𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤-𝐔𝐩! | h. kakashi
pairing: kakashi hatake x fem!reader (doctor!reader)
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, super tension-filled..
wc: ~6.8k
setting: pre-war konoha; team 7 are still genins. medical wing.
warnings: slight use of medical jargons
a/n: sorry, it's pretty long! i figured i'd get lazy to write a part two, three, etc. after some time (especially since this has been rotting in my drafts as part one), so i decided to just write the whole thing in one go. i haven't written in years, so i apologize if some parts are kinda ass huhu
The first time you meet Kakashi, he's not exactly conscious.
Bloodied, broken ribs, chakra system’s a mess. He's wheeled into your medical wing after a botched infiltration mission and dropped onto your table like a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
"He's stable now," a senior medic declares, handing off the chart to you. "Keep him monitored. He'll be under for a while. If he wakes up early... sedate him."
You nod professionally, but your fingers twitch slightly as you review the name on the clipboard.
As in, the Copy Ninja Kakashi. The man who led Konoha's Anbu Ops at an age where you were still learning how to suture without shaking.
But all you see right now is a man with deep scarring, blood under his nails.
Is this really the reality of shinobi? Even the strongest ends up this rough.
And you do. I mean it is your job.
He wakes up on day three.
Groggy. Grumpy. Mask already back on somehow.
His one visible eye blinks slowly, adjusting to the sterile white light of the recovery ward. "You're not the usual nurse," he rasps.
You glance over your chart, your pen pausing mid-note. "I'm not a nurse." you reply calmly. "I'm your attending. The name's Y/N."
He studies you with a single eye, unreadable. "You're young."
You raise a brow, unmoved. "Well, you're nosy."
He hums, almost like a lazy laugh, fluttering his eyes shut again.
Kakashi shifts slightly against his pillow. Winces. His breath catches.
"You know, you shouldn't move too much," you say softly. "Your lung's still healing."
"Doesn't feel like it," he mutters, wincing again.
"It wouldn't. You were barely alive when they brought you in." You pause, then meet his gaze evenly.
"But you will be. Don't worry, you're not going anywhere. I don't lose patients."
That stops him—like something in your words hits deeper than you'd meant it to.
He doesn't deflect with a quip. Doesn't reach for one of his usual dry remarks to ease the weight of the moment.
Instead, his eye just stays on you.
You don't know it yet, but that's the moment it starts.
Though, you still think Kakashi is the worst patient.
He's quiet, which would be fine, if he weren't also absurdly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that turns silent defiance into an art form.
On day five, you step into his room after rounds and check up on him.
There he is—lying in bed, one arm lazily draped over his chest. Breathing even. Quiet.
"This is a shadow clone, isn't it?" you thought to yourself.
You step closer and reach for his wrist. And as expected, your hand goes through it. The illusion flickers like smoke dispersing, and vanishes.
You blink once. Then twice.
Your eyes track the thin IV tubing, dragging across the floor, still attached to the pole—and still attached to him, limping slowly toward the window like escaping a hospital room is a normal post-op activity.
You drop your clipboard with a loud clack, pushing the curtain aside.
He pauses, glancing back like a schoolboy caught sneaking chewing gum, except this one has cracked ribs and an oxygen monitor.
"Doc," he greets, voice too casual.
"Are you serious right now? You know you can't fool me with your shadow clone," you say, shooting a glare at him.
"I heal fast," he offers, like that explains anything.
You glance at the IV line still dangling from his arm. "Is that why you're still dragging your IV bag like a sad little suitcase?"
You sigh, stepping closer. "You have a punctured lung, you're not even fit to climb out of that window yet."
"I've had worse," he mumbles.
"You are literally dripping saline and blood thinner while trying to crawl out of a third-floor window," you add.
He looks at the IV pole. "I was hoping it would detach on its own."
Then you plant yourself between him and the window, arms crossed, voice steel-edged. "If you don't sit back down right now, I'll inject you with enough sedative to knock out a tailed beast."
He blinks. Once. Then again.
"Come on." you say, hand gently gripping his arm. "You'll tear your stitches. Again."
He looks down at your hand, then slowly steps back into the room, one foot at a time. Defeated.
"...You're not like the other doctors," he blurts.
"No," you deadpan, grabbing the IV pole and dragging it back toward the bed. "I'm meaner."
He laughs. An actual chuckle—quiet and short, but it slips out before he can stop it.
You didn't know he could laugh like that. And definitely didn't expect you to be the reason.
