction from the empty seat across the room to the chair beside you. Of course he did.
“You look radiant,” he said quietly as he sat down.
“Shut up.”
“Mean already? We haven’t even started rounds.”
“Dr Sim,” honestly, you almost lost it.
He set one coffee beside your folder. You stared at it.
“Take it back.”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know. You rarely ask for anything. It’s one of your more exhausting traits.”
You pushed the cup back toward him without looking. “Try poisoning someone else.”
Jake slid it neatly back into place. “Oat milk. No sugar. Extra shot.”
Your hand paused halfway to the chart. Annoying.
“You need hobbies,” you muttered.
“I have one.”
You glanced at him despite yourself. “What?”
He met your eyes, expression perfectly innocent. “Getting under your skin.”
Before you could reply, the attending entered, and the room straightened instantly. Rounds began in a blur of scans, bloodwork, complications, and clipped presentations. You corrected three residents, questioned one medication order, and dismantled a surgical pan so flawed it nearly offended you personally.
Jake said little. He simply sat there, reviewing anesthesia notes, occasionally leaning over to slide relevant vitals or postoperative concerns onto your side of the table before you had to ask. You hated how useful he was.
Halfway through the meeting, the attendees discussed a difficult abdominal trauma case from the previous night.
“Post-op hypotension likely due to fluid shifts,” one senior resident offered.
You opened your mouth.
Jake spoke first.
“Or missed retroperitoneal bleed.”
The room turned. The attending frowned thoughtfully. “Reasoning?”
You felt your irritation sharpen. Because he was right. The attending nodded slowly.
“Good catch. We’ll re-image.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Thoughts, doctor?”
“I think anesthesia got lucky.”
You crossed your arms. A few residents choked back smiles. Jake didn’t even blink.
“And I think surgery should buy me breakfast.”
The room laughed. You did not. But when you reached for your coffee a moment later, it was still warm.
.
.
.
.
A few weeks after the surgery, Jake Sim was still impossible to avoid.
Not because he chased you through corridors like some desperate intern with no dignity–though you suspected he was capable of it, but because he had somehow woven himself into the rhythm of your days. In trauma calls, he was there before you finished giving orders. In the OR, he stood behind the drapes with that infuriatingly calm voice. In the break room, there would already be a coffee waiting where you liked to sit, as if the cup itself had developed poor judgment.
You told yourself it meant nothing.
Jake was friendly with everyone. Helpful to everyone. Annoyingly competent with everyone.
So why should it matter that he remembered your orders before you gave them, or noticed when you skipped meals, or somehow knew exactly how you took your coffee without ever asking?
It didn’t.
That was what you were telling yourself when he cornered you outside the staff elevators after a fourteen-hour shift. The corridor was nearly empty, lights dimmed to evening mode, your pager blessedly silent for once. You were too tired for conversation and too hungry for patience.
Jake stepped in front of the elevator doors just as they opened.
You stared at him. “Move.”
“Dinner.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a statement.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It was an invitation.”
You jabbed the closed-door button repeatedly. “Declined.”
He reached past you and caught the elevator door before it could shut, entirely too close for your liking.
“Tomorrow night.”
“No.”
“Tonight, then.”
“No.”
“Coffee after shift.”
“No.”
Jake tilted his head, studying your face with that same maddening calm he wore in operating rooms and arguments alike.
“Are you rejecting me,” he asked, “or just enjoying saying no?”
Your jaw tightened. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re stupid or joking.”
“Neither.”
“Then what is this?”
“A date.”
You gave a short, humorless laugh. “Right.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s the stupid option.”
Something like amusement flickered across his face, but he didn’t step back.
“You really think I’ve been asking because I’m bored?”
“I think men like attention.”
“And you think I’d go through weeks of being insulted for fun?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fair,” he admitted. “But wrong.”
The answer annoyed you more than if he had argued.
You crossed your arms. “You flirt with everyone.”
“I’m polite to everyone.”
“You’re smug with everyone.”
