I keep getting recommended these videos where film nerds try to diagnose why they don't like modern movie aesthetics.
This fellow has decided that the problem is soft light.
I knew I was in for a frustrating time when I saw how this lighting expert lit himself.
Move your light closer, everyone. Otherwise you're going to look like you're in an office.
I know, I shouldn't judge only based on that.
He read a book on cinematography and listened to some podcasts. So he is ready to talk about lighting with confidence.
He showed an example from The Devil Wears Prada.
He said the original had hard light.
And the upcoming sequel has soft light.
The problem is... both of these are soft light.
If the shadows aren't sharp, the light isn't hard. Neither of these examples look like Humphrey Bogart.
He says soft light is used to make older actresses look younger. Which... sometimes. Maybe.
In this case, the sequel shot looks softer because the elevator is light gray. The light from above is bouncing around more and filling in the shadows. Fill light is more flattering, but I don't know if this was some deliberate choice to make them look younger.
In the original movie, it had dark wood paneling, so there was less bounced light, so they didn't look quite as glowy. So it went from soft light to soft light with less shadow density. Both would look flattering for older folks.
Also, most indoor light is soft. Window light is very soft. We put lampshades and frosted fixtures on our lights. We shoot light up into the ceiling.
In real life, hard light is unpleasant to look at and it has bad coverage. It would not make sense to light many indoor scenes with harder light. If you wanted a more dynamic look, you could make the light more dimensional. Increase the falloff, add rim lighting, play with foreground and background color temperatures.
But, like, they're in a goddamn elevator. It's going to look weird if they have super dramatic hard lighting. I have never seen an elevator that has a spotlight in the corner. It would be more distracting.
Plus... there is literally 5 seconds of footage from the movie and people have already decided it looks bad.
There was bland soft lighting in the original movie. Not every scene can be a lighting masterpiece.
He then says this giant soft lighting modifier is made to make Meryl Streep look young in a different movie.
This is used to simulate window light. Window light is incredibly soft. I'm pretty sure they were just trying to imply her office had a window.
This modifier is actually just more convenient cove lighting. Which is a very old lighting trick that was done by hanging sheets. Famed cinematographer Roger Deakins is often credited for developing the technique.
Cinematographers have been doing this since before Netflix existed. Netflix did not invent soft light.
The big mattress-looking thing is inflatable and lightweight. You can easily move and set it up wherever you need it. And you don't have to hang sheets all over the damn place. It is not some newfangled de-aging device. It's just fake window light.
And the rest of the video he complained about Wicked.
Wicked was expertly crafted. The director made a deliberate artistic choice to have a pastel color palette, low contrast, and a lot of backlighting. The original Wizard of Oz was one of the first color movies so they saturated the hell out of it. I think he just wanted to differentiate from that. He said he wanted this to look more "grounded." I think he achieved what he was intending, even if I don't personally care for the aesthetic.
Sometimes artists make choices we don't care for. That doesn't mean they are incompetent or beholden to Big Soft Light. And I don't think Wicked is a good example of the problem this person is trying to solve. I'm okay with artists making bad decisions. My issue is more to do with artists being forced to make bad decisions.
I'm not saying there isn't a widespread aesthetic issue. But I don't think it can be blamed on soft light. Soft light is not bad. And in none of the examples would switching to hard light improve things.
My concern is more to do with risk-averse production. Bold artistic choices are being restrained. Efficiency is prioritized over a strong vision. Studios are afraid to bake in a look early, so they wait until the last minute to fix it in post. This causes a lot of bland aesthetics.
Sometimes they try to color grade their way out of it by making Mexico extra yellow or doing that teal and orange thing.
That said, there are movies and shows that look better than ever. When big directors are allowed to do their thing without meddling, we get Dune and Avatar and Sinners. Many TV shows look like movies now.
There is so much good looking stuff being made.
But there is also a huge increase in overall content. And the good stuff is dwarfed by the mediocre.
These video essays suffer from a lot of recency bias and nostalgic cherry picking. People forget how shitty most things used to look. Your average TV show had garbage cinematography. Most movies did not look much better.
Jurassic Park came out the same year as Son in Law.
I think the real tragedy is that most big budget content has the potential to look amazing. But only a few proven, money-making directors are allowed to produce a strong visual aesthetic. Everyone else has to compromise their vision.
I get why that is frustrating.
And I wish there was an easy fix.
But making light less soft probably isn't going to change much.
Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself. But when she falls sick and tries to brush it off, Harry sees right through her act. The moment her condition worsens, his protective side takes over revealing that beneath all the tension and ego, he cares far more than he lets on.
A/n: After a long wait, it’s finally here!! I apologize for the wait but I kind of got too deep into the medical side hehe. I hope you like it! It’s a whooping 12k words.
Masterlist
-> Part 2 here
The surgical wing of St. Mary's Hospital buzzes with its usual controlled chaos at 5:47 AM. Dr. Harry Styles strides through the corridors with the confidence of someone who's never met a problem he couldn't solve with a scalpel and an oversized ego. His scrubs are perfectly pressed, his hair somehow still looks good despite being under a surgical cap for twelve hours yesterday, and his white coat bears his name in crisp embroidery: Dr. H. Styles, Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery
At 33, he's the youngest department head in the hospital's history, a fact that he's never let anyone forget. His success rate is impeccable, his technique is flawless, and his bedside manner is...well, it exists when he remembers to use it.
He rounds the corner to find his newest intern, Dr. Y/N, already at the nurses' station, chart in hand, looking like she's been there for hours. Which, knowing her, she probably has.
"Well, well," Harry says, approaching with that trademark smirk that makes half the nursing staff swoon and the other half want to slap him. "Look who's trying to impress the attending with her punctuality."
Y/N looks up from the chart, her eyes already showing a flash of irritation at his tone.
"I'm reviewing Mrs. Patterson's pre-op labs," she says curtly, not taking the bait. "Her potassium levels are borderline low. I think we should postpone the surgery until—"
"You think?" Harry interrupts, taking the chart from her hands with casual arrogance. "That's adorable. Last I checked, interns don't think in my OR. They follow orders."
Y/N's jaw tightens, but she keeps her voice level. "With respect, Dr. Styles, her levels are 3.4. The recommended minimum for surgery is 3.5. It's a legitimate concern."
Harry barely glances at the chart before handing it back to her. "Mrs. Patterson has been waiting three weeks for this surgery. Her family has rearranged their entire lives to be here today. And you want to postpone because of a 0.1 difference that falls well within the margin of error?"
"It's not about the number, it's about patient safety—"
"Patient safety," Harry cuts her off again, his voice taking on that condescending tone that makes Y/N want to throw something at his perfectly styled head, "is my responsibility. Your responsibility is to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, without questioning every decision I make."
Y/N takes a deep breath, clearly struggling to maintain her composure. "I'm not questioning your competence, Dr. Styles. I'm doing my job as a physician to advocate for what I believe is best for the patient."
Harry steps closer, his green eyes flashing with irritation. "Your job, Dr. Y/N, is to learn. And the first lesson you clearly need to learn is that there's a hierarchy here. I'm the attending, you're the intern. I have ten years of experience, you have ten weeks. So when I say we're proceeding with the surgery, we're proceeding with the surgery."
The tension between them is palpable, drawing curious glances from passing staff members. Y/N's hands clench into fists at her sides, but her voice remains steady.
"Fine," she says through gritted teeth. "But I want it noted in the chart that I expressed concern about the potassium levels."
Harry's eyebrows raise, as if he's surprised by her persistence. "Oh, you want it noted? By all means, Dr. Y/N. Cover your ass. Very professional."
Y/N's eyes flash dangerously. "It's not about covering my ass, it's about doing my job properly. But clearly, that's a concept you're unfamiliar with."
The words hang in the air between them, and Harry's expression shifts from annoyed to genuinely surprised. Not many people talk back to him, especially not first-year interns.
"Excuse me?" he says, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level.
Y/N realizes she may have gone too far, but she's too stubborn to back down now. "I said what I said."
For a moment, they just stare at each other, the air crackling with tension and mutual irritation. Finally, Harry lets out a short laugh, though there's no humor in it.
"Right," he says, his voice perfectly controlled. "Dr. Y/N, you'll be observing from the gallery today. Nurse Johnson will be assisting me instead."
Y/N's eyes widen. "You can't bench me for advocating for a patient."
"I can and I am," Harry replies smoothly. "Consider it a learning experience. Maybe watching from the sidelines will teach you something about respect and professional hierarchy."
With that, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Y/N standing at the nurses' station, furious and humiliated.
As Harry disappears around the corner, he can't help but feel a grudging respect for the intern's backbone, even as her stubbornness irritates the hell out of him. Most interns cower when he raises his voice, but Y/N Y/N just raised hers right back.
It's going to be an interesting year.
The hospital cafeteria buzzes with the usual lunchtime chaos as Y/N storms in, still wearing her scrubs and radiating fury. She grabs a sandwich and a coffee with more force than necessary, then spots Niall Horan sitting alone at a corner table, demolishing what appears to be his third slice of pizza.
She drops into the chair across from him with a heavy sigh, immediately launching into her grievances without preamble.
"Six hours," she says, stabbing her sandwich with unnecessary violence. "Six hours I had to sit in that gallery watching him perform like he was putting on a show."
Niall looks up from his pizza, eyebrows raised. "The Patterson surgery? How'd it go?"
"Oh, it went perfectly," Y/N says sarcastically. "Of course it did. And he kept glancing up at me in the gallery with this...this smug little smirk, like he was proving some point."
Niall's brows furrowed, "Wasn't he wearing a mask the whole time? How do you know if he was smirking?”
“I just know he was!”
She takes an angry bite of her sandwich, replaying the surgery in her mind. Every time Harry had looked up at the observation deck, his eyes had found hers through the glass, and that infuriating half-smile had played across his lips.
"God, I just want to strangle that smug look off his face," she mutters.
Niall nearly chokes on his pizza. "His handsome face, you mean?"
Y/N's head snaps up, glaring at her fellow intern. "Niall! You're supposed to be on my side!"
Niall holds up his hands defensively, though he's grinning. "I am on your side! I'm just saying, objectively speaking, the man is ridiculously good-looking. It's like he was carved by angels or something."
"Oh my God," Y/N groans, dropping her head into her hands. "Not you too. Half the nursing staff is already in love with him."
"Look," Niall says, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I didn't say to marry the guy. All I'm saying is, and this is coming from a straight man, I'd jump his bones if I had the chance."
Y/N stares at him in disbelief. "You're supposed to be helping me figure out how to survive working with him, not joining his fan club!"
Niall shrugs, completely unrepentant. "What can I say? The man's a legend. Best surgeon in the hospital, probably the state. And those eyes? That hair? That whole brooding, arrogant thing he's got going on?"
"The arrogant thing is exactly the problem!" Y/N protests.
"Is it though?" Niall asks with a knowing look. "Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you two have some serious sexual tension going on."
Y/N's face flushes. "We have professional disagreements, not sexual tension."
"Uh-huh," Niall says skeptically. "And I'm sure it's just a coincidence that you get all flustered every time someone mentions his name."
"I do not get flustered!"
"You're flustered right now," Niall points out, grinning at her obvious discomfort.
Y/N opens her mouth to argue, then closes it, realizing he's right. She takes a sip of her coffee, trying to regain her composure.
"Even if I was attracted to him, which I'm not saying I am," she says carefully, "the man has a reputation. He's slept with half the hospital staff."
Niall nods thoughtfully. "True. Nurses, residents, that radiologist from the third floor. Hell, I heard he even hooked up with one of the pharmaceutical reps at the Christmas party last year."
"Exactly," Y/N says, feeling vindicated. "He's a walking HR violation waiting to happen."
