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
“Not since the last time I checked. Why?” the boy softly nudged your shoulder, “got a craving?”
“Just for a little something sweet”, you remarked.
“Am I not sweet enough for you?” he teased inquisitively with a sly grin on his face. “Wait here for a second..” he said, getting up from the balcony’s stairs and walking over to the screen door. It was a couple minutes later that he returned to his rightful spot beside you again, but this time with ripe mangoes and a paring knife.
Cicadas screeched in the sweltering heat as he gently cut open the mango and depitted it with practiced ease, as if fruit cutting had been his one true calling.
“We had mangoes?” you questioned and were answered by a simple hum.
He then handed over the cuts of his labour as a little snack to munch on.
“Mhm, it’s sweet!”,
“Almost as sweet as me?” heeseung joked instantaneously, stopping his work.
For a moment you paused and leaned against him and said, “you’re sweeter” before feeding him a piece of it. A little giggle erupted from your chest as he continued cutting the rest of the mango diligently.
“Let’s stay like this forever, yeah?”
“Yeah, let’s do that”, he whispered as you peacefully rested your head on his shoulder.
A.n. I missed heeseung so bad that I pulled this draft from two years ago. Back when I wrote in second POV so changing it to be x reader makes it sound off. Ts not even a joke anymore 💔
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ─── juhoon who was never good at telling his emotions started crying infront of you after a heated argument between you two
★ bf ! juhoon × fem!reader
word count ── 3.2k
˖᯽ ݁˖ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 coco speaking here! JUHOON GOTTA BE THE PRETTIEST CRIER IVE EVER SEEN LIKE WHY IS HE JUST SO PRETTY ALL THE DAMN TIME 😓😓😓 UGH MY AEGI HES SO PRECIOUS TO ME 𖧧 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
The fight began the way most disastrous arguments do—not with screaming or shattered glass, but with something deceptively insignificant.
A forgotten text, a delayed response, a sigh delivered with the wrong tone. By midnight, however, the tiny fracture had widened into something jagged and catastrophic.
Rain tapped relentlessly against the apartment windows while the city beyond the glass dissolved into blurred streaks of gold and gray. The kitchen lights remained dim, casting amber shadows across the marble counters and illuminating the tension suspended thickly between the two of you.
You stood near the island with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, nails digging crescents into your sleeves as though physically holding yourself together.
Across from you, Juhoon leaned against the counter in suffocating silence.
That silence again. That unbearable, impenetrable quietness that made every disagreement feel one-sided, like throwing your emotions against a locked door and hearing nothing echo back.
His expression was composed in the infuriating way it always was—controlled, restrained, unreadable. Even now, during an argument that had your chest aching so violently you could barely breathe, he looked devastatingly calm.
You hated that, not because he was cruel, but because you could never tell if he cared as much as you did.
“You could at least look at me while I’m talking,” you said at last, your voice strained from holding too much emotion for too long.
His gaze flickered upward briefly before drifting away again. “I’m listening.”
“That’s the problem,” you replied bitterly. “You’re always listening. Never talking.”
His jaw flexed, a subtle reaction most people would miss.
You didn’t. You noticed everything about him because you had spent months teaching yourself how to love someone who communicated through fragments instead of sentences.
The way his fingers curled meant irritation. The slight tension in his shoulders meant discomfort. The silence meant he was overwhelmed.
Except tonight you were exhausted from deciphering him. “You always do this,” you continued, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. “Every single time we argue, you shut down and leave me to figure everything out on my own.”
“I’m not shutting down.”
“You haven’t said more than five words to me in ten minutes.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, already looking fatigued by the conversation. “You know I’m not good at this.”
A humorless laugh escaped you. “At what? Communicating? Having emotions?”
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” Your eyes burned. “Then tell me what is fair, Juhoon. Because I spend half this relationship wondering whether you actually want me here.”
That finally made him look at you directly, and the hurt in his eyes was immediate. But instead of softening you, it only made the frustration twisting through your ribs intensify. “You know that’s not true.”
“How would I know?” you shot back. “You never tell me anything.”
His patience began to fracture. You could hear it in the clipped cadence of his breathing. “I show you.”
“You show me in ways I have to analyze like I’m decoding some impossible language,” you said, voice rising. “Do you know how exhausting that is?”