“Only with you.”
“That’s not helping your case.”
“It’s not a case.” His voice lowered slightly. “I like you.”
You blinked once, more out of irritation than surprise.
“No, you like provoking me.”
“I like that too.”
“Jake.”
It was the first time you had said his name without adding an insult after it. His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“Dinner,” he repeated softly. “One hour. If you hate it, I’ll stop asking.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You promise?”
“No.”
“Unbelievable.”
“But I’ll stop asking for a week.”
“That’s not tempting.”
“It should be. You look tired.”
“I look like I regret speaking to you.”
“You always look like that.”
The elevator chimed impatiently behind you.
You stepped inside, forcing him to move back.
“Goodnight, Dr. Sim.”
He smiled, hands in his pockets, entirely too pleased with himself.
“Think about it.”
The doors slid shut between you. You exhaled sharply, pulse annoyingly uneven. Then looked down and realized he had slipped a protein bar into your coat pocket sometime during the conversation.
You hated him.
.
.
.
.
Three days later, you made a mistake.
It happened at 12.40 p.m. After back-to-back consults, a trauma activation that turned out to be alcohol and poor decisions, and a resident who asked whether the spleen was ‘strictly necessary’. You were hungry, irritated, and too tired to defend yourself properly. And the last thing you want to happen the next day is Jake still asking you to date.
After all, luck was never on your side.
Jake found you outside the imaging suite, leaning against the wall with two coffees and the expression of a man who had never once suffered inconvenience.
“Lunch,” he said.
“No.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I meant it yesterday, too.”
“How about today?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Why are you like this?”
“Persistent? Handsome? Deeply committed?”
“Unbearable.”
He grinned. “Still available for lunch.”
You stared at him for a long moment, then at the clock, then at the hallway stretching endlessly back toward more work. You were starving.
The cafeteria was five minutes away.
And if agreeing to one meal made him stop asking for at least a day, it counted as strategic surrender.
“Fine,” you said flatly. “Lunch.”
Jake blinked. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy.
Ridiculously, openly happy.
“Seriously?” he asked.
You immediately regretted everything. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird, you just said yes.”
“To lunch.”
“With me.”
“To food.”
He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. “Right. Yes. Of course. Food.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like you won something?”
“Because I did.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
You turned and started walking before he could say anything worse. He fell into step beside you, annoyingly energetic for someone who had also worked all morning.
“Do you want noodles or rice?” he asked.
“I want silence.”
“Cafeteria might not have that.”
“You’re very close to losing lunch privileges.”
“You’ve already given me privileges?”
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut skin. He only smiled wider.
The entire walk there, Jake was insufferably cheerful. He held doors open, moved people aside with polite excuses, and somehow looked proud simply carrying your coffee beside you. Two nurses passed and exchanged startled glances.
One of them mouthed finally. You nearly turned around.
By the time you reached the cafeteria, Jake was practically glowing.
“Explain.”
“What?”
“Why do you look like a golden retriever that just got told he’s going to the park?”
He laughed loud enough to earn stares. “That’s specific.”
“It’s accurate.”
Jake looked at you for a second, smile softening into something less playful.
“Because you said yes.” he said simply.
Your chest tightened in a way you deeply resented.
“It’s lunch,” you said coldly.
“I know.”
“Not a date.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
“Good.”
He nodded once, still smiling. “Then let’s have lunch.”
You hated that your pulse was uneven over something so stupid. You hated more that when he reached for a tray, he grabbed one for you automatically.
The cafeteria was louder than usual, packed with staff escaping their departments for the brief illusion of rest. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, pagers went off in every corner. You chose a table near the back out of habit. Jake sat across from you like he had been invited there his entire life.
You set your tray down and immediately noticed he hadn’t touched his food. He is just looking at you. Not casually, not absentmindedly. Looking at you with an expression so openly pleased, it made irritation rise on instinct.
You frowned and unwrapped your utensils with more force than necessary. “That’s unsettling.”