Kakashi notices the way your expression falters for just a split second.
"I meant that as a compliment," he says as you help him sit back on the bed, reattaching the IV and tugging the sheet over his legs.
"I know," you reply. keeping your voice even. "I'm just debating whether or not to sedate you anyway. You're a flight risk."
"I prefer 'high-risk investment'," he quips.
You smirk despite yourself. "Sounds like something an emotionally unavailable man says when he knows he's charming."
He huffs a quiet breath as he settles back into the pillows. "And you sound like someone who's been burned by one."
You pause, lifting a brow. "Occupational hazard. I meet a lot of shinobi."
There's a beat of silence. Then his eyes crinkle again. "Touché."
You check the IV line with practiced ease, masking the strange flutter under your ribs.
You don't know it yet, but this is the first time he starts looking forward to your visits.
And the first time you start wondering if this recovering shinobi is going to be more trouble than your toughest surgeries.
Maybe he isn't the worst patient after all.
He starts lingering after he's discharged.
First it's, "Just a follow-up."
Then it's, "I've been having some tightness in my shoulder."
Then, more shamelessly, "You're the only one who doesn't poke me around like I'm a science experiment."
You don't call him out. Yet.
You notice how he always shows up around the same time—just before your shift ends. You'll be wrapping up patient logs or locking cabinets when you hear that familiar shuffle of footsteps in the hall, never rushed. Always like he belongs there.
You notice how he brings a book, but never really reads it. Just holds it open, glancing up every few minutes—tracking where you are in the room, who you're talking to, whether or not you've looked over yet.
You notice how he always seems to time his visits perfectly with your exit.
"Kakashi? Why're you here again?"
"Ah, well you see, I think I forgot my.. book around here the other day. Heading out?"
"Yeah."
"Mind if I walk with you? It's getting pretty dark."
"...Sure."
The walks are quiet at first. He's not chatty. Just... present. And not in a suffocating way, either. He listens when you ramble. Responds when it matters. Fills the silence without ever making you feel like you have to.
You pretend not to notice the way your heart beats faster when his hand accidentally brushes against your fingers as you walk together.
One evening, as the light begins to dip below the trees and the hospital's rooftop turns gold with dusk, Kakashi speaks without turning to you.
“So…” A pause. Then, casually.. too casually,
“Why aren’t you a shinobi?”
The question slides into the quiet like a kunai. No edge. But it lands.
You blink, caught off guard. He’s seated beside you on the ledge, legs stretched out in front of him like this is just another idle visit. He’s staring straight ahead—like he’s asking about the weather.
You swallow and look down at your bag, at the little jar of salve you made from scratch earlier.
"I... wanted to be one," you admit, crushing a leaf between your fingers absentmindedly. "Didn't make the cut. Politics. Bloodline—You know how it goes."
He hums, low in his throat. Something between acknowledgment and understanding.
You think that’s it. Think maybe it’ll drift into silence again.
But then he adds, in that maddeningly offhand tone—
You stop, just for a moment. A flicker of surprise catches your breath.
Your head turns. “How did you—?”
“Your grip. Your posture.” His eye ticks over to you, lightheartedly. “The way you sidestep interns trying to surprise-hug you.”
The last part makes you scoff, reluctantly amused.
You scoff quietly and shake your head, trying to brush it off. But then his voice softens. Low, intimate in a way that feels almost too much under the setting sun.
“And the way you treated my chakra scars,” he adds, “like someone who’s felt it.”
He's not pressing, just... observing. Studying you the same way you study old wounds, figuring out where they started and whether they still hurt.
He’s just looking. That quiet, unreadable gaze of his focused not on your face, but on something deeper. Like he’s reading old damage. Worn threads, invisible bruises.
You pull your eyes away first. “Old habit,” you murmur, voice thinner than you mean it to be.
He nods once. Nothing more.
No follow-up. No prodding. Just lets the moment hang between you and him.
The next day, he shows up again. Like always. But this time, no fake excuses. Just him—leaning against your office doorway, hands in his pockets, posture deceptively casual.
You barely look up, already suspicious. “Let me guess, your back hurts and it may have something to do with your chakra points.”
He says nothing at first.
Then, without a word, he steps in and sets something gently on your desk.
Two skewers of dango. Still warm. Wrapped neatly in wax paper. It's like he made sure they wouldn't get cold on the way over.
You blink, mid-signature. “...What’s this?”
"For your old habit," he says, not quite meeting your eyes. "Figured you could use the energy."