He pushed away from the counter then, agitation radiating from him in restrained waves. “And do you know how exhausting it is feeling like nothing I do is enough for you?”
The words struck harder than expected. You blinked. “I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.” His tone sharpened. For the first time that night, genuine anger seeped through his carefully maintained composure.
“It’s always the same conversation,” he continued. “You keep asking for more and more and more from me like I’m failing some test I didn’t even know I was taking.”
“That’s not what this is!”
“Then what is it?” he snapped suddenly. “Because apparently loving you quietly isn’t enough. Remembering everything about you isn’t enough. Being there whenever you need me isn’t enough because I don’t say pretty things every five seconds.”
The accusation stole the air from your lungs. “I never asked for perfect words,” you whispered.
“Could’ve fooled me.” The cruelty in his voice was subtle, not loud nor explosive. Which somehow made it worse.
Your throat tightened painfully. “I just want reassurance sometimes.”
“And I’m telling you I’m trying.”
“You barely talk to me when something’s wrong!”
“Because every time I do,” he said sharply, “it turns into this.”
Silence crashed between you again, only this time it felt vicious. Your heartbeat thudded painfully against your ribs. “You know what hurts the most?” you asked quietly. “I feel lonely even when I’m standing right beside you.”
Something cold flickered across his face then. Exhaustion, the kind born from feeling perpetually misunderstood. “And you know what I’m tired of?” he replied. “Feeling like I have to become someone else just to keep you satisfied.”
Your lips parted. “That’s not—”
“No, listen,” he interrupted, voice rougher now. “I can’t love the way you want every second of every day. I’m not overly emotional. I’m not good with words. And honestly?” His eyes hardened slightly. “Maybe if you stopped needing constant validation, we wouldn’t keep ending up here.”
The sentence landed like a blade driven straight between your ribs. The room went completely still. Juhoon seemed to realize it immediately.
You saw the regret flash across his features the second the words left his mouth. But it was too late, because suddenly every insecurity you had buried deep inside yourself came clawing violently to the surface.
Too clingy, too emotional, too much. Your face went blank in the terrifying way heartbreak sometimes empties a person instead of making them cry. “Wow,” you whispered.
“Baby, I didn’t mean—”
“No.” Your voice sounded distant even to yourself. “You meant it.”
His expression crumpled slightly. “I was angry.”
“That doesn’t make it less true.”
“It’s not true.”
But now you couldn’t stop hearing it. Maybe if you stopped needing constant validation. The sentence echoed viciously through your head.
You swallowed hard, suddenly unable to bear the sight of him. Without another word, you turned and grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair.
Juhoon straightened immediately. “Where are you going?”
“I need to leave for a while.”
“It’s raining.”
“I don’t care.”
He stepped forward then, panic finally overtaking the frustration on his face. “Don’t do this.”
You laughed softly, but the sound was hollow. “Do what? Leave before I embarrass myself by begging someone to love me correctly?”
His face paled. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“I was frustrated—”
“And I was hurt.”
Your voice cracked at last. Raw devastation bleeding through the numbness settling over you. “You know what the worst part is?” you whispered, eyes glossy now. “I defended your silence for so long. To everyone. I kept telling myself you loved differently, that you cared in ways people couldn’t see.”
Juhoon looked like he physically couldn’t breathe.
“But tonight,” you continued shakily, “you made me feel stupid for wanting reassurance from the person I love.”
The apartment fell deathly silent. Rain battered the windows harder. His eyes glistened with immediate remorse “Please don’t leave angry.”
You stared at him for a long moment. At the boy you loved so desperately it frightened you. The boy whose quiet tenderness had once felt safe. Now it only felt unreachable. “I think if I stay right now,” you said softly, “I’ll say something unforgivable.”
Then you walked toward the door.
“Baby—”
But this time, when he said it, you didn’t stop, and the sound of the door closing behind you felt far too much like something breaking forever.
The night had become glacial by the time you finally wandered back toward the apartment. Hours had passed in a blur of rain-slick sidewalks, blurred streetlights, and thoughts so tangled they felt impossible to unravel.
The city was nearly silent now, stripped of its usual vibrancy, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rush of cold wind biting against your skin.