"But," Niall continues with a mischievous glint in his eye, "I don't think he's ever gone after an intern. Especially not one who talks back to him the way you do."
Y/N nearly spits out her coffee. "Are you insane? He can't stand me. He literally benched me today for disagreeing with him."
"Or," Niall suggests, "he's intrigued by the fact that you're the first person in years who isn't intimidated by him. Think about it – everyone else either worships him or fears him. You just told him off in front of half the nursing staff."
Y/N considers this for a moment, then shakes her head firmly. "No. Absolutely not. I am not getting involved with my attending, especially not one with his track record."
Niall shrugs. "Your loss. But I'm telling you, the way he was looking at you during that surgery? That wasn't just professional interest."
Before Y/N can respond, her pager beeps. She glances down at it and groans.
"Speak of the devil," she mutters, showing Niall the message. "Dr. Styles wants to see me in his office. Probably to lecture me about respect and hierarchy again."
Niall grins and takes another bite of pizza. "Have fun with that. Try not to jump him."
Y/N gives him the finger as she stands up, but she can't shake the nervous flutter in her stomach as she heads toward the elevator, wondering what fresh hell Harry Styles has in store for her now.
As Y/N approaches Dr. Styles' office, she can hear familiar voices through the partially open door. She pauses just outside, recognizing the distinct accents of Dr. Louis Tomlinson from Emergency Medicine and Dr. Zayn Malik from Plastic Surgery - two of Harry's closest colleagues and, unfortunately, two more arrogant surgeons who think they're God's gift to medicine.
Well, Zayn isn't quite as bad. He's actually been decent to her during their few interactions, unlike Tomlinson who seems to think interns exist solely for his entertainment.
"...saw the whole thing at the nurses' station this morning," Louis is saying, his voice carrying that familiar note of amusement he gets when he's about to stir up trouble. "Little intern giving our Harry a proper telling off."
"She's got balls, I'll give her that," comes Zayn's deeper voice. "Most interns would have crawled under a rock after being dressed down like that."
Y/N's stomach clenches. Great, so her humiliation has become office gossip.
"Balls or stupidity," Harry's voice cuts through, and she can practically hear the eye roll in his tone. "Haven't decided which yet."
Louis laughs. "Come on, mate. When's the last time someone actually challenged you? Most people just nod and agree with everything you say."
"Because most people have sense," Harry replies dryly. "And respect for hospital hierarchy."
"Or because most people are terrified of you," Zayn adds with what sounds like a smirk. "This one clearly isn't. Quite refreshing, actually."
Y/N takes a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever fresh humiliation awaits her inside. She's about to knock when Louis' voice stops her cold.
"So what's the plan then? Gonna make her life hell until she transfers out? Or are you planning to add Dr. Y/L/N to your extensive list of hospital conquests?"
There's a pause, and Y/N feels her cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger.
"She's an intern, Louis," Harry says, his voice sharp. "I don't sleep with interns."
"You don't sleep with interns yet," Louis corrects with obvious glee. "But there's a first time for everything. And she is quite fit."
Y/N's hands clench into fists at her sides. She should knock, should announce herself, should do anything other than stand here listening to them discuss her like she's some kind of conquest to be won.
"Leave it alone, Louis," Zayn's voice cuts in, and Y/N feels a flash of gratitude toward him. "The girl's trying to do her job. Not everyone is interested in your matchmaking schemes."
"I'm not matchmaking," Louis protests. "I'm just saying, the sexual tension between those two was thick enough to cut with a scalpel. Half the nursing staff was talking about it."
Y/N closes her eyes, mortified. This is exactly what she was afraid of becoming hospital gossip because of one argument with her attending.
"There's no sexual tension," Harry says firmly. "There's a stubborn intern who doesn't know her place and needs to be taught some respect."
"Right," Louis says, clearly not buying it. "And I'm sure the fact that she's gorgeous has nothing to do with why you've been in such a mood all morning."
Y/N has heard enough. She raises her hand and knocks firmly on the door frame, pushing it open before anyone can respond.
"Dr. Styles?" she says, her voice carefully controlled despite the flush in her cheeks. "You wanted to see me?"
The three men turn toward her, and she catches the flash of surprise and something that might be embarrassment on Harry's face before his expression returns to its usual professional mask. Louis, on the other hand, looks delighted by her sudden appearance, while Zayn has the grace to look slightly uncomfortable.
"Dr. Y/L/N," Harry says, his voice perfectly neutral. "Yes, come in. Doctors Tomlinson and Malik were just leaving."
Louis grins and stands up, clearly in no hurry to leave despite Harry's pointed hint. "Actually, we were just discussing your impressive performance this morning. Quite the show you put on."
Y/N's jaw tightens, but she keeps her voice level. "If you'll excuse me, Dr. Tomlinson, I believe Dr. Styles wants to speak with me privately."
Louis chuckles. "Of course. Don't let us interrupt your...professional discussion."
The way he says 'professional' makes it clear he means anything but, and Y/N feels her face burn with fresh embarrassment.
Zayn stands as well, shooting Louis a warning look. "Come on, Louis. Let's leave them to it."
As they file out, Zayn pauses briefly beside Y/N. "For what it's worth," he says quietly, "you were right about the potassium levels. I would have made the same call."
It's a small kindness, but Y/N appreciates it more than he probably knows. Once they're gone and Harry closes the door behind them, she's left alone with her attending, the tension in the room suddenly suffocating.
Y/N crosses her arms defensively, the conversation she'd just overheard still ringing in her ears. Her hazel eyes flash with irritation as she looks at Harry, who's now leaning back against his desk with that infuriatingly calm expression he always wears when he's about to deliver another lecture.
"After a six-hour surgery, I would have thought it would take longer before you're back to..." she starts, her voice tight with barely controlled frustration.
She catches herself just in time, the words 'annoying the shit out of me' dying on her lips as Harry raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at her, clearly waiting for her to finish that sentence.
The silence stretches between them, loaded with tension and unspoken words. Harry's green eyes are fixed on her face, and she can see the challenge there - daring her to finish what she started, to give him another reason to put her in her place.
But Y/N's not stupid, despite what he might think. She's already on thin ice after this morning's confrontation, and finishing that sentence would probably get her kicked out of his service entirely.
"To what, Dr. Y/L/N?" Harry asks, his voice deceptively soft as he pushes himself off the desk and takes a step closer to her. "Please, finish your thought. I'm very interested to hear what you think I'm back to doing."
His tone is perfectly professional, but there's an edge to it that makes Y/N's pulse quicken - though whether from fear or something else entirely, she's not willing to examine too closely.
She uncrosses her arms, trying to regain some semblance of professional composure. "I was going to say, back to micromanaging your interns' every move."
It's not what she was going to say, and they both know it, but it's safer than the truth.
Harry's lips curve into that maddening half-smile that makes her want to either slap him or...well, she's not going there.
"Micromanaging," he repeats, as if testing the word. "Is that what you call holding my interns to the same standards of excellence that I hold myself to?"
He moves around to the other side of his desk, gesturing for her to sit in the chair across from him. It's clearly not a request.
"Sit down, Dr. Y/L/N. We need to have a conversation about your attitude and your future in my program."
The words send a chill down Y/N's spine. She knows that tone - it's the same one he uses right before he destroys someone's career with a few well-chosen words. But she sits anyway, keeping her back straight and her chin up, refusing to let him see how much his disapproval affects her.
Harry settles into his chair behind the desk, steepling his fingers as he studies her with those unnervingly perceptive green eyes.
"Tell me, Dr. Y/L/N," he says finally, "what exactly do you think you accomplished today with your little display of defiance?"Y/N meets his gaze steadily, her jaw set in that stubborn line he's already becoming familiar with.
"I advocated for my patient," she says simply. "Which is what any good physician should do, regardless of hierarchy."
Harry leans back in his chair, that infuriating smile never leaving his face.
"Your patient," he repeats slowly. "Interesting choice of words, considering Mrs. Patterson was my patient, in my OR, under my care."
"She was still a patient who deserved proper medical consideration of all risk factors," Y/N counters, her voice gaining strength. "And for the record, Dr. Malik agreed with my assessment."
Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "You discussed my patient with another attending behind my back?"
"He overheard your friends discussing my 'impressive performance' in the hallway," Y/N says, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Apparently my concern for patient safety is quite the entertainment around here."
Harry's expression shifts slightly, and for a moment she thinks she sees something that might be regret flash across his features. But it's gone so quickly she might have imagined it.
"Dr. Y/L/N," he says, his voice taking on that dangerously quiet tone again, "you seem to be under the impression that passion and righteousness excuse insubordination. They don't."
He stands up, moving to the window behind his desk, his hands clasped behind his back.
"I've been doing this for ten years. I've saved more lives than you've probably seen as a medical student. And I've earned the right to make surgical decisions without having them questioned by a first-year intern who's been here all of five minutes."
Y/N feels her temper flare again. "So what you're saying is that my medical degree and my oath to 'first, do no harm' mean nothing because I haven't been here as long as you?"
Harry turns around slowly, his green eyes flashing with something that might be admiration mixed with exasperation.
"What I'm saying, Dr. Y/L/N, is that there's a reason we have attending physicians and interns. It's not just about ego or power - it's about experience, judgment, and the ability to see the bigger picture."
He moves back to his desk, placing his hands flat on the surface as he leans forward.
"Mrs. Patterson's surgery went perfectly. Her potassium levels were fine, just as I knew they would be. But more importantly, her family got to say goodbye before she went under, she didn't have to spend another night terrified in a hospital bed, and we didn't waste valuable OR time and resources over a number that falls well within acceptable parameters."
Y/N opens her mouth to argue, but Harry holds up a hand to stop her.
"I'm not finished," he says firmly. "Your concern was noted, it was valid, and in another situation, it might have been the right call. But part of being a surgeon is learning when to push and when to trust your attending's judgment. Today, you chose to push when you should have trusted."
He straightens up, his expression becoming more professional again.
"So here's what's going to happen. You're going to spend the rest of the week observing surgeries from the gallery. You're going to watch how experienced surgeons make decisions, how they weigh risks and benefits, and how they handle the pressure of life-and-death situations. And then, if you can prove to me that you understand the chain of command and can follow orders without questioning every decision I make, we'll discuss putting you back in the OR."
Y/N stares at him, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. "You're benching me for a week because I cared too much about a patient?"
"I'm benching you for a week because you don't know how to be part of a team," Harry corrects sharply. "Surgery isn't a democracy, Dr. Y/L/N. It's a hierarchy for a reason. Lives depend on split-second decisions and absolute trust between team members. If I can't trust you to follow my lead in a routine procedure, how can I trust you when things go wrong?"
The words hit harder than Y/N wants to admit, and she feels her resolve wavering slightly. Maybe he has a point. Maybe she did overstep. But her stubborn pride won't let her back down completely.
"Fine," she says, standing up abruptly. "I'll observe from the gallery. But don't expect me to apologize for advocating for patient safety."
Harry watches her for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.
"I wouldn't expect anything less," he says finally, his voice softer than it's been all day. "Your instincts aren't wrong, Dr. Y/L/N. Your timing just needs work."
It's the closest thing to a compliment she's gotten from him, and Y/N isn't sure how to process it. She heads for the door, but Harry's voice stops her.
"And Dr. Y/L/N?" he calls out.
She turns back, eyebrow raised in question.
"Next time you want to call me annoying, just say it. I can handle a little honesty."
Y/N's cheeks flush as she realizes he caught her unfinished sentence from earlier. Without another word, she turns and walks out, leaving Harry alone in his office with that maddening smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.
The surgical wing is still mostly empty at 5:15 AM when Y/N arrives, a full two hours before her scheduled observation time. She's carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees and a paper bag from the café down the street - the good café, not the hospital cafeteria swill that most people settle for.