Jake only leaned back slightly in his chair, still watching you with the same warm, maddening gaze. As if sitting across from you in a mediocre hospital cafeteria was somehow the best part of his week. You hated that.
“Eat your food,” you said.
“In a minute.”
“Why not now?”
“Busy.”
“With what?”
His eyes moved over your face slowly, almost thoughtfully. “Memorizing this.”
Your chopstick paused midair. “Memorizing what?”
“You're agreeing to have lunch with me. You look annoyed, but less than usual.”
“I look annoyed because I am.”
“Still came.”
“I came for carbohydrates.”
Jake smiled softly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You looked down at your plate, refusing to acknowledge the sudden warmth crawling up your neck. He laughed quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze softened again in a way that made your chest feel annoyingly tight.
“I like seeing you like this,” he said.
“Hungry?”
“Relaxed.”
You almost scoffed. “I’m not relaxed.”
“You’re not working. That’s close enough.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the cafeteria blurred around the table. Jake looked at you as if there were no one in the room. No urgency, no performance, just quiet, uncomplicated fondness. It was deeply unfair.
“If you keep staring, I’m leaving.”
He picked up his chopstick at last. He only smiled into his food, still far too happy for a man who had simply gotten lunch.
You told yourself the attention should have irritated you more than it did.
It should have felt invasive, performative, another version of the same male habit of taking up space wherever they pleased. You had spent years sharpening yourself against men like that. But this didn’t feel like that.
Jake wasn’t trying to corner you, impress an audience, or collect gratitude for basic decency. He wasn’t asking for anything in return. He simply sat across from you with that stupid soft expression.
You didn’t hate it. That was the problem.
Youd idn’t love it either. It made you restless, suspicious, vaguely off-balance in a way you disliked. There was no clear angle to defend against, no obvious flaw to dissect, no cruelty beneath the surface waiting to reveal itself. Just Jake Sim.
You didn’t understand him. You didn’t understand why a man like Jake Sim, liked by everyone and wanted by easier women, kept choosing resistance. Why did he return after every sharp word? Why did kindness from you seem optional, but your presence somehow mattered? And perhaps most unsettling of all—
You didn’t understand why part of you had started letting him.
⠀연구해 : my writers block is beating my ass, feel free to request !
LEE HEESEUNG
heeseung is genuinely the most patient about it at first. he wakes up before you, just kind of lays there for a moment, watches you sleep for maybe two seconds before he decides it's time.
starts with the shoulder tap—not aggressive, just steady.
when you don't move he shifts closer and just and wraps himself around you. arm around your waist, chin near your shoulder, and then he starts pressing soft kisses to your forehead. then your nose. then your cheek. very deliberate about it too, like he's taking his time on purpose.
he'll murmur your name in that low morning voice and it's genuinely unfair. it's too gentle to be annoyed at but just present enough that it pulls you out of sleep whether you want it to or not.
but the moment he realizes you're very much awake and just choosing to ignore him—the energy shifts completely
he'll give you maybe one more kiss and then the blanket is gone. just ripped off. no hesitation. he's not mean about it, he's almost laughing while he does it, but the cold air hitting you is immediate and very effective
if you curl into a ball he'll laugh and toss the blanket back over you and try the whole process again from the beginning. patient man honestly.
PARK JONGSEONG
jay is not waking you up with noise. he's not shaking you. he is not doing anything as straightforward as tapping your shoulder. jay operates differently.
he's up early, quietly. you won't even hear him leave the bed. he's just gone and you're still completely asleep like nothing happened.
and then it starts. the smell. whatever he's cooking travels through the whole place and at some point your brain just registers it and starts pulling you toward consciousness whether you want to or not. it's almost manipulative how well it works.
he'll come back to the room with something already plated, sit on the edge of the bed, and just wait. maybe he'll reach over and push your hair out of your face, press a kiss to your temple, another to your cheek. very calm, very unhurried about all of it.
if you stir he'll smile and say something like "food's ready" in the quietest voice, not loud enough to startle you but enough that it registers.
the kisses aren't rushed either—they're just there, consistent, soft. forehead, cheek, corner of your mouth if you're already starting to smile. he thinks it's funny when you're half asleep and still reaching for him or the food.