Your fingers were numb inside your jacket pockets. Your chest hurt worse. The argument replayed relentlessly in your mind no matter how hard you tried to outrun it.
Maybe if you stopped needing constant validation.
The sentence echoed like a bruise pressed over and over again. Part of you understood he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. You knew Juhoon better than anyone. You knew frustration twisted his words sharp sometimes, especially when emotions overwhelmed him.
But another part of you, the quieter, more fragile part—couldn’t stop wondering if there had been truth hidden beneath the cruelty.
Maybe you were too much. Too emotional, too needy, too difficult to love properly.
The thought hollowed something inside you, and somehow, despite all of it, despite the hurt still lodged painfully beneath your ribs—You missed him desperately, pathetically.
It had only been a few hours, yet every second away from him had felt profoundly wrong, as though some invisible thread tethered between your hearts had stretched too far without snapping completely.
By the time you reached the apartment building, exhaustion clung heavily to your bones. Your phone read 2:07 AM.
The hallway outside your apartment was eerily quiet. Even the usual flickering overhead light seemed dimmer tonight.
You stood outside the door for several seconds, staring blankly at the handle while anxiety twisted violently in your stomach. What if he was still angry? What if he regretted everything? What if—
You swallowed hard and unlocked the door anyway. The apartment was almost entirely dark. Only the small lamp beside the couch remained on, casting a muted golden glow across the living room. Shadows stretched lazily along the walls while rain continued murmuring softly against the windows.
And there he was. Your breath caught instantly.
Juhoon was curled awkwardly against the couch cushions, still wearing the same black hoodie from earlier. One arm lay draped over his face while the other rested limply against his stomach, like exhaustion had finally dragged him under after hours of waiting.
The sight alone nearly shattered you. He looked uncomfortable, restless. Like sleep had only claimed him out of complete emotional collapse.
Your chest constricted painfully. Slowly, carefully, you stepped closer. “Juhoon,” you whispered.
No response.
You crouched beside the couch quietly, your heart aching at how pale he looked beneath the warm light. Strands of dark hair had fallen messily across his forehead, soft and disheveled in a way that made him seem unbearably vulnerable.
Tentatively, you brushed your fingers through it. “Baby.”
His eyelashes fluttered faintly. Then slowly, reluctantly, his eyes opened, and your entire body went still.
His eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, wet. Like he had spent hours crying alone in the dark.
Your stomach dropped immediately. “Oh my god…”
The devastation on his face the moment he fully recognized you was almost unbearable to witness. Relief hit him so violently it physically altered his expression. His lips parted shakily.
Before you could even process it, Juhoon surged upright and wrapped his arms around you with desperate force, nearly knocking the breath from your lungs entirely, and then he broke apart.
A strangled sob ripped from his chest so abruptly that it startled you. His entire body trembled violently against yours while another shattered sound escaped him, raw and uncontrollable.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you whispered immediately, climbing onto the couch beside him as your own vision blurred with tears. “Juhoon…”
He buried his face against your neck like he couldn’t bear to look at you directly, fingers clutching the fabric of your hoodie so tightly it almost hurt.
But you didn’t care, because Juhoon was crying. Juhoon, the boy who concealed every emotion behind silence and restraint—was sobbing in your arms like he had been holding himself together by a single unraveling thread.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out brokenly. Your heart cracked clean down the middle. “I’m so sorry.”
Another sob tore through him, rough and uneven. You froze for half a second, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of his grief.
You had never seen him like this before. Never.
Even during the worst moments of his life, Juhoon had always remained composed in that quiet, self-destructive way of his. He internalized everything. Buried everything. Suffered in silence because vulnerability terrified him more than pain itself.
But now?
Now he was unraveling completely beneath your touch, and somehow that hurt more than the argument ever had.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered frantically between shaky breaths. “I swear to god I didn’t mean it like that—I didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted.”
Tears spilled down his cheeks faster than he could wipe them away. His breathing came unevenly, fragile hiccups interrupting nearly every sentence.
“You left and I just…” He swallowed hard, voice splintering apart. “I thought you were done with me.”