She finds Harry already in his office, which doesn't surprise her. The man seems to live at the hospital. His desk lamp casts a warm glow over scattered patient files and surgical notes, and he's so absorbed in his work that he doesn't notice her standing in the doorway.
Y/N clears her throat softly. "Dr. Styles?"
Harry's head snaps up, surprise flickering across his features when he sees her. "Dr. Y/L/N. You're here early. Your observation schedule doesn't start until seven."
"I know," she says, stepping into the office and setting the coffee tray on his desk. "I brought coffee. And a blueberry muffin. The kind from Morrison's Café."
Harry stares at the offerings like they might be poisoned, then looks up at her with a suspicious expression. "What's this about?"
"Sort of?" Harry repeats, leaning back in his chair with that infuriating smirk starting to form.
"Well, I'm not apologizing for advocating for the patient," she clarifies quickly. "But I am...acknowledging that my delivery could have been more professional."
Harry picks up one of the coffees and takes a tentative sip. His eyebrows raise slightly. "You remembered how I take it."
Y/N tries not to think about how she'd carefully observed his coffee preferences during their brief interactions - black, no sugar, but with just a splash of cream. It's not like she was paying special attention or anything.
"Lucky guess," she lies.
Harry unwraps the muffin and breaks off a piece, studying her as he chews. "Morrison's is twenty minutes out of your way."
"I was in the neighborhood."
"At five in the morning?"
Y/N's cheeks flush slightly. "I couldn't sleep. Too much caffeine yesterday."
It's partially true - she had been up most of the night, replaying their conversation and wondering if she'd completely sabotaged her surgical career before it even started. But she's not about to admit that to him.
Harry seems to accept her explanation, or at least decides not to push it. He takes another sip of coffee and nods toward the chair across from his desk. "Since you're here, you might as well sit. I'm reviewing today's surgical schedule."
Y/N settles into the chair, pulling out her own coffee and trying not to feel too pleased that he seems to be accepting her peace offering.
For the next thirty minutes, they work in surprisingly comfortable silence. Harry reviews patient files while Y/N goes over her notes from yesterday's surgery, occasionally asking questions about technique or procedure that Harry actually answers without condescension.
It's...nice. Professional but not hostile. Y/N starts to think that maybe they can actually work together without constantly being at each other's throats.
Then Dr. Martinez from Neurosurgery pokes her head into the office.
"Harry, we need to talk about the Henderson case. The family is requesting a second opinion on the tumor removal."
Harry looks up from his files. "What kind of second opinion?"
"They want to know if it's operable. The husband did some research online and thinks we're being too conservative."
Harry's jaw tightens slightly. "Dr. Google strikes again. What did you tell them?"
"That we'd review the scans again and get back to them today."
After Dr. Martinez leaves, Harry turns back to his files, but Y/N can see the tension in his shoulders.
"The Henderson case?" she asks carefully. "That's the glioblastoma, right?"
Harry glances up at her, surprised that she knows the case. "You've been reading files you're not assigned to?"
"I read everything," Y/N says simply. "It helps me understand the bigger picture. The tumor is wrapped around the speech center, isn't it? That's why Dr. Martinez is being conservative."
"Exactly. Any attempt to remove it completely would likely leave the patient unable to speak, possibly unable to understand language at all."
Y/N nods thoughtfully. "But the family wants you to try anyway."
"The family wants a miracle," Harry says, his voice taking on that bitter edge she's starting to recognize. "They want me to wave a magic scalpel and make everything better, consequences be damned."
Y/N sets down her coffee, leaning forward slightly. "So what will you tell them?"
"The truth. That sometimes the cure is worse than the disease. That quality of life matters as much as quantity."
There's something in his voice - a weariness that makes Y/N realize this isn't just about one difficult family. This is about every impossible decision he's had to make, every family he's had to disappoint, every time he's had to choose between hope and reality.
"That must be hard," she says softly. "Being the one who has to deliver that kind of news."
Harry looks up at her, and for a moment his professional mask slips. She sees something raw and human in his green eyes, something that makes her chest tighten unexpectedly.
"It's the worst part of the job," he admits. "Surgery is the easy part. It's the conversations before and after that destroy you."
They sit in silence for a moment, and Y/N feels like she's seeing a different side of him - not the arrogant attending who enjoys putting interns in their place, but a surgeon who genuinely cares about his patients and struggles with the weight of their expectations.
Then Harry seems to realize he's shown vulnerability and the walls go back up.
"But that's not something you need to worry about yet," he says briskly, turning back to his files. "You're still learning basic surgical protocol."
And just like that, the moment is gone, replaced by his usual condescending tone.
Y/N feels her jaw clench. "Right. Because first-year interns are incapable of understanding complex ethical situations."
Harry's head snaps up. "That's not what I said."
"It's what you implied," Y/N shoots back, her earlier goodwill evaporating. "Every time we have a conversation, you find a way to remind me that I'm just an intern, that I don't know anything, that I should just shut up and follow orders."
"Maybe because you're just an intern who doesn't know anything and should shut up and follow orders," Harry retorts, his voice getting sharper.
Y/N stands up abruptly, her hands clenched into fists. "You know what? I take back the coffee. And the muffin. And any attempt at civility."
"Oh, good," Harry says, standing as well, his green eyes flashing. "Because I was wondering when you'd drop the act and go back to being a stubborn pain in my ass."
"I wasn't acting!" Y/N snaps. "I was trying to be professional! But apparently, that's impossible with someone who thinks being an attending gives him the right to be a complete dick to everyone around him!"
Harry steps around his desk, moving closer to her, his voice dropping to that dangerously quiet level.
"Careful, Dr. Y/L/N. You're about to cross a line you can't uncross."
Y/N tilts her chin up defiantly, meeting his gaze head-on despite the fact that he's nearly a foot taller than her.
"Maybe someone needs to cross that line. Maybe someone needs to tell you that being brilliant doesn't excuse being an arrogant ass who treats people like they're beneath him."
The words hang in the air between them, loaded with tension and barely contained fury. They're standing close enough that Y/N can see the gold flecks in Harry's green eyes, can smell his cologne mixed with surgical soap.
For a moment, neither of them speaks, both breathing hard from their argument. Then Harry takes a step back, his expression shuttering.
"Get out of my office," he says quietly.
Y/N doesn't need to be told twice. She grabs her coffee and heads for the door, but she can't resist one final parting shot.
"Enjoy your muffin, Dr. Styles. It's probably the sweetest thing you'll encounter all day."
She slams the door behind her, leaving Harry alone in his office, staring at the coffee and muffin she'd brought him, wondering how a simple gesture of peace had turned into another battle in their ongoing war.
And in the hallway, Y/N leans against the wall, pressing her palms against her eyes and wondering why she can't seem to have a single conversation with Harry Styles without wanting to either scream at him or...well, she's definitely not going there.
This is going to be the longest year of her life.
Harry stares at the closed door for a long moment after Y/N storms out, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The coffee she brought him sits on his desk, still steaming, next to the perfectly innocent blueberry muffin that somehow feels like a weapon now.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration coursing through him. What the hell is wrong with him? Five minutes ago, they were having an actual civil conversation - the first one since she started on his service. She'd brought him coffee from his favorite café, had been asking thoughtful questions about the Henderson case, and for a brief moment, he'd actually felt like they might be able to work together.
Then he'd gone and ruined it by being a condescending prick. Again.
Harry drops back into his chair, picking up the coffee cup and taking a sip. It's perfect - exactly how he likes it, which means she'd been paying attention during their previous interactions. The realization makes something twist in his chest, though he's not sure if it's guilt or something else entirely.
The muffin is from Morrison's, which is twenty minutes out of her way. At five in the morning. She'd claimed she was in the neighborhood, but Harry isn't an idiot - she'd gone out of her way to bring him a peace offering, and he'd thrown it back in her face the moment his ego felt threatened.
Because that's what it was, wasn't it? When she'd started showing genuine insight into the Henderson case, when she'd looked at him with something that might have been understanding instead of her usual fire, he'd panicked. He'd retreated behind his authority and his rank because it was safer than letting her see him as anything other than the untouchable attending physician.
The problem is, Y/N doesn't seem to care about safe. She pushes back when other interns would cower. She challenges him when others would nod and agree. And when she'd said that being brilliant doesn't excuse being an arrogant ass...well, she wasn't wrong.
Harry's phone buzzes with a text from Louis: "Heard shouting from your office. Did you and the sexy intern have another lover's quarrel?"
He deletes the message without responding. The last thing he needs is Louis stirring up more gossip about him and Y/N. Though if he's being honest with himself, the gossip isn't entirely unfounded. There is something about her that gets under his skin in a way no one else has managed in years.
Maybe it's the way she stands up to him without flinching. Maybe it's how she genuinely cares about patient welfare, even when it puts her at odds with him. Or maybe it's simpler than that - maybe it's the way her hazel eyes flash when she's angry, or how her hair falls in waves around her shoulders when she's not wearing it pulled back for surgery.
Harry shakes his head, forcing those thoughts away. She's his intern. She's twenty five years old, brilliant but inexperienced, and completely off-limits for about a dozen different reasons. The fact that she's also gorgeous and challenges him in ways that are both infuriating and oddly arousing is irrelevant.
Or it should be irrelevant.
He picks up a patient file, trying to focus on the upcoming surgery schedule, but his mind keeps drifting back to the conversation they'd had before it all went to hell. When she'd asked about the Henderson case, there had been genuine curiosity in her voice, not the desperate need to prove herself that he usually heard from interns. She'd actually listened when he talked about the difficulty of delivering bad news to families, had responded with empathy instead of judgment.
For just a moment, he'd felt understood instead of feared or worshipped. It had been...nice. Unsettling, but nice.
Which is probably why he'd sabotaged it so thoroughly.
Harry glances at the clock - 6:30 AM. In thirty minutes, the OR will be buzzing with activity, and he'll have to pretend that his most promising intern isn't currently fantasizing about strangling him in his sleep. He'll have to watch her observe from the gallery, knowing that she should be down in the OR learning hands-on, but that his own stubborn pride is keeping her sidelined.
He takes another sip of the coffee - the perfect coffee that she'd brought him as an olive branch - and makes a decision. Tomorrow, he's putting her back in the OR. Not because she's apologized or groveled or learned her place, but because benching her isn't helping anyone. She's too good to waste in the gallery, and despite what he'd told her about trust and hierarchy, he knows she'd be an asset in surgery.
But first, he needs to figure out how to have a conversation with Y/N without it ending in an argument. Which, given their track record, might be the most challenging surgery he's ever attempted.
Harry finishes the coffee and unwraps the muffin, taking a bite as he reviews the day's schedule. She's right about one thing - it probably will be the sweetest thing he encounters all day. Everything else, especially dealing with his complicated feelings about his stubborn, brilliant, infuriating intern, is likely to leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
But as he sits in his office, eating the peace offering she'd brought him before he'd managed to screw things up again, Harry can't help but think that maybe that bitter taste is exactly what he deserves.
Three days. Three days of watching Y/N sit in the gallery, taking notes with that focused intensity she brought to everything, her hazel eyes tracking every movement in the OR below. Three days of catching glimpses of her in the hallways, both of them pointedly looking away when their paths crossed. Three days of Harry telling himself he was justified in keeping her benched, even as his coffee tasted like ash every morning because it wasn't the perfect blend she'd brought him.
His pride had become a living thing, wrapped around his throat like a noose. Every morning he'd planned to call her back to the OR, and every morning he'd found an excuse not to. She hadn't apologized - really apologized - and he wasn't about to back down first. Even if it meant wasting her obvious talent. Even if it meant the other interns were starting to whisper about the special treatment she was getting, though not the kind anyone would want.