SIM JAEYUN
half the time jake does not want to get up either. he will absolutely use you as an excuse to stay in bed for as long as possible
"you're still tired right?" he's asking but he's already pulling you back against him. he's settled. he has committed to this.
he's very warm and he knows it and he uses it against you. you can feel him smile against your hair when you stop resisting and just sink back into the mattress.
he'll talk to you quietly while you're in that half asleep space—just small things, whatever's on his mind, nothing that requires a real response. it's oddly soothing and probably keeps you in bed even longer.
but when you actually have somewhere to be and there's no more delaying it, jake gets up and goes straight to the curtains. no easing into it. just pulls them open and lets the full morning light hit everything.
he's not apologetic about it either. he just turns around looking very awake and holds out his hand for you like "okay, come on"
you get up mostly because he's already standing there with his arms open and it's honestly a good enough reason
wraps around you the second you're upright. big hug, chin on top of your head, swaying just slightly. the transition from bed to standing up feels less terrible than it should because of this.
PARK SUNGHOON
sunghoon wakes up and just looks at you for a second, the way he does, and then starts very gently tapping your shoulder.
when you shift even slightly he leans in and presses his lips to your shoulder. not your cheek, not your forehead—your shoulder. it's such a sunghoon thing to do and it's weirdly intimate for how casual he makes it seem.
then he's just there beside you, playing with your hair. not to wake you up necessarily, more like he's content to do it and if it happens to wake you up then great. his fingers move through it slowly and he's smiling the whole time—not a big smile, just that small pleased one he gets when he's comfortable.
very unhurried energy in the beginning. he's in no rush to disrupt the moment.
but if you've been "asleep" for a suspicious amount of time and he knows you're faking it, something changes.
he'll grab the pillow and hit you with it. no warning. not aggressive but not gentle either. just enough to get the point across. and then he's already laughing before you can even react, which is annoying and endearing at the same time.
if the pillow doesn't work he will actually climb on you. not his full weight, but enough that you can't really ignore it. you'll feel him trying not to laugh while you groan.
"okay okay get up" and he's grinning and fixing his hair like he didn't just do all of that.
sunghoon waking you up is somehow both peaceful and chaotic depending entirely on how long you try to pretend to be asleep. choose wisely.
KIM SUNOO
sunoo wakes up and genuinely does not want to rush you. he'll look at the time, look at you, and then decide you have a few more minutes. he's already decided this on your behalf and he's very confident about it.
eventually starts with the softest nudge. not even a real shake, just a little pressure at your arm.
kisses your cheek. waits. kisses it again. and you can feel him smiling against your face which is unbearable honestly.
he'll say your name in that bright way he has, not loud, but warm. the kind of tone that makes it hard to be annoyed even when you're half asleep and annoyed at everything.
sunoo genuinely doesn't stress about the morning. he's not rushing through it. if you need five more minutes he's okay with that, he'll sit there and scroll his phone with your head on his shoulder like it's nothing.
but when it's actually time he makes the whole thing feel easy. just that cheerfulenergy of his that kind of smooths the transition from asleep to awake without it feeling jarring.
probably says something small and sweet when you finally open your eyes. not dramatic about it, just easy. the kind of thing that makes you feel like waking up isn't the worst thing in the world.