It’s so… simple. But it lands like something heavier.
You stare at the dango, then back at him. Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
“Thank you,” you say, quieter this time.
Kakashi shrugs like it's nothing. But the tiniest crinkle at the corner of his eye betrays him.
You know it. You feel it.
It’s not just the gesture. It’s the silence around it. The way he’s still standing there, not saying anything, not moving to leave. Like part of him is waiting for something. Or maybe… hoping.
You return to your paperwork, but your hand lingers near the food.
“You really didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he says simply.
And there’s something about the way he says it. Like of course he didn’t have to. That’s not the point.
He pushes off the doorway and turns to go. Almost like he’s trying to leave before you can ask anything else. Before you can look too closely.
But just before he slips out of sight, you catch it—that familiar, steady rhythm of his steps in your hallway.
It’s the sound you’ve started noticing more and more lately.
Even when he’s not there.
Even when you wish he was.
You don’t know it yet, but you’re already the reason his feet take the long way home.
And he doesn’t know it yet, but your heart now leans slightly toward the door—every time it opens.
By the nth time he shows up in your office, you finally say it,
"You do realize I have other patients, right?"
Kakashi blinks at you from where he's perched on the exam table—same corner, same lean, same unreadable expression behind the mask.
"I'm aware," he says. "But none of them have chakra scarring this symmetrical."
You lower your clipboard, unimpressed. "You said that two days ago."
"I did," he nods. "Consistency is important in the healing process."
In defeat, you sigh and gesture for him to take off his shirt.
He does so without hesitation—and you hate how very little hesitation you have about it either. His movements are smooth despite the lingering bruising, and your fingers betray you by brushing just a second too long over the edge of a scar.
"You know," you mutter, checking his pulse, "you don't have to pretend you're here for medical reasons."
He arches a brow. "You think I'm pretending?"
You glance up at him. "You showed up yesterday because your ear itched."
"It did itch," he says mildly. "Could've been a very rare parasite that actually messes with my chakra system. Dangerous stuff. I was being proactive.
You roll your eyes, but you're biting your lip to keep from smiling. You hate that it's working. That he's gotten comfortable. That you have.
He's watching you again—and not the casual observation he's always done. This is softer. Curious.
"You don't mind, do you?" he asks, after a pause. His voice is quieter now. Almost hesitant.
You look at him, carefully, heart beating somewhere a little too loud in your chest. The way his hands fidget slightly with the hem of his shirt. The way his eye doesn't meet yours at first.
"...No," you admit. "But I'd mind if you keep pretending you're just here for check-ups."
His eye crinkles a bit. The closest thing to a grin you'll get through that damn mask.
"Alright," he says, voice lower now. "Then let's not pretend."
He leans forward just slightly—not enough to break the boundary, but enough that you feel the heat of him, close and steady and very, very real.
"Y'know," he murmurs, in a slight teasing manner "If I keep showing up, I might end up your most frequent visitor."
"Well congratulations, you already are," you mutter, unamused.
"Ah," he muses, "then I guess I should start bringing snacks. Or flowers. What do people usually bring their favorite doctor?”
He says it so casually—but there’s something underneath.. Like he’s waiting to see how far he’s allowed to go.
You try to play it cool, but your ears are warm. “That depends. Are they still pretending they’re here for medical advice?”
His gaze holds yours. No grin. Just something soft. Steady.
"You're not just a doctor," he says, almost like a secret.
You tilt your head. "No?"
The way he says it, quiet, reverent—it makes your chest clench. Like you've been waiting for someone to say it. To see it.
You don't respond. But you don't move away either.
And that's enough for now.
You don't expect to see him on the roof.
It's well past midnight. The hospital is quiet, lights dim. Even the overworked med-nin staff have gone home. You'd stayed behind, again, to clear your head the only way you know how.
Shadowboxing under the moonlight. Sweat on your brow. Wrists wrapped. Your stethoscope long forgotten somewhere inside your locker.
You don't even notice the quiet flicker of chakra until a familiar voice breaks the silence.
"Your stance is a little stiff."
You freeze mid-strike, spinning.
Kakashi is leaning lazily against the rooftop doorframe, arms crossed. Civilian clothes. No mask. Just that sleep-mussed version of him that only seems to appear when the rest of the world is asleep—when it’s just the two of you, suspended in some strange in-between.
You exhale, heart jumping in a way that has nothing to do with cardio.