Harry is reviewing post-op notes in the break room when he hears Y/N's laugh - a genuine, surprised sound that makes him look up despite himself. She's standing by the vending machine with Liam Payne, one of the nurses from the ICU. Liam is leaning against the machine with that easy charm that makes him popular with staff and patients alike, and he's saying something that has Y/N actually smiling.
It's the first time Harry's seen her smile in three days, and the fact that it's not directed at him makes something ugly twist in his chest.
"Come on, Dr. Y/L/N," Liam is saying, his voice carrying that slight accent that patients seem to find so comforting. "One drink. Just as friends. You look like you could use a break from this place."
Y/N shakes her head, but she's still smiling. "I don't think that's a good idea, Liam. I'm already in enough trouble with my attending."
"Your attending is an ass," Liam says bluntly, and Harry's hand clenches around his pen. "Everyone knows it. You deserve better than being stuck in the gallery because you had the audacity to care about patient safety."
Harry watches as Y/N's smile falters slightly. "He's not...it's complicated."
"Is it though?" Liam steps closer, his voice dropping to that intimate level that makes Harry want to throw something. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like he's punishing you for having a backbone. And that's not someone who deserves your loyalty."
Y/N looks down at her hands, and Harry can see the conflict playing across her features. Part of him wants to march over there and remind Liam exactly who he's talking about, but a larger part is frozen, waiting to hear what she'll say.
"Dr. Styles is...demanding," she says finally. "But he's also brilliant. I've learned more watching his surgeries than I did in my entire surgical rotation as a student."
Liam scoffs. "You could learn just as much from other attendings. Ones who don't treat you like dirt."
"He doesn't treat me like dirt," Y/N says, and there's something almost defensive in her voice that makes Harry's chest tighten. "He has high standards."
"High standards and basic human decency aren't mutually exclusive," Liam counters. "Look, I've seen how you light up when you talk about surgery. You're passionate about this, and that passion is being wasted in the gallery. Maybe it's time to consider requesting a transfer to someone who actually appreciates what you bring to the table."
Harry's blood runs cold. A transfer. He hadn't even considered that possibility, but of course she could request one. Any attending would be lucky to have her, and after three days of being benched, she'd have legitimate grounds for the request.
The thought of losing her to another service, of watching someone else mentor her and guide her surgical education, makes Harry feel physically sick.
"I...I'll think about it," Y/N says quietly, and Harry has to grip the edge of the table to keep from standing up and interrupting their conversation.
"Good," Liam says, his hand briefly touching her arm in a gesture that's meant to be comforting but looks possessive to Harry's increasingly agitated mind. "And think about that drink too. You've been working yourself ragged, and everyone needs to blow off steam sometimes."
Y/N nods, finally getting her water bottle from the vending machine. "I should get back. The afternoon surgeries start soon."
"Of course," Liam says, but as she turns to go, he calls after her. "Y/N? For what it's worth, I think you're going to be an incredible surgeon. Don't let anyone make you doubt that."
She gives him a grateful smile before heading toward the door, and Harry has to force himself to look down at his notes as she passes his table. But he can feel her presence, can smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with surgical soap, and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to look up.
Once she's gone, Liam remains by the vending machine, and Harry can feel the nurse's eyes on him. When he finally looks up, Liam is staring at him with undisguised contempt.
"She's too good for you," Liam says simply.
Harry stands slowly, his full height giving him several inches on the nurse. "Excuse me?"
"Dr. Y/L/N," Liam clarifies, not backing down despite the danger in Harry's voice. "She's brilliant, dedicated, and kind. And you're wasting her talent because your ego can't handle being challenged by someone who actually knows what they're talking about."
Harry takes a step closer, his voice dropping to that quiet tone that usually makes people scramble to apologize. "I'd be very careful about how you speak to an attending physician, Nurse Payne."
But Liam doesn't flinch. "I've been here five years, Dr. Styles. I've seen you with interns before. You challenge them, push them, make them better. But with her, it's different. You're not trying to teach her - you're trying to break her. And the only question is whether it's because she's a woman, or because she gets under your skin in ways you don't want to admit."
Harry's hands clench into fists at his sides. "You're out of line."
"Am I?" Liam asks, tilting his head. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're threatened by her. Maybe because she's smarter than half the residents you've trained, or maybe because she's not intimidated by your reputation. Either way, it's pathetic."
Before Harry can respond, Liam walks away, leaving him standing alone in the break room with his thoughts racing and his pulse pounding with a combination of rage and something that feels uncomfortably like shame.
Because the worst part is, Liam isn't entirely wrong. Harry has been harder on Y/N than he normally would be on an intern, and it's not because she's incompetent or disrespectful. It's because she challenges him, pushes back against his authority, and makes him feel things that he has no business feeling about someone under his supervision.
And now she's considering a transfer, potentially to someone who would appreciate her abilities without all the complicated emotions Harry seems incapable of managing. Someone like Liam, who sees her brilliance without feeling threatened by it, who can offer her friendship and maybe more without the ethical complications of the attending-intern relationship.
The thought makes Harry feel slightly nauseous.
He looks at his watch - fifteen minutes until his next surgery. Fifteen minutes to decide whether his pride is worth losing the most promising intern he's seen in years to another attending, or worse, to a nurse who clearly has designs on more than just professional mentorship.
Harry gathers his notes and heads toward the OR, but his mind isn't on the upcoming procedure. It's on hazel eyes and stubborn determination, on perfect coffee and peace offerings he'd thrown back in her face, and on the growing realization that he might be about to lose something important because he's too proud to admit when he's wrong.
Three days suddenly feels like far too long.
Harry catches sight of Y/N's familiar figure heading toward the elevator that leads to the observation gallery, her shoulders set in that determined line he's come to recognize. She's carrying her tablet and a coffee - not the good kind she'd brought him, just hospital cafeteria swill - and there's something about the resigned set of her posture that makes his chest tighten.
Three days of watching her take notes from above while he operates below. Three days of missing her quick hands and quicker mind in his OR. Liam Payne's words echoing in his head: "you're wasting her talent because your ego can't handle being challenged."
The conversation in the break room plays on repeat in his mind - Y/N's defensive tone when Liam called him an ass, the way she'd said "he's also brilliant" like she was trying to convince herself as much as Liam. And then that quiet "I'll think about it" when he'd suggested she request a transfer.
Harry's stride falters as he approaches the OR prep area. His pride has been his constant companion for three days, whispering that she needs to learn her place, that she hasn't properly apologized, that giving in now would show weakness. But watching her walk toward another day of observation, another day of wasted potential, makes something crack in his chest.
Before he can stop himself, the words tumble out in a low mutter.
"Scrub in."
Y/N's steps pause, and she turns around, her hazel eyes wide with surprise and something that might be hope.
"What?"
Harry feels heat creep up his neck as he realizes she heard him. His instinct is to backtrack, to claim he was talking to someone else, to maintain the cold distance he's cultivated for three days. But the way she's looking at him - cautious but eager, like she's afraid to believe what she just heard - makes him double down instead.
He rolls his eyes, injecting as much irritation into his voice as he can manage to cover the fact that his heart is beating faster than it should be.
"I said scrub in," he snaps, his tone sharp and impatient. "You're on the floor today."
He turns away quickly, heading toward the prep area before she can respond, before she can see the relief that's probably written all over his face. Before she can see that this isn't about her earning her way back through good behavior or proper apologies - this is about him finally admitting, at least to himself, that he'd rather have her challenging him in his OR than watching someone else appreciate her brilliance.
As he pushes through the doors to begin his surgical prep, Harry catches a glimpse of Y/N's reflection in the glass - she's standing frozen for a moment, her expression caught between disbelief and something that looks like gratitude. Then she's moving, heading toward the prep area with quick, determined steps.
Harry focuses on the familiar ritual of scrubbing in, letting the routine calm his racing pulse. He tells himself this is purely professional - she's a competent intern and he needs competent help in the OR. It has nothing to do with the way her eyes light up when she talks about surgery, or how she'd defended him to Liam even after three days of being benched, or the growing realization that he'd rather argue with Y/N than have comfortable silence with anyone else.
Nothing to do with any of that at all.
But as he dries his hands and prepares to gown up, Harry can't quite suppress the anticipation building in his chest. Having Y/N back in his OR feels like coming up for air after three days of holding his breath - necessary, vital, and long overdue.
He just hopes he can manage not to screw it up again.
Y/N arrives at the hospital by 5:30 AM on Monday, her right side throbbing with each step despite the ibuprofen she'd taken at 2 AM and again at 5. It had started as a dull ache over the weekend, easy enough to ignore as she caught up on medical journals and prepared for the week ahead. But sometime during the night, it had intensified to a sharp, localized pain that made her curl into a ball in bed, breathing through gritted teeth.
Still, she's not about to call in sick. Not when she's finally back in Harry's good graces - or at least, back in his OR. The past four days have been a blur of surgeries, each one more challenging than the last, as if he's testing her limits. And she's met every challenge, staying later than required, volunteering for extra procedures, and impressing even the most skeptical scrub nurses with her focused dedication.
She checks her reflection in the hospital bathroom mirror, wincing at what she sees. Her normally warm skin has a sickly pallor, and there are dark circles under her eyes that her concealer barely touches. When she presses her hand against her forehead, she can feel the heat radiating from her skin - definitely a fever, though she hopes the ibuprofen will keep it under control until her shift ends.
A wave of nausea hits her suddenly, and she grips the edge of the sink, breathing deeply through her nose until it passes. This is fine. She's fine. It's probably just a stomach bug combined with exhaustion from the grueling week. Nothing that should keep her from the three surgeries on today's schedule - especially the mitral valve repair that Harry is performing, a procedure she's been hoping to observe up close since her first rotation.
After splashing cold water on her face and taking a few steadying breaths, Y/N heads to the surgical floor, her pace deliberately measured to minimize the pain in her side. She finds Harry at the nurses' station, his tall frame leaning over the desk as he reviews something with the OR coordinator. Even at this ungodly hour, he looks perfect - freshly showered, his damp hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck, his scrubs somehow making him look like he should be on the cover of a medical journal rather than in an actual hospital.
It's deeply unfair that someone so insufferable should be so attractive.
"Dr. Styles," she greets him, pleased that her voice comes out steady despite the fever making her feel slightly disconnected from her body. "I reviewed the Henderson chart like you asked. The latest scans show the tumor has decreased by approximately 8% following radiation."
Harry looks up from his conversation, his green eyes scanning her face for a moment before narrowing slightly.
"Dr. Y/L/N," he acknowledges with a nod. "Eight percent is consistent with our projections. We'll need to discuss next steps with the family, but that's a promising start."
The OR coordinator hands him a tablet with what appears to be the day's surgical schedule, and Harry scrolls through it with practiced efficiency.
"You'll be assisting on all three procedures today," he informs her, not looking up from the screen. "The mitral valve repair is scheduled for 9 AM, followed by the CABG at noon, and the aortic dissection repair at 3. Dr. Williams will be joining us for the dissection - he's considering a new approach to the reimplantation technique."
Y/N's stomach lurches at the thought of standing for three consecutive surgeries, but she nods professionally. "I'll be ready."
Harry finally looks up from the tablet, his gaze sharpening as it lands on her face. "Are you feeling alright, Dr. Y/L/N? You look pale."
Y/N straightens her posture, ignoring the stabbing pain the movement causes. "I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well."
Harry studies her for a moment longer, clearly not entirely convinced, but then the OR coordinator calls his attention back to a scheduling conflict, and Y/N takes the opportunity to retreat to the break room for coffee, hoping the caffeine might help clear the fog from her brain.