YANG JUNGWON
jungwon wakes up with energy. this is both his best and most troublesome quality in the morning.
he starts reasonable enough—sits next to you, presses a forehead kiss to yours, which is genuinely very sweet and you'd appreciate it more if you were conscious.
but he's already bouncing slightly and you can feel the energy radiating off him and it's honestly a little alarming.
if you don't stir he will grab your shoulder and shake it. not violently, but it's not subtle either. it's very much the energy of a younger sibling who has decided that sleep is over.
the jump is not off the table. he will absolutely launch himself onto the bed with a little too much enthusiasm. he's not thinking about consequences when he does it, he just commits fully and lands next to you with enough impact to wake the dead.
if you groan at him he'll do the forehead kiss again, very sweetly, like that cancels out the chaos he just caused. somehow it kind of does.
he'll pull you to sit up and hold your hands while you do it, which is probably the most grounding thing about the whole time.
mornings with jungwon are a little loud and affectionate. and you're never quite sure which version of him you're going to get.
NISHIMURA RIKI
real talk—at least half the time it's you waking him up. he sleeps deeply with absolutely no awareness of what time it is. you shake him and he just relocates further into the pillow. it's impressive.
but on the rare mornings when he's up first, there's a decision that gets made. and that decision is almost never "let me wake them up gently."
he'll grab his phone first. you don't see this happening because you're asleep. but he finds the most obnoxious sound he can—could be an alarm blast, could be something chaotic, could be a random video he thought was funny—and he'll hold it right next to your ear and play it.
he's already backing away before you react. he knows what he did.
if he's in a slightly calmer mood he skips the phone and lays on you. his full weight, completely unapologetic, face pressed somewhere near your shoulder. this is his version of a gentle wake up call.
you'll feel the weight and then he'll press a couple of very careless kisses to whatever part of your face or neck is closest to him, very niki.
if you push him off he goes nowhere. if you yell at him he laughs. he is genuinely having a great time regardless of how you're feeling about it.
HEESEUNG is sitting on the couch, your legs tangled with his. He’s scrolling on his phone with one hand, the other resting lazily on your thigh. You bite your lip before murmuring, “Heeseung… can you kiss your favourite part of my body?”
He pauses, turning his head to look at you with a soft, surprised smile. “My favourite part?” he repeats, voice low and warm. He sets his phone aside and gently cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “That’s a dangerous question, baby.”
You nod, a little shy, and he leans in slowly, placing a lingering kiss right on the corner of your lips before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Honestly?” he whispers, voice husky, “I love your smile the most. The way your eyes crinkle when you’re really happy.” He kisses the corner of your mouth again, softer this time.
“But if I had to pick one spot… it’s right here.” His lips brush the sensitive skin just below your ear, then trail down to your neck where he presses a slow, warm kiss that makes you shiver. “Because when I kiss you here, I can feel your pulse race. And I know you’re mine.”
JAY is cooking in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, when you hop onto the counter beside him, watching him chop vegetables. The domestic scene makes your heart feel full. After a while, you quietly say, “Jay… kiss your favourite part of me?”
He stops mid-chop, raising an eyebrow with that signature half-smile. “Right now? While I’m cooking?” But he wipes his hands on a towel and steps between your legs, hands settling on your waist. “Alright, princess. Tell me why you’re asking.” You shrug, smiling shyly. He chuckles softly.
“I love your hands,” he admits, taking one of your hands and pressing slow kisses to your knuckles, then turning it over to kiss your palm.
“They’re so small compared to mine, and they fit perfectly when we hold hands. But my real favorite…” He trails off, sliding his hands under your shirt just enough to expose a strip of your stomach. He bends down and places a tender, lingering kiss right on the soft skin of your lower belly.
“Right here. Because it’s warm and it’s you. And one day, if we’re lucky, this is where our future will grow.” He looks up at you with soft eyes, still pressing small kisses there. “You’re my favourite everything.”
You’re both lying on the bed, JAKE 's head resting on your stomach as you play with his hair. The room is quiet except for his occasional sleepy hums. You gather your courage and whisper, “Jake… can you kiss your favourite part of my body?”
He lifts his head instantly, eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. “Wait, seriously?” He crawls up until he’s hovering over you, nose brushing yours. “You sure you want me to pick just one?”
When you nod, he grins and starts planting playful kisses all over your face, your cheeks, your nose, your eyelids making you giggle.