He tilts his head, feigning thought. "Long enough to diagnose a repetitive elbow drop. Possibly chronic."
You squint at him. “You’re insufferable.”
“Technically, I’m being supportive.” He shrugs, wandering closer. “Some people bring protein bars. I bring unsolicited critiques.”
“Some people also knock.”
“I’m more of a ‘mysteriously materialize on rooftops’ kind of guy.”
He shrugs again as you shoot a glare at him.
He steps into the moonlight—and gods, it should be illegal how good he looks in it. Silver hair tousled, sleeves rolled up, that look in his eye like he's trying not to say something too loud.
"You didn't tell me you were this good," he says, quieter now, watching the way as you reset your stance.
"I'm not," you mutter, adjusting your footwork. "I'm just... persistent."
He makes a quiet sound in his throat, somewhere between approval and amusement.
You throw another combo, more focused now—until a warm hand suddenly catches your wrist mid-strike.
"Loosen your grip," he murmurs, thumb brushing along the inside of your palm. His voice is low, his touch light. "You’re strong. You don’t need to punch like the world’s ending."
You usually say something to bite back, but... you didn't.
Because he's looking at you like you're already something precious.
His fingers are still curled lightly over yours. His touch is warm.
You're not sure how long you stand like that—close, breath caught, words balancing between unspoken and the undeniable.
And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s reckless—but right now, under moonlight and bruised silences, you let yourself wonder,
If he came up here for more than just a critique.
And if you’re the only one who doesn’t want to pretend anymore.
"Okay but WHY is Kakashi-sensei always at the hospital?" Naruto mutters for the third time this week, slurping his ramen suspiciously.
Sakura looks up from her bowl. "You think he's sick again?"
Sasuke scoffs from across the table. "He's not sick. I passed him yesterday—he was carrying dango. Looked perfectly fine."
Naruto leans forward. "So what, he just likes hospitals now? That's suspicious."
Sakura frowns. "Actually... I overheard some nurses saying he only ever waits for one doctor."
Naruto gasps. "YOU DON'T THINK HE'S—"
"—Don't be ridiculous," Sakura cuts in, but even she sounds unsure.
Still, the next time they see him slipping out of the hospital late at night—hair messy, sleeves rolled, looking far too smug for someone supposedly recovering from shoulder pain. All three of them stare.
Kakashi just lifts a hand lazily. "Evening."
Naruto squints. "You're not even limping anymore!"
Kakashi smiles behind the mask. "I heal fast."
"You didn't have to come all the way up here just to watch me," you murmur after a long moment. Your voice is softer now. Raw.
“I didn’t come to critique your footwork either,” he says eventually. “Even if it could use work.”
He lifts a shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lazy—except you know him now. You know when his voice goes softer, when he avoids your eyes, when his hands are in his pockets not out of boredom but restraint.
“I came because I wanted to see you,” he admits, voice low.
Your heart trips over itself.
"...You could've just said that."
His gaze dips to your lips, then back to your eyes. "Would you have believed me?"
The silence between you hums.
"If you keep looking at me like that," you whisper teasingly, "I might think you're about to kiss me."
"If I did," he murmurs, "would you stop me?"
You don't answer, taken aback with his reply.
But your fingers curl gently around his.
And your lips part, just slightly.
And the world narrows to the space between you and him.
You feel it before it happens.
Kakashi's hand, still cradling yours, shifts just slightly—fingers ghosting along your wrist, your palm until it feels less like a correcting and more like a touch that's meant to linger.
His breath brushes your cheek. He doesn't move away. And the silence thickens with the weight of something that's been building for a long time.
You look up at him, eyes searching.
"...You're close," you whisper.
His eye curves just faintly. “I tend to wander.”
His voice is low, dry — but something in it falters at the edge, almost self-conscious. Almost shy.
You swallow, pulse humming. “…Do you want to?”
“I think the more important question is… do you?”
You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy noticing the little things: the way he’s not blinking. How his thumb grazes your pulse like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. How he’s always careful, but somehow always stays just long enough to make your heart forget how to protect itself.
“…No,” you whisper, finally. “Don’t go.”
His forehead tips gently to yours—cautious, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
You breathe in. His scent taking over you. Faint smoke, cool earth, something grounding.
It slips out before you even think about it.
He stiffens just slightly, surprised. Then blinks down at you.
“You’ve never called me that before,” he murmurs. His voice is soft, but it catches. Like it struck something he wasn’t ready for.
You feel your face warm. “Should I not have?”