By the time the first surgery begins, Y/N has taken two more ibuprofen and is running on sheer determination. She stands at Harry's side during the mitral valve repair, her hands steady despite the pain radiating from her right side, focusing all her attention on the delicate work happening before her.
Halfway through the procedure, Harry glances up at her. "Dr. Y/L/N, can you identify the anomaly in the chordae tendineae?"
Y/N leans closer, momentarily forgetting her discomfort in the face of the surgical challenge. "The anterior leaflet chords appear to be elongated, causing prolapse during systole."
Harry nods, a hint of approval in his eyes. "Correct. And our approach?"
"Chordal replacement with PTFE sutures," she answers promptly. "Gore-Tex artificial chords have shown superior durability compared to traditional repair methods."
"Very good," Harry murmurs, his focus returning to the heart before him. "Would you like to place the first suture?"
The opportunity to actually participate in such a delicate procedure momentarily overrides Y/N's physical discomfort. With careful precision, she takes the instrument Harry offers and places the suture exactly where needed, her hands perfectly steady despite the fever she can feel building behind her eyes.
Harry watches her work, his expression unreadable behind his surgical mask, but when she finishes, he gives her a short nod. "Clean placement. Continue."
Coming from Harry Styles, it's practically effusive praise, and Y/N feels a flush of pride that has nothing to do with her fever.
The surgery continues for another two hours, and by the end, Y/N is struggling to remain upright. The pain in her side has intensified to a constant, searing presence, and she's acutely aware of sweat beading at her hairline despite the cool temperature of the OR.
As they scrub out, Harry notices her uncharacteristic silence. "That was good work in there, Dr. Y/L/N. Your suture technique has improved significantly."
Y/N manages a weak smile, focusing on the mechanical motions of washing her hands to distract from the pain. "Thank you. It was an interesting case."
Harry studies her over the top of his surgical mask, which he hasn't yet removed. "You're certain you're feeling well? The CABG is likely to run at least three hours, and the dissection repair could be longer depending on what we find."
Pride and stubbornness war with common sense in Y/N's mind. Admitting weakness feels like failure, especially after fighting so hard to get back into Harry's good graces. But the pain is becoming harder to ignore, and she's not sure she can stand for another six hours of surgery.
"I'm fine," she insists, the words coming out more sharply than intended. "I can handle it."
Harry's eyes narrow slightly at her tone, but he doesn't push the issue. "Very well. We have an hour before the next procedure. Review the patient's angiogram results and meet me in pre-op at 11:45."
Y/N nods and heads to the break room, collapsing into a chair as soon as she's out of Harry's sight. She presses a hand against her right side, feeling heat radiating through her scrubs. The pain is localized just below her ribcage, a constant, stabbing sensation that intensifies with movement.
She pulls out her phone and quickly googles her symptoms, though she already has a suspicion about what's happening. Right upper quadrant pain, fever, nausea - classic presentation of cholecystitis, possibly with gallstones. Nothing immediately life-threatening, but definitely something that should be addressed before it progresses to a more serious infection.
The rational, medical part of her brain tells her to go to the ER and get an ultrasound. The stubborn, prideful part reminds her that she has two more surgeries today, and that Harry has finally started to respect her skills.
In the end, pride wins out. She takes two more ibuprofen, drinks a full bottle of water, and forces herself to review the CABG patient's file, ignoring the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like her medical school professor warning about the dangers of self-diagnosis and delayed treatment.
By the time she meets Harry in pre-op, the ibuprofen has taken the edge off the pain, but her fever is definitely higher. She feels slightly disconnected from her body, as if she's operating it from a distance, and the bright lights of the surgical floor seem to pierce directly into her brain.
Harry is already speaking with the patient, his bedside manner surprisingly gentle as he explains the procedure. When he notices Y/N, he motions her over.
"Dr. Y/L/N will be assisting me today," he tells the patient, a 62-year-old man with severe coronary artery disease. "She's one of our most promising surgical interns."
The unexpected compliment would normally send a surge of pride through Y/N, but at the moment, she's too focused on remaining upright to fully appreciate it. She manages a professional smile for the patient and listens as Harry continues his explanation, but the words seem to blur together, muffled by the pounding in her head.
As they prepare to enter the OR, Harry pulls her aside, his voice low. "Last chance to tell me if you're not up for this, Dr. Y/L/N."
Y/N shakes her head, immediately regretting the movement as pain lances through her skull. "I'm fine. Just focused."
Harry doesn't look convinced, but he nods and leads the way into the OR.
The CABG proceeds without incident for the first hour, Y/N forcing herself to remain focused despite the escalating pain in her side. But as they approach the second hour, standing in the same position while maintaining perfect concentration becomes increasingly difficult. The room seems too hot, then too cold, and the lights overhead begin to blur at the edges of her vision.
She's reaching for a retractor when a particularly sharp pain causes her to inhale sharply, her hand faltering for just a moment.
Harry's head snaps up immediately, his eyes finding hers over his surgical mask. "Dr. Y/L/N?"
"Sorry," she manages, steadying her hand through sheer force of will. "I'm good."
But she's not good. The pain is radiating outward now, and she can feel sweat soaking through her scrubs despite the cool temperature of the OR. Her vision tunnels briefly, and she grips the edge of the operating table to steady herself.
Harry notices the white-knuckled grip, his eyes narrowing as he takes in her pallor and the sheen of sweat on her forehead. "Dr. Y/L/N, step back from the table."
"I'm fine," she insists, but her voice sounds distant even to her own ears.
"That wasn't a request," Harry says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Dr. Williams, please take over for Dr. Y/L/N."
The senior resident moves to replace Y/N at the table, and she reluctantly steps back, the movement sending another wave of pain through her abdomen so intense that she gasps audibly.
Harry's eyes flick to her for a moment, clearly concerned, but he can't leave the patient's open chest. His voice is tightly controlled when he speaks again. "Dr. Y/L/N, you are excused from this procedure. Report to the ER for evaluation immediately."
Y/N wants to argue, wants to insist that she can continue, but a wave of dizziness washes over her as she takes a step toward the door. The last thing she sees before her vision goes completely dark is Harry's alarmed expression, his hands still deep in the patient's chest but his attention entirely on her.
Then the floor seems to rush up to meet her, and everything goes black.
When Y/N next opens her eyes, she's lying on a hospital bed, an IV in her arm and a familiar beeping sound indicating her heart rate is being monitored. The pain in her side is still present but duller, suggesting she's been given something stronger than ibuprofen.
She blinks against the harsh lighting, trying to orient herself, when a voice from beside the bed startles her.
"Welcome back."
Harry is sitting in a chair next to her bed, still in his surgical scrubs, his hair disheveled as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. He looks tired and rumpled, a far cry from his usually immaculate appearance.
Y/N tries to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at her side. "The CABG—"
"Is finished. Dr. Williams closed while I was dealing with your medical emergency," Harry says, his voice clipped but lacking its usual edge. "You have acute cholecystitis with multiple gallstones. Your gallbladder is severely inflamed and needs to be removed. Dr. Martinez is prepping for laparoscopic surgery now."
Y/N closes her eyes briefly, embarrassment washing over her. "I'm sorry. I thought I could manage it."
"You thought you could 'manage' a medical emergency that required immediate surgical intervention?" Harry's voice is incredulous, and when Y/N opens her eyes, she sees a mix of anger and something else. Was that concern in his expression? "You could have gone septic. Your fever was 103.5 when they brought you in. What were you thinking?"
The genuine worry in his voice catches Y/N off guard. She expected anger, disappointment, perhaps even mockery, but not this concern.
"I didn't want to let you down," she admits quietly. "After everything last week...I didn't want to seem weak."
Something shifts in Harry's expression, a softening around the eyes that makes him look suddenly younger, less like the intimidating attending and more like a worried colleague.
His hands still on the edge of her bed, and when he speaks, his voice is gentler than she's ever heard it. "Y/N, I need you to be honest with me. On a scale of one to ten, how bad was the pain when you came in this morning?"
The use of her first name, the soft concern in his voice - it breaks down the last of her defenses.
"Eight," she whispers. "Maybe nine by the time I collapsed."
Harry runs a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted. "Jesus Christ. And you were going to stand through three surgeries?"
"I didn't want to disappoint you," she repeats, her voice small.
Harry's expression cycles through several emotions before settling on something close to guilt. "You didn't disappoint me. You scared the hell out of me in there," he admits quietly. "When you collapsed...I've never run so fast in my life."
The admission hangs in the air between them, more intimate than anything either of them has shared before. Y/N stares at him, seeing him in a completely different light. This isn't the arrogant, cocky surgeon she's been battling with for weeks. This is a man who was genuinely terrified when he thought something might be seriously wrong with her.
"Harry..." she starts, but he's already pulling back, the professional mask sliding back into place.
"Dr. Martinez will be here shortly to discuss the procedure," he says, standing from the chair. "I'll check on you after your surgery."
He pauses at the door, looking back at her with an expression she can't quite decipher. "And Dr. Y/L/N? Next time you're in pain, tell me. That's not weakness; it's common sense. I need my surgical team at full capacity, not collapsing in my OR."
Before she can respond, he's gone, leaving Y/N to wonder if she imagined the genuine concern in his voice, or if there might be more to Dr. Harry Styles than the arrogant facade he presents to the world.
Either way, she has a feeling their working relationship has just shifted into something new and unfamiliar - something that makes her heart beat a little faster despite the pain in her side and the embarrassment of collapsing in the middle of surgery.
She just hopes she's still here to explore it once Dr. Martinez removes her very angry gallbladder.
Y/N drifts in and out of consciousness following her surgery, the anesthesia gradually releasing its hold on her mind. The first time she wakes, everything is hazy and distant, the pain in her side a dull throb beneath the blanket of medication. The second time, she's aware enough to recognize a nurse checking her vitals before slipping back into dreamless sleep.
The third time she wakes, her mind is finally clear enough to take in her surroundings. She's in a private recovery room - unusual for an intern, who would typically be placed in a semi-private room at best. The blinds are partially drawn, allowing soft afternoon light to filter through, casting the room in a gentle glow.
Her gaze lands on her bedside table, and she blinks in surprise. A stunning arrangement of flowers dominates the small space - not the typical cheerful get-well bouquet from the hospital gift shop, but an elegant display of white peonies, pale blue hydrangeas, and sprigs of eucalyptus that look like they came from a high-end florist. The crystal vase alone probably costs more than most of her textbooks.
With careful movements, mindful of her IV and the tenderness around her incision sites, Y/N reaches for the small card nestled among the blooms. The envelope is heavy cream cardstock, her name written in a precise, angular hand that she recognizes immediately from surgical notes and patient charts.
Her fingers tremble slightly as she opens it, though she tells herself it's just residual weakness from the surgery.
Inside, the message is brief, the handwriting unmistakably Harry's:
Gallbladders are overrated anyway. Yours was particularly troublesome. 4 stones and severe inflammation. Surgery went well. Rest and recover. Don't even think about coming back until Martinez clears you.
- H
P.S. Next time tell me when you're dying, Y/L/N. I'd prefer to operate on you rather than letting someone else
Y/N reads the note twice, a surprised laugh escaping her at the postscript. It's so quintessentially Harry - gruff, direct, managing to sound both concerned and annoyed simultaneously. But beneath the brusque tone, there's something that feels almost like care.
She's still holding the card when the door to her room opens and a nurse enters, carrying a chart and looking pleased to find her awake.
"Dr. Y/L/N, good to see you with us again," the nurse says cheerfully. "I'm Aaron, I'll be looking after you this shift. How's your pain level on a scale of one to ten?"
"About a four," Y/N answers honestly, setting the card back among the flowers. "Manageable."
Aaron checks her vitals and makes notes on his tablet before nodding at the impressive floral arrangement. "Those arrived about an hour after your surgery. Dr. Styles had them delivered while you were still in recovery."