But he doesn’t stop. He moves lower, kissing the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent. “ I love your thighs the most. They’re so soft and warm, and when you let me rest my head here…” He nuzzles closer, leaving another kiss. “It feels like home. Plus, they look really good wrapped around me.” He winks. “Thank you for letting me love every inch of you, baby.”
SUNGHOON is sitting on the floor with you between his legs, your back against his chest, as you both watch a movie. During a quiet scene, you turn your head slightly and whisper, “Hoon… kiss your favourite part of my body?”
He pauses the movie without a word, arms tightening around your waist. For a moment he just breathes against your hair, thinking. Then he gently turns you around to face him. “Come here,” he says softly.
He starts with a kiss to your collarbone, slow and deliberate, then moves up to your jaw. “I like your collarbones,” he admits quietly.
“They look so delicate when you wear those off-shoulder tops.” But he keeps going, cupping your face and pressing his lips to your closed eyelids. “Actually… my favourite is your eyes.” He kisses each eyelid softly. “When you look at me, everything else disappears. But if I have to pick a spot I can kiss forever…”
He leans down and places a lingering kiss on your chest right above your heart. “Here. Because I can feel how fast your heart beats when I’m close. And it tells me you feel the same way I do.”
SUNOO has you sitting on his lap on the couch, arms wrapped around you as he shows you funny videos on his phone. When the laughter dies down, you shyly ask, “Sunoo… can you kiss your favourite part of me?”
His eyes light up instantly, a bright smile spreading across his face. “Aww, baby, that’s adorable!” He cups your cheeks and starts peppering kisses all over them, making you laugh. “I love your cheeks the most,” he declares between kisses. “They get so round and cute when you smile big.”
But then he lifts your hand and kisses each fingertip. “And your hands… they’re so pretty when you hold mine.”
Finally, he presses the sweetest kiss to the top of your head, lingering there. “But honestly? My favourite is your hair. It always smells like your shampoo, and it feels so soft when I play with it at night.”
He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply before kissing it again. “Every part of you is my favourite.”
JUNGWON is lying beside you on the bed, tracing lazy patterns on your arm. The room is peaceful until you whisper your request: “Won… kiss your favourite part of my body?”
He stops tracing and looks at you with those eyes, a small smile forming. “You’re full of surprises tonight,” he teases as he sits up a little and pulls you closer.
First he kisses your forehead, then the bridge of your nose. “I love your nose,” he says softly. “It scrunches up when you’re trying not to laugh.”
He moves lower, pressing a kiss to your chin, then to the hollow of your throat. “But the one i love the most…”
He slides the strap of your top down just a little and places a warm, lingering kiss on your shoulder. “Right here. Your shoulders carry so much, but they’re still so soft. When you let me hold you like this, it feels like you’re trusting me with everything.”
He kisses the same spot again, slower. “I want to be the one who makes sure these shoulders never feel too heavy.”
NIKI is sprawled on the couch with you half on top of him, his long legs tangled with yours. Some song is playing in the background when you muster the courage to say, “Riki… can you kiss your favourite part of my body?”
He freezes for a second, then lets out a soft laugh, cheeks turning a little pink. “Wait, you’re serious?” He sits up slightly, pulling you with him so you’re straddling his lap. “Okay….”
He lifts the hem of your shirt, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your waist. “I love your waist,” he murmurs against your skin. “It fits perfectly in my hands when I pull you close.”
He then turns you around to expose your lower back and presses a surprisingly tender kiss right there, right above the waistband of your pants.
“But this… your lower back,” he murmurs against your skin. “It’s one of my favourites. When I hug you from behind and my hand rests here, it feels like I’m holding all of you.”
He leaves another slow kiss. “And honestly… I love every single part. But if I had to choose one to kiss forever, it would be wherever makes you feel the most loved.”
❪ note ❫ ! heyy!!! as promised, this is my 200 followers special ^^ tysm again to all of you for reading and supporting me, fr means the world ><
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