“…Didn’t say that.” He exhales, almost a laugh—the barest curl at the edge of his mouth. “Just… wasn’t expecting it.”
There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it. Like you’d pulled something loose without meaning to. A thread he was doing a very good job of pretending didn’t exist.
And still—he doesn’t pull away.
His hand slips from yours, trailing down your arm as if second-guessing the right to hold you.
“I’m not…” He pauses. And there it is again—that small crack in the usual calm. “I’m not really good at this.”
The words are quiet. Measured. Not self-pitying, but honest. And it's the first time you hear it: uncertainty. The guarded edge in his voice.
You look at him closely now—at the way his jaw tenses just slightly, how his gaze drops to somewhere near your shoulder instead of your eyes.
How he’s retreating in inches, like he’s used to being shut out before he can be let in.
"I've lost everyone I've ever cared about," he says, quiet. Measured. "Team, friends, family, people I should've protected. People I never got to say anything to. And every time something good shows up, I wonder how long before I ruin it. Or before it's taken from me."
It hits you—not just the weight of his words, but the quiet ache beneath them. The belief that love is something he wasn't meant to keep. A belief stitched into his ribs like a scar.
"That's what I think when I look at you." he finishes, voice rough.
"'Kashi..." You step forward again, gently taking his hand back.
He doesn't resist. Doesn't speak.
You hold his palm between both of yours, grounding him.
"You haven't ruined anything," you say. "And if you're scared of losing me, that just means there’s something real enough to try for."
He's quiet for a long moment.
You both jolt apart like lightning just struck between you.
Kakashi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why do they always show up when I'm about to make a breakthrough?"
You peek past his shoulder and groan.
Sakura shoots a glare at Naruto. "Idiot! You were supposed to be quiet."
Naruto. Sakura. And surprisingly Sasuke?
Peeking from behind a low rooftop wall, not even pretending to be subtle.
Kakashi turns to you, expression sheepish. "We should probably relocate."
You bury your face in your hands. "I hate everything."
He laughs—a quiet one that reaches his eyes—and gently guides you behind the rooftop door, hiding you both from the peanut gallery of nosy genin.
As you both lean against the wall, catching your breath, you sneak a glance at him.
"Do you... still want to try?" you ask. "Even with all of that fear?"
You're not even touching anymore, but it still feels like you are.
Kakashi's hand is braced against the wall beside your head, just slightly caging you in. Not on purpose, maybe, but he doesn't move away, either.
"You really didn't move," you whisper, staring at the space between your shoes and his.
He hums, voice low. "You didn't ask me to."
When you dare to look up, the air shifts—slow, quiet, electric.
"I think about it all the time," he murmurs.
You blink. "Think about what?"
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he reaches up—slowly, like he's afraid you'll flinch—and brushes a stray of hair away from your cheek. His fingers linger.
"You. Me. What this could be if I weren't—"
"Weren't what?" you breathe.
"Haunted," he says simply. "Tired. Not built for this."
Your chest tightens. "You're not broken, 'Kashi."
He exhales shakily. "You say it like it's obvious."
"It is obvious," you say, stepping closer—close enough for your hand to find his again. "To me."
He looks at you like you're something rare. He doesn't understand how you exist in the same world he does—soft but fierce, steady but unpredictable, someone who sees him and doesn't flinch.
"I don't want to lose this... to lose you." he says vulnerably, and it slips out like a confession he didn't mean to speak aloud.
You squeeze his hand. "Then don't."
He stares at you, really stares. As if he's memorizing this exact version of you, like what he did the first time you told him that you don't lose patients—his first impression of you. The way your eyes shine when you speak. The way you always smell faintly like herbs and clean linen.
The way you say his name like it means something.
"...Say it again," he murmurs.
A soft smile tugs at your lips.
You don't notice you've leaned in until your noses almost touch. Your breath catches. His does, too. His hand comes up to your cheek again, a trembling thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.
You're going to kiss him.
You know you're going to.
"KAKASHI-SENSEI, YOU DROPPED YOUR HEADBAND!"
You jolt apart again, absolutely burning with embarrassment as Naruto's voice rings out like a kunai in a dream.
Kakashi groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder.
"Unbelievable," he mumbles.
"I'm going to inject him with a sedative," you mutter.
"Well, he'll have to get in line." Kakashi sternly adds.
Still hiding behind the wall, he glances up at you with a rare softness. Something so fond, it steals you breath even more than the almost kiss did.
"...Rain check?" he asks.