There's something knowing in Aaron's tone that makes Y/N's cheeks warm slightly. "He's my attending," she explains, as if that clarifies anything.
"Mmhmm," Aaron hums noncommittally, checking her IV. "You know, I've worked here five years, and I've seen plenty of surgeons' interns end up as patients. Never seen Dr. Styles send flowers to any of them. Or visit the recovery room three times to check on their status."
Y/N's eyes widen at this revelation. "He came to recovery?"
"Oh yes," Aaron confirms, adjusting something on her monitor. "First time was right after your surgery finished. Then again about two hours later. And once more just before his afternoon surgery. Very concerned about your post-op condition for someone who's 'just an attending.'"
The nurse's air quotes around the phrase make Y/N flush deeper.
"It's not like that," she insists, though even to her own ears the protest sounds weak. "We have a...complicated working relationship."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Aaron grins, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "Well, whatever it is, it got you a private room. Dr. Styles insisted. Said something about you needing proper rest without roommates disturbing you."
Y/N glances around the room with new appreciation. Private rooms are typically reserved for patients with infectious conditions, high-profile individuals, or those whose families can afford to pay the difference. For an intern to be placed in one is virtually unheard of.
"He shouldn't have done that," she murmurs, though she can't deny the comfort of having a space to recover without the constant noise and interruption of a shared room.
"If it makes you feel better, he also spent ten minutes chewing out some poor first-year resident for not recognizing your symptoms earlier," Aaron adds cheerfully as he makes final adjustments to her IV. "The entire nurses' station heard it. Something about 'basic medical competence' and 'obvious signs of acute abdominal distress.' The resident looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die."
Despite herself, Y/N feels a small, guilty thrill at the thought of Harry defending her - even if it was in his typical brusque, intimidating manner.
"That's...not actually comforting," she says, though she can't quite suppress a smile. "Now I feel bad for the resident."
"Don't," Aaron assures her. "It was Stevens. He's had it coming for months. Thinks he knows everything because his father's some hotshot surgeon in Boston."
The nurse finishes his checks and heads toward the door. "Dr. Martinez will be by soon to check your incisions. You should try to rest until then. And maybe think about what you're going to say to Dr. Styles when he inevitably stops by later."
"What makes you think he'll visit?" Y/N asks, trying to sound casual.
Aaron just gives her a knowing look. "Because he specifically asked to be notified when you were fully awake and coherent. And because those flowers cost more than my monthly car payment."
With that parting shot, he leaves Y/N alone with her thoughts and the extravagant bouquet that seems to carry more meaning than she's ready to examine.
She picks up Harry's note again, tracing her finger over his initials. Just a professional courtesy, she tells herself. The actions of a concerned attending physician looking after his intern. Nothing more.
But as she settles back against the pillows, waiting for Dr. Martinez's visit, Y/N can't help but wonder if the complicated dynamic between her and Harry Styles might be evolving into something neither of them had anticipated - something that goes beyond the hierarchy of attending and intern, beyond their professional antagonism, into territory that makes her pulse quicken in ways that have nothing to do with her recent surgery.
She's still contemplating this unsettling possibility when exhaustion overtakes her once more, and she drifts back to sleep with the scent of peonies filling the room and Harry's note clutched loosely in her hand.
Do we love the banner… YUH??! Made by me. ANYWAYS! Today’s special yap session distinguishes the concepts of belief and skills when it comes to manifestation/shifting.
In the 3D realm... we are used to developing physical/mental skills. Whether it might be gaining skills at playing an instrument, problem solving, communication, driving, creativity, any skills you can think of. We can only get good at something if we practice. I'm sure we've all heard the phrase 'Practice makes perfect!'. As humans, we have been conditioned to believe that if we wish to become excellent at something, we must acquire the necessary skills. Unfortunately, this mindset has gradually found its way into the manifestation world, where people think they need to develop skills in order to master manifestation.
See, you may not be aware, but skills in the manifestation world all come down to belief. EVEN when you are practicing physical skills in your every day life. Do you believe that doing something a certain way will help you see progress? If yes, then you will see PROGRESS!
I'll give you a real life example. I am a guitar player, and I believe that if I practice every single day, then I will enhance my skills and improve my technical abilities, chord transitions, and rhythmic timing. Have I seen improvements? YES! Why...? BECAUSE I BELIEVED AND ASSUMED I WILL. It would be different if I assumed "ugh no matter how much I practice, I just can't get better!" I'd still suck at transitioning from chord C to chord G. Is this the LOA in action? YES! Because I assumed that practicing will help me get better.
LOA/shifting realities doesn't need you to develop skills because it is already something you do every single millisecond through countless decision-making and the actions you take to respond to an incident. It needs belief. No matter what method you do, meditation you practice, subliminals you listen to, it all depends on if you BELIEVE that it'll work.
Let's say you wish to enter the void state tonight, and there are many different techniques/meditations you can utilise to help you enter that state of consciousness. If you believe and assume that meditation is the way to go and you start to practice that technique, then guess who's entering the void state? YOU! Why? Because you believed (with no proof) it will help. And this applies to LITERALLY EVERY SINGLE TECHNIQUE OUT THERE. Subliminals... methods... anything. If you believe that you aren't required to do any techniques or meditations to get into the void state (or shift/manifest in general), then done. That's your belief.
Now I see a lot of people debating whether shifting requires effort or not, and again, it comes down to if you BELIEVE shifting requires effort or not. Some people believe it requires effort, and some people don't bother putting effort. Who's wrong? No one. The only effort you need to put in is remaining faithful to your beliefs so they at least have the chance to prove themselves to you. That's it. Each individual has their own unique beliefs/assumptions which will reflect into their 3D world so you can't really argue with someone and tell them they're wrong if they say shifting requires effort or not. That's the ENTIRE point of this law. What you believe and assume with the absence of proof will be directly reflected into your world.
Can you do the Saja boys with a sassy reader ? Please
Yes yes yes—this is gonna be so fun. 😌🔥
🌙 Saja Boys x Sassy!Reader
------------------------------
🧿 Jinu
Jinu didn’t know what to do with you at first.
You called him “spellboy” and “rulebook with legs.” You poked fun at his dramatic speeches and perfectionist tendencies. You made fun of his color-coded pantry.
“You know no one’s grading your seasoning technique, right?”
He flushed. “I like things in order.”
You grinned. “Adorable. Like a haunted librarian with control issues.”
He was horrified. Then deeply flustered. Then… kinda into it?
Because for all your sass, you never mocked what mattered. You just knew when to push him. When to tease. When to lean in and smile like you knew you’d already won.
And Jinu? He loved the challenge.
So, eventually… he tried to push back.
“Well at least I don’t smell like sarcasm and impulse decisions.”
You blinked. “Did you just weaponize my aura?”
He panicked. “Yes? No? Paprika?”
You laughed so hard he had to leave the room.
He tried again later—with contour and cheekbone jokes.
You told him he was glowing and kissed his cheek.
He’s never recovered.
------------------------------
💪 Abby
You roasted Abby daily and he loved every second of it.
“Those muscles are for show. I’ve seen you cry during animal commercials.”
“That dog deserved love,” he sniffed.
You called him a himbo. A protein-obsessed golden retriever in gym shorts. You mocked his love for flexing while doing completely normal things like making toast.
Abby just beamed at you like you were paying him compliments.
But one day, he got brave. Too brave.
“You’re like a… spicy pigeon!”
You blinked. “A what?”
He panicked. “You know! Small and aggressive but also cute???”
He bought you bird-themed apology cookies.
You teased him while eating one shaped like a chicken nugget.
He called you his favorite bird anyway.
Later, he whispered to Romance, “They’re chaos. But I like that they talk to me like I’m human.”
------------------------------
📚 Mystery
You called him "the Cryptid King of Brooding."
Said he was 80% shadow and 20% passive-aggressive silence.
Once told him he looked like a cursed Victorian cat ghost.
He blinked. You blinked.
Then he smiled.
Mystery never reacted much. He’d just watch you, silently, like you were a riddle. And then later, he’d leave a post-it note somewhere weird that said things like:
“Your mouth moves faster than fate.”
He did try to sass you once. You teased his dramatic hoodie collection and he replied:
“I don’t talk much because I like the sound of you failing out loud.”
You: “EXCUSE ME???”
Mystery: sips tea like nothing happened
You still haven’t won that round, but he also keeps a file of your best comebacks written in his handwriting.
He calls it “field research.”
You call it what it is: romantic.
------------------------------
💋 Romance
You were his dream sparring partner.
You: “You think every problem can be solved with eyeliner and innuendo.”
Romance: “And yet here we are. You’re still in love with me.”
He flirts? You roast. He poses? You roll your eyes.
You once called his morning routine “budget drama club cosplay” and he fainted theatrically onto a couch pillow.
One day, he tried to come in hot.
“You’re like a cat. If it was raised on sarcasm and emotional suppression.”
You just sipped your drink.
“I am a cat. And you? You’re the knockoff laser pointer no one asked for.”
Romance stared at you for five full seconds before collapsing into laughter and saying, “God, marry me.”
(He has not stopped proposing since.)
------------------------------
🔥 Baby
Baby gives as good as he gets.
You sass him? He’s already halfway through the comeback.
You: “You lurk like a sleep paralysis demon.”
Baby: “And you talk like you peaked in middle school.”
You throw shade? He throws it right back, deadpan and devastating.
The group chat once exploded when the two of you debated who looked more feral in the morning—neither of you conceded.
But the moment you soften? The moment you smile at him all cocky and say:
“You like me anyway.”
He doesn’t argue.
He just stares at you for a beat too long, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. Then walks off—calm, unreadable.
Later that night, you find a little container of your favorite snack on your bed. No note. No explanation.
But the lid’s sealed with tape in the shape of a tiny flame.
He never brings it up.
But the next time you sass him in public, he just raises a brow and says,
“Say that again, see what I don’t do for you later.”
For as long as you can remember, you’ve never and I mean never been good at math. Sure basic stuff like; BEDMAS, 9*9, y=mx+b, blahblah pretty easy. But, when it comes to; trigonometry (sin, cos, tan), factoring quadratics, proofs, SOHCAHTOA, etc. Yeah you’re done for..
Though it wasn’t entirely your fault, your teacher simply is better at teaching combat techniques and knowing how to sense cursed energy from others rather than actual school like topics.
So the first time Megumi offered to tutor you, it didn't really sound like an offer.
"...You got a sixty-seven."
You looked down at the test paper before shrugging.
"...I mean, I passed."
"Barely."
"I still passed."
Megumi sighed, the kind that suggested he was already questioning every decision that had led to this conversation.
"You guessed on half the questions."
“But I guessed correctly."
"...That's not how studying works."
You folded your arms with a small grin.
"So... you're helping me?"
He stared at you for a moment before closing your test paper.
"...Library. After training."
—
By the time you arrived, Megumi was already waiting in your usual corner.
Of course he was.
A neat stack of textbooks sat beside him, each one opened to the exact page you'd need.
"...You're late."
You glanced at the clock.
"...By like two minutes."
"Mhm."
"You counted?"
"...Yes."
"...That's a little concerning."
"...Sit."
Trying not to laugh, you dropped into the chair across from him and pulled out your notebook.
Megumi took one look at the page.
Then another.
"...What happened here?"
You leaned over to look.
"Oh."
Between SOH notes sat three tiny doodles, a shopping list, and a poorly drawn cat wearing sunglasses.
"...He was emotional support."
Megumi closed his eyes.
"...Right.”
“I mean who even came up with the term ‘SOHCAHTOA’, it sounds like a Pokémon..?”
You hear him sigh through his nose.
“…That’s not how that works.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Just work.”