“Oh, Juhoon…”
“I called you like ten times,” he admitted weakly, words muffled against your shoulder. “I kept trying to figure out what to say, but nothing sounded right and I—fuck—”
His voice dissolved into another sob. “I can’t lose you.” The confession was so painfully sincere it made your own tears fall instantly.
You cupped his face carefully, forcing him to look at you despite the embarrassment flickering through his watery eyes.
And god, he looked devastated.
Wet lashes clung together while tears slid endlessly down flushed skin. His lips trembled uncontrollably, breath hitching every few seconds as though his body physically could not calm down now that the fear had finally escaped him, and beneath all that anguish.
Love.
So much overwhelming love it nearly stole the air from your lungs. “You’re not losing me,” you whispered softly.
His expression crumpled further. “I thought I already did.”
You brushed your thumbs beneath his eyes gently, catching tear after tear.
“I know I’m difficult,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know I make things hard because I don’t talk right, but I swear I love you more than anything.”
The sincerity in his voice shattered whatever remained of your anger, because he meant it. Every single syllable.
Juhoon loved with terrifying intensity. He just expressed it differently—through actions, through presence, through quiet devotion hidden in places words could never fully reach.
“I don’t know how to explain things the way you need,” he continued shakily. “But I need you here. I need you.”
Your chest ached so violently it almost felt unbearable. Without thinking, you leaned forward and kissed him softly.
The second your lips touched his, he melted completely. A trembling breath escaped him, shaky and uneven, before his hands slid around your waist with unmistakable desperation. Not possessive, but clinging, almost fragile, like he needed physical proof that you were truly there and not about to disappear again.
The kiss carried remnants of tears and exhaustion and unspoken apologies.
Juhoon kissed you like someone starved for reassurance, every movement hesitant at first before gradually deepening with overwhelming emotion. His lips trembled faintly against yours while his fingers curled tighter into the fabric of your hoodie, anchoring himself to you with quiet urgency.
You could still taste salt from his tears. Could still feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing brushing shakily against your skin, and somehow, that vulnerability shattered you more thoroughly than the argument ever had.
When you pulled back only slightly, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the small space between you.
His eyes remained half-lidded and glassy, lashes damp and clumped together from crying. There was something devastatingly defenseless about the way he looked at you now, like every carefully constructed wall he’d spent years building had finally collapsed under the sheer magnitude of loving you.
“I’m sorry too,” you whispered against his mouth.
He shook his head immediately, brows pinching together. “No, don’t apologize.”
“I left.”
“You were hurt.”
“So were you.”
That alone nearly made him cry again. A shaky breath escaped him before he buried himself against you once more, arms wrapping tightly around your middle as though separation itself had become unbearable now.
This time, he didn’t fight the tears. He let them come. Soft, broken sobs trembled through him while your fingers combed gently through his hair, untangling the storm little by little.
“I love you,” you murmured repeatedly against his temple. “I love you so much.”
Every single time you said it, his grip tightened, as though he was memorizing the feeling of hearing it.
Eventually his crying softened into quiet sniffles and exhausted breathing. You pressed a lingering kiss against his forehead. “Come to bed with me?”
He nodded weakly. The two of you moved through the apartment in silence, but it no longer felt hostile. Now it felt delicate, tender. Juhoon never let go of your hand once.
The second you both slipped beneath the blankets, he immediately curled himself against your side, burying his face near your shoulder while one arm wrapped securely around your waist.
Your fingers drifted slowly along his back beneath his hoodie, soothing the occasional tremor still lingering through his body.
The room remained quiet except for rain tapping softly against the windows and his gradually steadying breathing. Then, after several long minutes. “I never think you’re annoying.”
Your heart squeezed painfully. You glanced down at him. His eyes remained closed, voice rough and sleepy from crying. “I like when you cling to me,” he admitted quietly. “Makes me feel… wanted.”
A weak, watery laugh escaped you. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” His fingertips curled faintly into the fabric of your shirt, hesitant and delicate despite the vulnerability trembling beneath the gesture. “When you need me like that,” he whispered quietly, voice still rough from crying, “it reminds me I matter to someone.”
You stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, because suddenly everything made sense. All this time, Juhoon had been loving you with the exact same desperation you loved him.
He just buried it beneath silence because he never learned how to voice it aloud.