And maybe it's reckless, fast, but you smile and say, "Only if you promise you'll actually cash it in."
He steps back, brushing his fingers over yours one last time straightening his hitai-ate like nothing happened.
"Deal," he says, giving you one last look over his shoulder. "You're worth waiting for."
And just like that, he disappears over the rooftop ledge—mask up, cool façade back in place, but his steps just a little too light for someone who's totally not in love.
You lean back against the wall, breathless, heart sprinting.
Big, stupid, wonderful, trouble.
The next day, you're barely holding it together.
Running late for your rounds, you’re juggling a clipboard, two folders, and a thermos of questionably reheated tea that’s one pothole away from disaster. You round the corner near the nurses’ station, muttering under your breath—
And slam straight into something solid.
The folders go flying. Your tea wobbles midair, chaos pending—
But nothing hits the ground.
A gloved hand steadies your elbow. Another has already caught the folders. And Kakashi Hatake, full gear and unbothered, blinks down at you like he didn’t just materialize out of nowhere to intercept a minor tragedy.
“...Morning,” he says. “You seem busy.”
You blink. Stare. Blink again. “You—what–”
He glances at the folder in his hand. “Radiology results. Hmm. Interesting reading.”
You snatch the folder back with a noise that’s half-gasp, half-groan. “You were discharged.”
“I was,” he agrees, perfectly calm. “Then I left. And now I’m here again. Life’s full of circles, isn’t it?”
"I'm just here for a check-up," he adds innocently.
You narrow your eyes. “Why are you actually here?”
He shrugs. “Might’ve pulled something.”
“Reading,” he says, with zero irony. “Very taxing. Spine’s not what it used to be. You should consider offering shinobi posture seminars. Or maybe back braces.”
You fold your arms, trying not to grin. "Uh huh."
He takes a small step closer, lowering his voice. "Besides... I thought I owed someone a rain check."
You glance around quickly, suddenly hyperaware of the hallway—the nurses moving in and out of stations, the open patient room doors, the sound of someone wheeling a supply cart past. And him, still standing entirely too close, like his presence isn't already short-circuiting your entire system.
“You remembered that?” you ask, voice a little hoarse.
His visible eye crinkles just slightly, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the edges of his mask. “Of course.”
Your heart stumbles. You forget to breathe for a second.
He still hasn’t let go of your elbow.
“Right,” you mumble. “That.”
“That,” he repeats softly, gaze steady on yours.
Your heart stumbles again.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been looking at him until someone very pointedly clears their throat from down the corridor.
A nurse is walking past with a tray of bandages and a poorly concealed smirk on her face. She doesn’t even try to pretend she didn’t see anything.
Kakashi exhales, glancing after her. “Should I go before we become the subject of your staff’s next coffee break conversation?”
You lift your tea thermos, which somehow survived the chaos. “I think we already are.”
He makes a noise of faint amusement. “How tragic. I was hoping for at least a three-episode buildup before we got caught.”
You shoot him a look. “You’re not helping.”
He shrugs, clearly unrepentant, and gently passes you back the remaining folder like this has all been very civilized. “You didn’t stab me. That feels encouraging.”
“I could stab you,” you mutter, grabbing the folder.
He falls into step beside you as you turn to walk toward the stairwell.
“Please do,” he says lightly. “It’ll give me an excuse to come back.”
You nearly trip on your own feet.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
He’s looking straight ahead, hands in his pockets now, posture just a touch too casual to be natural. His mask hides most of his expression, but there’s a quiet ease in him. Something softer than usual. Lighter.
You swallow. “...You don’t have to force yourself to show up just because you feel like you owe me something.”
Kakashi’s voice is quiet, but sure.
“I’m not here because I owe you. I’m here because I want to be.”
Your grip tightens on the folder.
He doesn’t press nor look at you again. But his presence hums quietly at your side like something steady. Familiar. Something trying.
You keep walking, heart in your throat, brain shorting out.
His head turns. You don’t have to look to know he’s smiling behind the mask.
His fingers brush yours—just the barest graze, enough to make your hand twitch in surprise.
But he doesn’t pull away either.
And somehow, that says everything.
At least, that's what you tell yourself.
It’s a few days after the folder-flying hallway incident, and most of the clinic has quieted. Dusk has softened the world into gold and shadow. The lights in the hallway are dimmed to a low hum, casting long silhouettes along the clean floors. Most of the staff have clocked out.