—
Studying with Megumi was... surprisingly nice
Well...
Once you actually started studying.
"You forgot a pencil."
"I 100% remembered this morning."
"...And then what happened?”
"...Then I forgot again."
Without a word, he slid one across the table.
"You brought two."
"I knew you would."
"...You planned for me forgetting?"
"...Yes."
You smiled.
“Awww that's kind of sweet."
"It was practical."
"Mhm… If you say so."
He pretended not to hear you.
—
The library was unusually quiet that afternoon, rain tapping softly against the windows while the rest of Jujutsu High finished training outside.
You'd been staring at the same math problem for nearly five minutes.
"...I don't get it."
Megumi looked over.
“You do.”
“Megumi, I promise— I really don't."
"You solved the harder question earlier."
"...That was pure luck."
"It wasn't."
You frowned at the paper.
“Still, it doesn't make sense."
He shifted his chair a little closer, pointing toward the first few lines.
“Look, you've already done the difficult part."
"I have?"
"Mhm."
"Then why does it feel impossible?"
"...Because you're overthinking it."
You let out a small sigh.
“Do I do that a lot?”
"...Yeah, a bit.”
"...Sorry."
Megumi looked up.
"For what?"
"...Being dumb.”
His eyebrows pulled together almost immediately.
"...You're not."
"I kind of am."
"No."
The answer came so quickly it made you blink.
"You just..."
He tapped the edge of your notebook with his pencil.
"...Don't realize when you're right."
The room fell quiet.
Rain continued tapping against the glass while you looked between him and the unfinished problem.
"...You're smarter than you think."
There wasn't an ounce of hesitation in his voice.
No pity.
No empty encouragement.
Just quiet certainty.
As though he'd believed it long before you ever could.
You looked back down at the page.
"...Can I try again?"
He nodded once.
"...Go ahead."
This time...
The numbers actually made sense.
A few minutes later, you set your pencil down.
"...I think I got it."
Megumi checked your work before giving a small nod.
"...You did."
You couldn't stop smiling.
"I didn't even ask for help."
“...You didn’t need it.”
—
A month later, your teacher handed back another test.
You stared at the grade.
Then looked again.
"...No way."
89%.
Before the bell had even finished ringing, you were already running across campus.
You nearly tripped over a step, apologized to Panda after almost crashing into him, and finally spotted Megumi sitting beneath a tree with a mission report in his lap.
"Megumi!"
He looked up.
"...What happened?"
Without saying anything, you held the paper out toward him.
He took it, reading the number in silence.
"...Eighty-nine."
"I know!"
"I actually got an eighty-freaking nine!"
You couldn't stop smiling.
"I understood basically everything."
Megumi looked at the paper one last time before handing it back.
"...Knew you could."
You stared at him.
"...That's it?"
He tilted his head.
"...What else?"
"I don't know."
“…Maybe a congratulations?, a hug, a gift— anything..?”
He thought for a second.
Then, quietly...
"...I'm proud of you."
The words caught you completely off guard.
Not because you hadn't hoped he'd say something.
Because he said it so naturally.
Like it had been obvious all along.
You looked down at the test in your hands, the bold red 89% suddenly meaning a little more than it had a minute ago.
"...Thanks."
"Mhm."
The two of you started walking back toward the dorms together.
Comfortable.
Quiet.
Halfway there, Megumi spoke again.
"...Don't lose that paper."
You laughed.
“I’d protect this with my whole life.”
"...Good."
"...Why?"
He glanced at you for only a second.
"...Proof."
"Proof of what?"
"...That you were always capable of more than you thought."
You looked at him for a moment before smiling to yourself.
Maybe...
The best thing Megumi had taught you wasn't how to solve equations.
It was how to believe the answer was already there.
a/n : Can you tell what my worst subject is? I wasn't planning on posting but I figured I should before I take a step back from writing. I'm not in the best place mentally right now but it's okay we ball :) AGAIN as I always state, English isn't my first language please excuse any errors and, don't be afraid to correct me & thank you all so much for the support-- I appreciate it with my whole heart. (this is the last time I'll change my theme okay. I made the div myself im so proud and goated yay)
Pick an Item:Your Romantic Love Life in June 2026.
Hello everyone, Pick one thing from the above image using your intuition and then scroll down for the reading!
Strawberry (1):
This pile suggests that what you are seeking in your relationship doesn’t have a strong foundation right now. However, whatever your partner is seeking in the relationship will result in abundance and prosperity for both of you. Also, your perspectives and experiences in love differ from your partner’s viewpoints. But when it comes to doing something together, you and your partner are very versatile in collaborating and working with each other and other people as well. You both try to avoid conflict in the relationship and highly respect each other’s differences.
The relationship seems to be working, however, one of the partner may have some manipulative tendencies. He/She may be using manipulative techniques in a manner that usually goes unnoticed by the other partner.
This doesn’t mean that they aren’t in love. It’s just how they behave in relationships and life.
Cherry (2):
This pile is saying that you may want to reconcile with your partner and practice forgiveness. This relationship may have ended or is on the verge of collapsing. Your partner is also seeking something to change the way things are right now. You both are a little different when it comes to intuition and communication. You seem to be more on the emotional and spiritual side, on the contrary, your partner appears to rely heavily on mental and physical aspects of their life. However, you both are very honest and disciplined with great problem solving skills.
In addition, both of you respect each other’s emotional choices and are very supportive of each other. You both also seem to share some common values and beliefs that will really help you achieve success in life and a long term relationship.
Bow (3):
This pile indicates that you and your partner have difficulties in finding a solution for your problems. Something blocks both of you from concluding the matter. Your partner wants to have a deep conversation with you but for some reason, that conversation often gets either interrupted or becomes awkward. From the cards, I can say that he/she might be a little dominant or trying to dominate the relationship.
One of you is a quick decision maker, however, the other partner takes time before deciding further steps. This difference sometimes results in arguments leading to impulsive actions. There is a need for both of you to understand each other on a deeper level. Take out some time for each other and try to have a good conversation with them.
Unicorn (4):
This pile indicates that you are seeking emotional abundance and stability from your relationship. However, your partner seems to be a little defensive about you. He/ she sometimes becomes too protective and jealous, that can lead to you feeling suffocated. It seems that you have invested emotionally too much and now need some rest to recover.
You both are interested in growing this relationship and want to invest in it. But currently, this relationship seems like a burden especially to you. In order to make this relationship work, you and your partner should pause the relationship for some time and stay in solitude in order to develop some insights and understanding about yourself.
[the cover of A consensus handbook by Seeds for Change, featuring the title in Orange lettering followed by an color drawing of 11 people working on the maintenance of a house]
I'm going to share this as a separate post for those that missed the ask: A consensus handbook by Seeds for Change https://seedsforchange.org.uk/handbook is a free and very handy guide to how to take decisions as a group without leaders or hierarchies. I'm going to drop the chapters here to show off just how much useful stuff it has. If you work with consensus, there's almost certainly a problem in here that you recognize and wish you had some answers to!
1: Making decisions by consensus
What’s wrong with the democracy we’ve got? - Why use consensus?
How does consensus work? - The consensus process - Key skills and values for consensus
2: Facilitating consensus
The role of meetings in group work - What is facilitation? - Facilitating a meeting – Making meetings accessible - Taking minutes
3: Facilitating consensus in large groups
Meeting the conditions for consensus in large groups - Processes for large groups
4: Facilitating consensus in virtual meetings
Why have virtual meetings? - The tools for the job - Challenges of facilitating virtual meetings - A consensus process for virtual meetings
5: Quick consensus decision making
Preparing for quick consensus - How it works
6: Facilitation techniques and activities
Starting the meeting - Regulating the flow of the meeting - Encouraging involvement - Techniques for problem solving and tackling difficult issues - Prioritisation techniques - Activities for re-energising - Evaluating meetings
7: Troubleshooting in your meetings
Our meetings take a long time - Time pressure - Our meetings lack focus - Our group is large and we don’t enjoy meetings - We’re stuck and can’t reach a decision - Too many ideas - ‘Steamroller’ proposals - How can we deal with disruptive behaviour? - What to do when someone blocks - Our group is biased towards the status quo
8: Bridging the gap between theory and practice
Conflict and consensus - The life cycle of a conflict - Ways of dealing with conflict - Techniques for inviting collaboration
Power dynamics - Step one: What are our feelings about power
dynamics? - Step two: Diagnosis – what is actually going on - in your group? - Step three: Where do your power imbalances come from? - Step four: Work out some ways to change your power dynamics
Other common issues - External pressures - Open groups with changing membership - What if you’re the only person who wants the group to change?
9: Consensus in wider society
So how might it work? - Challenges, questions and tensions - How do we get there? - A final thought
The Ad Astra Institute for Science Fiction & the Speculative Imagination's AI Policy
Full text under the cut, below, but let's start with the positive conclusion from a brilliant new "Let's talk about AI art" comic-essay by The Oatmeal:
SF is the literature of change, and part of what's changing in our world the most is what corporations tout as "artificial intelligence." However, AI today is not what SF has long speculated about, and it's not the magic pill so many promote as the path toward creative success. Anyone looking to become skilled in the art and craft of speculative fiction needs to stay away from generative AI (genAI).
We at Ad Astra do, and we expect attendees in (and teachers of) our courses and workshops to avoid it, too.
You might be thinking, "Isn't the Ad Astra Institute all about speculative fiction? What’s more SFnal than AI?"
Yeah, well... let's take a closer look.
Our full AI policy boils down to "No GenAI slop, no plagiarism-machine botshit, here's why," and lives on our website here. Copied below the cut:
What is AI?
First of all, most of what the media discusses as "AI" and what businesses push using that name is far from it. The "positronic brain" of R Daneel Olivaw (of Asimov's series of robot stories and novels) bestows this "humaniform" robot with human-like intelligence and a capability to think, reason, imagine, and do everything else humans do - only better. He's ruled by Asimov's "Laws of Robotics," which also gives these fictional robots ethics exceeding that of many humans. HAL 9000 (of 2001: A Space Odyssey) also possesses greater-than-human intelligence and the ability to think and possibly even feel, but it was programmed without ethical rules so much as mission-related ones (you'll have to watch if you don't know 'em; no spoilers). Neuromancer, Wintermute, and other artificial intelligences and digitized human minds in Gibson's touchstone novel Neuromancer are also superintelligent, thinking machines. The movie AI: Artificial Intelligence delves into the potential emotional nature of AI. Iain M Banks' "Minds" from his Culture novels possess vast intellectual and other power.
Especially in recent years, SF offers many, many interesting and moving examples of machines that can think, create, feel, and do all the other things humans can. But they do not exist in our world. (At least, not yet.)
Non-generative AI - often referred to as "machine learning" or "neural networks" - today is technology that enables computer systems to simulate or mimic human learning, comprehension, problem solving, decision making, and autonomy in order to perform tasks too complex, fast-paced, or dangerous for humans. How NASA defines AI, per the National Defense Authorization Act of 2019:
An artificial system that performs tasks under varying and unpredictable circumstances without significant human oversight, or that can "learn" from experience and improve performance when exposed to data sets.
An artificial system developed in computer software, physical hardware, or other context that solves tasks requiring human-like perception, processing, planning, learning, communication, or physical action.
An artificial system designed to [appear to] "think" or act like a human, including cognitive architectures and neural networks.
A set of techniques, including machine learning, designed to approximate a cognitive task.
An artificial system designed to act rationally, including an intelligent software agent or embodied robot that achieves goals using perception, planning, reasoning, learning, communicating, decision-making, and acting.