Your expression softened entirely. The tension lingering in your chest melted into something overwhelmingly tender as your fingers brushed carefully along his cheek, your thumb grazing beneath his eye where faint traces of tears still remained.
He leaned into the touch instinctively. The sight nearly shattered you.
Slowly, you leaned down and kissed him again. This kiss was different from before, slower, sleepier. Overflowing with forgiveness instead of panic.
Your lips moved against his with lingering tenderness while his breathing softened gradually beneath the warmth of your touch. He kissed you back carefully, almost reverently, as though savoring every second instead of fearing its disappearance.
The room around you had become impossibly still. Only the rain tapping faintly against the windows and the occasional shaky exhale from Juhoon disturbed the silence.
One of his hands slid slowly upward along your side until it rested lightly against your ribs beneath your hoodie. The touch was featherlight, unhurried, his fingertips tracing absentminded patterns there like he simply needed to feel your heartbeat beneath his palm.
Yet even now, wrapped around you beneath dim bedroom lighting, Juhoon continued kissing you with heartbreaking sincerity, as if every unspoken emotion he’d buried for months was finally pouring out through touch instead of words.
Juhoon sighed softly against your lips before tucking himself impossibly closer, his face hidden safely against your neck now. “I love you,” he whispered once more, barely audible.
Synopsis: You only get one life. Might as well confess to your best friend before you left town.
Pairing: Euijoo × fem!reader
Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, best friends to lovers, YEARNING YEAHHHHH, thats it ig, running after trains?
A/N: first euijoo fic and of course i wrote best friends to lovers THIS MAN SCREAMS THIS TROPE. also mona poetical verse comeback did yall miss it (say yes). tagging my baby @izzyreadsstuff (yall better go read her euijoo fic rn) As always, enjoy, my sweet tangerines!
Word Count: 2k (me not going above 5k we clapped)
“This is it, huh?”
The gentle summer breeze caressed your cheek as it blew, almost as if to kiss you goodbye. After all, the wind would be different in the big city, and you didn't know if it would be as comforting as this one was.
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade—cold, refreshing, sweet lemonade. But when life gave you tangerines, hanging from an ancient tree in the backyard of a boy just as sweet as those orange coloured fruits, what were you supposed to do?
“You're saying it like the world is ending.” You chuckled, fiddling with your fingers. Your index finger came down to peel dead skin off of the corners of your thumb and the man next to you sighed. Euijoo gently took your hand in his and rubbed circles round your wrist with his thumb.
“I’m sure these would be all muscle and bone by the time you come back to visit,” He smiled down at your hand in his, “without me to stop you from peeling it all off.” He breathed in slowly, “If you come back.”
You could have corrected him, should have corrected him. But in all honest truth, you didn't know either. Fate had its mysterious ways, it played games with the human soul, making the mind make decisions the heart would regret later. You were elated to go to university in the big city. But the wind would never feel the same in the maze of mirrors and late-stage capitalism; never the way the wind in your town held you in her arms like a mother and her newborn child.
And the stars too. The stars wouldn't twinkle at you there like they did her, lighting up the melancholic sky and reminding you how young the universe was, as you saw the way they accompanied the lonely moon hanging high. And the moon wouldn't shine her light onto the earth the same way either.
And you’d probably never see his face again, his soft features enhanced by the gentle light of the goddess in the sky. They said the moon only looked at the earth, and the earth only looked at the sun. You wondered which one your best friend was, for all you knew, you were Saturn—tucked into a dark corner the Sun would only greet politely and never kiss, as it did with the earth.
“You just have to come with me then.” You squeezed Euijoo’s hand, “Simple solution really.” He laughed his lighthearted laugh and you felt the hollow in your chest fill up.
“You know I would if I could.” He sighed, closing his eyes and throwing his head back to rest against the bench.
The old train station was lonely and desolate, only brightened up by some gardenia bushes you had no idea who took care of. You’d spent your entire life in this quiet little town, and you still didn't know. A distant memory flashed into your mind and you chuckled. Euijoo peeped open an eye.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, just—” You exhaled, “remember that time we camped out here? To see just who tends to those damn gardenias.”
“Now how could I ever forget?” Euijoo laughed, “I think our mothers were trauma bonded for life that night.”