You, however, are still perched at your desk, signing off the last few charts with a half-empty mug of cold tea by your elbow and a stubborn crick in your neck.
That familiar presence—unspoken but impossible to miss. A quiet awareness that slides in through the seams of your focus.
You glance up—and there he is.
Kakashi stands leaning casually against your office doorframe, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in that practiced way only shinobi ever manage.
His hitai-ate is pushed up. His mask is on, of course. And his gaze, when it finds yours, carries that ever-present flicker of amusement and something quieter beneath it—something warm.
“You’re making a habit of this,” you say without missing a beat, quirking a brow at him.
He tilts his head. “Is that a complaint?”
“That depends. Are you here with another fake injury? Or should I start charging you rent?”
He shrugs. “Neither, actually.”
He steps forward. And that’s when you see it—a small, slim box in his hands. Plain packaging. Tied with red twine. Your heart immediately performs a minor somersault.
“I brought you something,” he says simply.
You sit up straighter, wariness mixing with curiosity. “...What is it?”
He holds it out, almost sheepishly. “Open it.”
You undo the twine with careful fingers. The box opens with a faint creak.
Your heart makes a strange little thud.
Reinforced knuckles. Lightweight weave. Tailored exactly to your size. And not just functional—they’re in your favorite color. Muted, but elegant. The kind of gear you’ve wanted but never had the time to get.
You blink, throat suddenly tight. “How did you—?”
“You favor your left hand for close defense,” he says. “But the padding was starting to fray. And last week you rubbed your thumb raw without realizing.”
You stare at the gloves, then back at him. “You noticed all that?”
Kakashi scratches the back of his head, almost like he regrets being caught caring. “You’re my attending. It’s... hard not to notice things.”
Your heart twists. The words are simple. But the way he says them—soft, honest, like it cost him something to admit.
It makes you forget how to breathe.
He shifts on his feet. “I know it’s not much. But you’re always patching people up. I figured someone should return the favor.”
You can’t look away from him.
There’s a silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s full—of gratitude, of something you can’t quite name. He meets your eyes, and the world narrows to the space between you, heavy with the ache of things unsaid.
“Thank you,” you murmur. “No one’s ever... I mean, that was thoughtful.”
He shrugs, but there’s a quiet smile in his eye.
“You’re easy to think about, well at least to me."
That lands harder than you expect.
You feel something shift—like gravity tilting slightly between you.
Your voice is a little too soft when you ask, “Is that why you keep showing up?”
Kakashi doesn’t answer right away. He takes another step closer, closing the space until there’s barely room for air between you.
“Do you remember what you said to me?” he asks, voice low. “First week I was here. Third day in.”
You blink. “…I said a lot of things.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. But one stuck.”
“You told me I wasn’t going anywhere,” he says. “That you don’t lose patients.”
“I didn’t believe you,” he adds. “Not then. Not with the track record I had. But you said it like it was a fact. Like even if I gave up, you wouldn’t.”
He looks at you then, really looks. Not like you’re a mystery, but like you’re the answer he didn’t think he was allowed to have.
“You made me want to stay,” he says quietly. “Even after I didn’t need to.”
You don’t know what to say. Only that something in your chest is unraveling at the seams.
He lifts a hand. Hesitates. Then gently brushes your knuckles with his fingers—like he’s memorizing the feel of you.
“You made me want things again,” he says.
“Kakashi...” you whisper.
“I don’t know what this is,” he continues, voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do it right. But I know what it feels like when I leave the clinic and I wish I hadn’t. Or when I think about you in the middle of a mission, and it makes everything quieter for a second.”
You stare at him, eyes glassy.
“Being around you doesn’t make me forget,” he says. “But it makes remembering hurt less.”
“I want this. I want you.”
He never meant to stay this long.
The hospital was supposed to be a pit stop. A consequence of a botched infiltration. Just a bed.
Just another awfully long healing process in a boring hospital, again.
Sharp-tongued. Steady-handed. Unafraid. You didn't look at him like a broken thing. You didn't see his mask and flinch. You saw someone worth keeping alive—someone worth caring for.
He remembers one of the first things you've said: "You're not going anywhere. I don't lose patients."
He remembers thinking, Good luck with that.
He hadn't believed you. Not then. Not with the weight he carried. But you stayed, even beyond the hospital. Every day, every sarcastic remark, every heartbeat.
And somewhere in the silence between your scoldings and salves, something changed.
He started making excuses.