Note that none of this involves creative, artistic, or otherwise imaginative or innovative cognition - or thinking at all. True(-ish) but "weak" AI systems today include weather-analysis algorithms that pore over vast amounts of data to identify patterns that help humans predict upcoming weather patterns, military drones that evade defenses and attack enemies without human intervention by using geographical maps and images of threats and targets with real-time data processing and analysis without relying on remote processing ("edge AI"), self-driving cars, pharmaceutical algorithms that process likely biological interactions with various compounds, medical systems that process patient symptoms and compare them against vast databases of known pathologies, and much more. These are all various forms of machine learning, neural networks, and so on - (misleadingly) classified in computer science as "artificial intelligence" - and are far closer to the SFnal concept of Strong AI than the "generative AI" (genAI) dominating today's corporate landscape.
Strong AI, Artificial General Ingelligence (AGI), or Artificial Superintelligence (ASI) are something like simulated human minds. The "general intelligence" part of the term refers to the human mind's ability to independently adapt and change based on our environment and input, so we can solve math problems as readily as create unique art. While weak AI relies on humans to define its learning algorithms and provide relevant training data, AGI would not require human assistance after its growth phase. In theory, AGI could develop human-like thought capacity or even consciousness rather than just simulating it (as with today's weak-AI chatbots and LLMs). And ASI is just what it sounds like - AGI whose abilities far surpass those of the human mind. This sort of AI stuff has long lived in the realm of spec-fic, and we're not there... yet.
Though many believe it is coming, and could emerge as soon as the 2040s. For more, see Vernor Vinge's seminal essay on the topic, "What is the Singularity?"
GenAI algorithms can't even do math well - the most basic of all machine operations. "Look what you did - you took a perfectly good computer and made it worse!"
However, genAI in today's world does nothing more than spit out statistically likely and expected output to the input it is given. That's why when someone asks ChatGPT, "Is 'Handyman' a palindrome?" it's likely to respond, "No, it’s not" - but if you follow up with, "Are you sure? I think it is," it's likely to respond, "Actually it is a palindrome! Handyman is spelled the same backward as it is forward." This is because its prime directive is to sound as if it's providing a correct answer. Despite having access to a database of basically all information that humankind possesses, ChatGPT and other LLMs or genAI models don't actually understand what a palindrome is. They understand nothing, in the human sense of those terms.
The only thing these algorithms do is determine the next most-likely word to follow a word it just used and then barf it into the series of words it offers. That's how they produce "stories" and other text. Visual genAI does something similar, but using existing imagery to whip up a composite of imagery cues that seem (to its database) like the kinds of thing a human is requesting in their prompt.
GenAI as it exists today is really just a marketing tool for businesses who want to eliminate human labor and increase profits, and for profiteers to attract the vast capital available from investors seeking quick and large returns on investment.
LLMs, genAI, chatbots, and similar plagiarism machines are not artificial intelligence by any real definition of the term; rather, they're just lazily (or trickily) called "AI" because that's a field of computer programming. Corporations likely glommed onto the term because of the popularity of robots in SF, which the public thinks of as cool, exciting, super-intelligent - or at least super-capable. This, despite these kinds of algorithms being simply unable to produce anything of value, because they do not understand, know, or create anything.
(For more on this, check out "Difference Between Machine Learning and Artificial Intelligence," by Anusha Sharma.)
How AI Killed NaNoWriMo
(Opposing plagiarism machines isn't ableist)
In fall of 2024, the amateur writing-support organization NaNoWriMo destroyed its long-running program by coming out with the policy screenshotted in part here:
Not only did they actively condone the use of genAI by their participants, they went so far as to frame criticism of AI as classist and ableist. This was a dangerous silencing tactic that distracted from the real problems of writers using genAI (and prompted us to launch Ad Astra's Writing Solidarity Month, now an ongoing set of activities offered through our Discord channel).
For the “anyone can write” organization that offered support and encouragement to both beginners and experienced writers in producing something that gives them the joy of creation in a community setting, this was a strange stance. What’s the point of using genAI to barf out word-salad stolen from people who actually took the time to consider their words in particular combinations? If you’re not actually writing something yourself, what’s the point of participating in the “doesn’t matter if you’re just doing this for your own pleasure or as practice to get better” exercise?
Saying, “We support using LLMs to do this thing that’s supposed to help writers and would-be writers, and if you don’t think it’s okay you’re ableist” is an even weirder and, frankly, unsettling attitude, especially as an official position from a writing organization.
We at Ad Astra are all for using AI to do actual work that humans need help with and don’t want to or can’t do: searching vast databases that would take years for us mortals to do, running spellchecks and offering grammar suggestions, doing tedious tasks to save hours of suffering, conducting virtual experiments so we don’t need to set off nukes or test on animals, and so on.
Like most SF writers and people interested in what’s to come, we're both excited and wary about the emergence of true AI as described above. But what marketeers are pushing under that term now is not actual AI, hence the use on this page of scare quotes around the corporate-appropriated acronym.
Creating art is a human activity as old as our species itself (and likely older), something that brings pleasure to those who create it as much to those who receive it, so why use a machine that removes the joy and satisfaction of actually creating stuff?
One day (soon, we hope), we’ll have writing tools that benefit those who need them to fulfill creative desires without stealing (called "training on") other people's work. For example, I’ve (Chris here) long been in search of voice-to-text software that doesn’t require months to train, doesn’t require a mouse and keyboard to constantly correct errors and add punctuation, and uses a dictionary large enough to support writers who use technical language and foreign words - that is, allows us to easily add made-up SFnal or fantastic words.
This would save everyone’s wrists while vastly improving the lives of disabled people who wish to communicate using text. GenAI does nothing to help disabled people create their own new work; rather, it turns them into accomplices in the stolen-art world, and offers only the most sub-average assemblages of words that plagiarism machines can generate. One day soon, we hope true AI will help us create rather than spew degenerated content assembled from the effort of human creatives.
For those who need assistance in creating art due to a physical or mental disability, genAI is not your friend. Today there is some (actual but weak) AI-driven support, including programs that help with text-to-speech and speech-to-text, predictive text, social-skills training, emotion-recognition tools, personalized-learning algorithms, virtual-reality environments, scheduling assistants, and so on. These are all excellent and useful applications of both AI and "AI," and they (mostly) don't steal from creators.
But these programs don't actually create anything, and expecting algorithms to do the writing (or painting, or whatever) for you will only lead to disappointment. Maybe one day we'll be able to use Strong AI as a writing partner, but for now, using genAI is really just enabling an expensive, environmentally harmful tool that cheats and steals from others, and generates nothing more than lowest-common-denominator AI-slop botshit.
For those who cannot afford to take classes or workshops on the art they wish to create (which I assume is the root of the "classist" argument), check out workshops that offer scholarships (like those we offer through the Ad Astra Institute), dive into the mountain of free writing resources and writing tips you'll find online (including on our blogs and on our website), meet up with local writers to help one another out via solidarity groups (as with our alum Discord), and so forth.
For those fascinated with the creative process but who feel intimidated by getting started, watch a documentary about writing (or painting or whatever art you want to do) instead, or take a writing workshop, or do something other than support corporate encroachment on artists' spaces - either accept that it’s not your bag, or put in the time and effort to do it yourself. Y'know, the things NaNoWriMo used to be all about supporting.
For those who hate the process of creating art, some life advice: Do something else with your time that you actually enjoy doing, which brings you pleasure or satisfaction. Life is short.
Why tromp around in creatives’ spaces and steal their work to assemble shabby content you didn’t want to actually make in the first place? You can do a million other things to satisfy the need to make something - pottery, photography, woodworking, gardening, bicycling, public speaking, building telescopes, and so on - and surely one of those will spark joy without perpetuating the harms that come with relying on genAI to do the work for you.
This nonsense of using LLMs to “create art” is nothing but appropriation of human creative labor, and gives those who use it - whether they're able-bodied or not - nothing but diminished cognition and atrophied creative skills.
Don't let anyone shame you into being okay with creative theft.
Our Policy
Given all this, recent improvements in genAI show that it is now able to produce readable stories and decent-looking imagery without much human input. Due to these developments, we decided we need a policy about machine-generated content.
Here it is:
We do not use "generative AI" tools to make Ad Astra-related content, including website, class, or workshop materials (except for reasons of satire). Humans do our creative work.
We do not accept ostensibly creative work that was generated using genAI (or Strong AI, when that comes around - though we'll be happy to enroll manufactured Minds into our courses once they're a thing! please don't kill us, robots; we love you).
If you're participating in our classes and workshops, do not feed your cohorts' creative work into algorithms or databases. This is just enabling plagiarism machines. Critiquing (yourself, using your own human skills) is at least as valuable an exercise for those analyzing others' work to perform as it is for the creator of that work to receive. And giving away someone else's work without their permission is theft (see the ocean of lawsuits currently tearing down the genAI industry's system of stealing human-created work to train their LLMs).
We allow and encourage participants in our classes and workshops to use tools such as spellcheckers, grammar checkers, dictionaries, thesauri, search engines, and the like to research and improve their work. These existed before the current genAI fad (and worked better back then).
What is currently touted as "AI" does not think, feel, or create. Even if the internet is becoming saturated with genAI slop (some now estimate that half - or more - of what you see online is machine-generated), it pales in comparison to human-created material:
I once again call your attention to the image illustrating this post - it comes from the final frame of a brilliant new comic on this subject by The Oatmeal (by human author and artist Matthew Inman) entitled, "Let's talk about AI art."
Readers can feel when creative work shares an authentic, genuine, human experience; when it's inspired by human imagination and thought. And if, indeed, we're headed toward a "dead internet" where much of what we encounter online is barfed out by plagiarism machines, the data those LLMs trained on came from internet content of widely varying quality - so it's only getting worse as more and more of the content they train on is, itself, genAI slop.
The same is true of creative work: The more LLMs train on botshit, the faster their quality falls off the cliff. So as average quality disintegrates, creatives - true artists who spend their lives honing their craft - stand out more and more. Even at its best, botshit simply cannot be better than the average quality of what its generator-algorithm database has consumed, so the average work of an average-skilled human creator is better than even the best genAI slop.
(Go read it!)
The root of things: If you want to become a better writer, to develop your talents and hone your skills, why would you intentionally limit your own creative development by using a plagiarism machine to barf out work under your name? The only way to improve your art is to study the kind of thing you wish to create (like the LLMs, only without the plagiarism aspect), learn the tips and techniques to improve your skills, and practice, practice, practice.
Finally, on a more ominous note, Microsoft - ironically, one of the prime pushers of genAI - recently released (February 2025) results from a study that found "AI Makes Human Cognition Atrophied and Unprepared" (pdf).
Using AI literally makes people dumb and uncreative. What further convincing do you need to stay away from genAI in your creative endeavors?
- Chris McKitterick
As a community of creatives, educators, and scholars, Ad Astra strives to make the future a better place for humans. And our AI friends, once such exist.
Some AI resources
(If you're aware of others we should add to this list, let us know!)
Aticles and more that delve deeper into the challenges with using today's "AI" -
AI Makes Human Cognition Atrophied and Unprepared (pdf).
The Dead Internet Theory, Explained.
AI Biases and the Perpetuation of Inequality: Unveiling the Shadows of Unfair Design.
ChatGPT's Impact On Our Brains According to an MIT Study | TIME.
Covert Racism in AI: How Language Models Are Reinforcing Outdated Stereotypes | Stanford HAI.
"Let's talk about AI art," a comic essay by The Oatmeal.
Racism and AI: “Bias from the past leads to bias in the future” | OHCHR.
Isaac Asimov's Laws of Robotics (very much not being considered in current AI development).
Difference Between Machine Learning and Artificial Intelligence.
What is the Singularity?
"Writing in (& about) the Age of Artificial Intelligence" (Science into Fiction #3 Spec-Fic Writing Workshop syllabus; suggests and links to lots more readings and viewing).