That night, that seemed so far away now. Two years wasn't a lot according to you—a belief that Euijoo greatly disagreed with. Time was merely something that passed like the honest wind for you, passing you by with a caress and nothing else. For Euijoo, time was like a newborn and other such precious things.
“We only have one life. What else can we do?”
He’d say, every time you asked him why he lived every day like his last. You envied that about him, your warm hearted best friend, the boy who’d climb to the crowns of trees and pick out only the best-est tangerines for you. He fell down once and sprained his arm, and you spent the rest of the week ignoring him, the anxiety of thinking he got injured because of you catching in your heart. Sixteen was a bridge made of moonlight thrown across ocean waves, unsteady and shaking beneath your feet, a connection between childlike innocence and teenage rebellion, and maybe even adult responsibility.
Sixteen was meant to be hugged (very clumsily) by a boy with his arm in a cast, and the goofiest smile on his face to make you laugh out loud. Sixteen was meant to have its tears wiped softly, fingers nuzzling your cheek, lingering dangerously at the precipice of flickered gazes to lips in the dark.
Sixteen was meant to realise you were in love.
And now eighteen came along, bringing along with it new opportunities, new faces and a fresh start. Euijoo was going in one direction and you in the other, cities on opposite sides of the country. You felt your soul tear apart every time you looked at him now. How were you supposed to live without your sweet boy?
“Are you excited?” Euijoo’s foot nudged yours, both of you staring straight ahead, hearts too timid to look at each other properly, “Your new city girl life. You’re finally gonna live off of microwave pizza now.”
“Shut up.” You chuckled softly, looking down at your hand still in his.
You only get one life anyway.
Clearing your throat awkwardly for no particular reason, you looked straight ahead again, your body scooting towards him inch by inch, until your thighs pressed together side to side. You could see Euijoo’s amused smile from your peripheral vision, but you pursed your lips and avoided his gaze. You never realised how lovely the train tracks were shaped till now and was that a stray gardeni—
Kiss.
“Euijoo!” Your hand flew up to the place on your neck, where Euijoo’s lips had just been a second ago. He laughed again, sweet as spring rain and his arm came to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer so that no air remained between you two. He tilted his head to the side and looked at you, lips slightly parted, gaze unsure where to rest.
“What?” He said simply, “I don’t know when I can kiss my best friend again.”
Euijoo’s touch was reverent, like an angel hugging their lover like the sea hugging the sand . He leaned in again and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. Then another. And then another. And then fifty more all over your face till you were a blushing, giggling mess trapped in his arms, laughing away the spring afternoon until the wind carried your voice to the heavens.
“Ahh stop! Euijoo!” You laughed, as he pressed his soft lips to your temple. You turned your face then, placing your hands on either side of his face, gripping his face firmly and placing your lips on his cheek to kiss him softly. All best friends kissed like this right?
You felt Euijoo still completely for a moment, drawing in a sharp breath. He turned his face towards you, fingertips lingering at your waist. Inches from each other, you could see each and every line and dot on his countenance, a painting waiting to be dissected, every stroke and dab of colour calling out to you. Euijoo was beautiful.
“Euijoo I–” But your breath caught as his eyes stared into yours. You remembered the first time you looked into them up close—it was the night you two ditched prom and went to his house to watch the last episode of your favourite anime. You remembered distinctly the feeling on his hands around your shoulder, the sound of his heartbeat as you pressed your cheek to his chest and the way his breaths came and went in sync with yours. What was that anime again? Was it the one about the monsters or the one about summer—
“Your train is here.” Euijoo hummed, letting go of you faster than lightning and standing up, extending a hand to you as the train came to a halt in front of you. The train that would take you away from this familiar town. The train that would take you away from him.
His hand was in yours again, gripping it hard as you stood up, swinging a bag over your shoulder, and pulling your suitcase in the other. He kept his hold, even as you stepped onto the open door, pulling your suitcase up. The train would be leaving for a few more minutes so you had those precious sands of time to spend with him. Leaning out the door, you looked down at him and smiled.
“This is it huh?” You echoed his words from earlier, “Microwave pizza here I come.” You noticed his expression, no smile on his face and you chuckled, “You’re gonna miss me that much to not even give me a final smile?”