A sore shoulder. A "follow-up." A muscle twitch that needed checking. When really, all he wanted was five minutes more with you. Ten, if he was lucky. Long enough to hear your laugh, banters, to see your smile.
Long enough to feel like maybe... he wasn't just another name on a chart to you.
You made him feel like he could be whole.
And now, just inches from your warmth, he realizes—
You're the first person who didn't give up on him before he even began.
And this... this soft, staggering thing he feels in his chest—it's terrifying.
You met him where he was ruined—and stayed long enough to see him whole.
He doesn't want to leave.
You step in without thinking. Press your palm to his chest—right where his heartbeat drums steady against your hand.
“Take it off,” you say, so quiet it’s barely audible.
“The mask,” you murmur. “Let me see you.”
Kakashi stills for a heartbeat. Two.
Then, slowly—very slowly—he raises a hand to his face. The fabric folds down with practiced ease.
His face. His scars. The ghost of old wounds etched along his jaw. He doesn't flinch. Not when you see him.
Quiet vulnerability hangs between you, completely unguarded—all laid bare, just for you.
No facade. No barrier. Just him.
You lift your hand to his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of a healed wound by his jaw. His eyes flutter shut—just briefly—like the touch startles him in a good way.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss—not with hunger, but with so much longing. Like he didn't think he deserved this, but now that it's happening, he's terrified to lose it.
When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, breaths slow and warm between you. The world feels like it’s holding its breath.
"I think,” you begin, barely above a whisper,
“I’m falling in love with you.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.
"...You are?" he asks, voice ragged.
"I didn't plan to. But you keep showing up, and suddenly you were just... everywhere."
“Kept telling myself it was just clinic visits,” he murmurs, almost like he’s confessing to a crime. “A few check-ups. A few muscle twinges. Some bruises I let hang around longer than they needed to.”
His thumb rubs over the back of your hand once, slow. “And... okay, a few dango runs. Maybe a few too many excuses to pass by your hallway. Maybe I started faking injuries just a little.”
You bite back a smile, but your chest aches.
He looks away for a second, as if the weight of saying it is harder than he'd like to admit.
“I told myself it was safer this way,” he continues, voice dropping to something more fragile. “To just… orbit. Not land. Not want.”
His jaw works. There’s something old in his eyes. Worn.
“You made it impossible for me. Somewhere between the salves and the stubborn lectures and you yelling at me for almost ripping my stitches—I stopped being scared. I just didn't know how to say it."
His hand finds yours and wraps around it gently, firmly, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.
“I didn’t know how to say any of this,” he admits. “I’ve never been good with... saying things.”
You don’t speak. You don’t need to.
You just look at him—his brow slightly furrowed, like he's bracing for the moment to crack and vanish beneath his feet. Like he’s waiting for you to pull away. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his. You let the silence answer for you—full, grounding, real.
Then, gently—soft as breath—you say,
The way Kakashi stills is so subtle you might miss it. A sharp inhale, a flicker in his eye like something ancient inside him just shifted.
And then he laughs—barely. A sound like wonder, like disbelief cracked in half. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s just... Kakashi. Quiet. Guarded. But a little undone.
His voice comes slow. Measured. Like every word matters.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get to hear that.”
He says it like it costs him something. Like it matters more than he expected.
His hand stays in yours, but his other reaches up and brushes the line of your jaw with the backs of his fingers. He’s still not sure you’re real. As if he’s trying to memorize you before you vanish.
You cup his cheek, and he leans into it like someone who’s forgotten how to ask for comfort but finally found it anyway.
And in that moment, something shifts.
That he might be allowed to have this. That he might actually deserve it. That maybe, for once, he won’t lose the thing he’s grown to need.
His thumb brushes your cheek, slow, tender. Like he’s drawing a promise into your skin.
And when he leans in again—slowly, deliberately—the kiss he gives you is softer than the first. More certain. Less like a moment stolen, and more like one that belongs to you both.
Full of something that feels like future.
And this time, he doesn’t run.
You don't know it yet, but this is the moment he lets himself stay... in a love never thought he'd be allowed to feel or have.
One that began not with a plan, but with broken ribs, a wrong turn, and the quiet, stubborn hands of a doctor who didn't believe in losing.
A meeting that should've been nothing,
But somehow, became everything.
likes and reblogs are very much appreciated! thanks for stopping by ~ ^3^ <3
(p.s. i hope you guys saw the mirroring of events!! (kakashi to 'kashi), “to me”, and also the use of "you don't know it yet, but..")