But Euijoo didn't laugh this time. His hair fell onto his face, slightly hiding his eyes as he looked up at you, hand still clasped in yours.
Euijoo considered himself to be a fairly stable person, like the Sun in the solar system, all emotions in control, except the times he lost in basketball to his friends Nicholas and Jo. There was only one person in this stupidly young world that could make his fixed position in the galaxy waver. The Sun only ever moved for the Earth after all.
He’d have climbed the tallest tree in the world if you said that the sweetest tangerine rested at the top. Anything to see your beautiful smile, the way your lips curved into that soft expression for him. A smile that could bring wars to an end, in Euijoo’s opinion, a smile that could have battled that of the moon.
The bridge of moonlight beneath his feet shook and Euijoo felt his heart beating against his chest, as if to say all the words he couldn't bring himself to, as his eyes traced over you, standing there holding his hand in yours casually, as if it wasn't the most holy thing in the world.
He’d only have one life.
And one life with you was all he needed.
“And if I said yes?” Euijoo said, “If I told you I’d miss you so much that I’d never smile again till I see you?”
“Euijoo—”
“I promised myself I’d let you go.” He said, his tone raw, “I told myself I’d be fine. People leave all the time after all, and you’re just taking a train, not disappearing from the planet.” He drew a shaky breath and stepped dangerously close, the distance between the platform and the train door becoming a line both of you longed to cross.
“But I don’t think I can lie to myself anymore.” His thumb brushed against your knuckles, “I don’t think I can go on living knowing that you’re somewhere out there in the world, and you’re not mine.” His eyes held a softness in them, so very gentle, “So if this is the last time,” Your sweet boy, “the last day I’d get to look at you,” Your sweet tangerine boy, “then I think I should tell you that I love you.”
Fate had its mysterious ways, playing with the delicate heartstrings of mortals like a child plays with a rag doll, making the fragile heart make decisions the mind would have to figure out later. For once in your life, fate had done its job well.
Euijoo.
Your Euijoo.
Your Euijoo, who’d break his arm for you. Your Euijoo who’d miss a basketball hoop sword in your name and then would buy you ice cream. Your Euijoo who’d pull you close in the night to wipe your tears. Your Euijoo who’d cross the moonlit bridge with you.
Perhaps you weren't planets after all. Perhaps you were the stars, twinkling at each other forever in the melancholic sky, lighting it up like a painting of love.
The train conductor’s whistle pierced the air faintly in the distance. The final boarding chime rang as the train gave a low mechanical hum beneath your feet. The platform lurched into motion with the train.
“Euijoo—!”
The warning left your lips too late. The wheels screeched softly as the train began to crawl forward, metal grinding against metal. Euijoo kept pace without hesitation, his fingers tightening around yours as if the world would split apart the second he let go. He walked first—long strides matching the slow roll of the carriage.
“Euijoo, don’t—” Your suitcase thudded against the doorway as you leaned farther out. “The train’s moving!”
“I know,” He said, breath uneven but steady enough to carry the words up to you. “I know.” He was laughing now—but not the easy, teasing laugh from before. It was breathless, almost desperate, almost disbelieving that this was really happening, “I love you!” He shouted, for all the world to hear.
Only one life.
“I love you.” You whispered shakily, laughing too as tears welled in your eyes, “I love you too Euijoo!”
The train was picking up now, pulling him beyond a safe pace as he started running. His shoes slipped slightly against the concrete, but he didn’t fall. He just kept looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
“I love you.” The words tore out of him again, louder than the train, louder than the rails, louder than every unsaid thing between you for years. You felt it in your bones, in your throat and in the way your grip trembled against his.
“I love you too, Euijoo.” You shouted back, tears you hadn’t planned on spilling blurring your vision. “Wait for me will you?”
He ran harder, as your hands finally slipped apart, the warmth fading, fingers dragging against fingers until there was nothing left to hold.
“Always.” He said, eyes crinkling into crescent moons as he laughed, the sound of spring rain.
He slowed as the platform carried him backward and the train carried you forward. You watched him shrink through the doorway, hair falling into his eyes, chest rising and falling, one hand still half-raised as if he could still feel yours there.
And even as he became smaller and smaller, you could still see it.
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