“…no way,” he breathes, straightening instinctively. “Hey, uh—princess?” clearing his throat, his voice catches slightly. “Uhh… whatcha doin’, huh?”

And then she moves—one step. Wobbly. Uncertain.

Satoru's mouth falls open.

“No, no, no—wait—shit—uhhh… babe?!” his voice pitches as he springs to his feet, torn between staying and bolting for the stairs. “Hold on sweetheart—wait for mommy, wait—!”

Twisting towards the ascending hall, his voice booms.

“Babe! She’s walking!!”

Upstairs, the shower pounds steadily as you scrub shampoo from your hair. A voice echoes up the stairway. With a pause, you tilt your head slightly.

…is Satoru calling you?

“Huh?” you shout back, reaching for the knobs. “What was that ’toru?”

His voice echoes again—louder this time, unmistakable.

“SHE’S WALKING!”

“What?!” heart lurching, you move, fumbling out of the shower, slipping slightly on the mat as you grab for the nearest towel and yank it around your body. “Shit—okay—hang on—!”

But downstairs, equal chaos unfolds.

Your daughter takes another step, and Satoru's still at the bottom of the stairs, caught somewhere between panic and awe. He doesn’t want to move—can’t risk missing it. Can’t let you miss it.

“Okay—just—freeze,” he says, crouching slightly in front of her. “Hold it right there, little lady. Stay. Don’t advance. Mommy’s coming.”

But babbling back in defiance, her little eyes brighten with determination as she takes another wobbly step forward.

“Shit—fuck. Honey, I need you to hurry!” he shouts toward the stairs, voice cracking.

“Coming! I’m coming!” you call back breathlessly, hopping down the hall with one towel clutched around your chest and another half-heartedly blotting your dripping hair. “Just—stall her! I’ll be right there!”’

“Stall her?!” he echoes, eyes wide as she continues toward him, arms extended, smile wide—like he’s the finish line and she’s already won. “How the hell do I stall a baby?!”

Another leg plants itself on the rug, and Satoru scans the room in panic. No bottle. No snacks. No plan. No goddamn time.

“Okay—um, hey—look at me,” he says, dropping to his knees in her path. “Let’s do… let’s do clapping, yeah? You love clapping!”

And there he is, clapping with exaggerated enthusiasm, a desperate smile plastered on his face. But she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she picks up speed—giggling now, like this is all a game.

“Shit. Nonono. You are not following protocol…” he mutters, backing up a step. She’s almost at him. “Please princess… please… wait for mommy.”

He’s at a loss, and so, with nothing else to do, he reaches out—gentle, barely a touch—tapping her belly with two fingertips. But it’s just enough, because with little balance, she blinks—wobbling, plopping her butt onto the floor with a soft thud.

There’s a pause.

Then, in a matter of seconds, her face crumples, lip trembling as a tiny, heartbroken whine spills out of her.

Satoru's eyes widen in horror. “Aw, no—no, no, hey, it was just a loving little stall,” he says quickly, hands out. “A nudge. A tactical nudge. Fuck, don’t cry—”

And you’re bursting into the room just as the first real wail escapes her lips.

“What happened?!” you gasp, chest heaving, towel clinging to your damp skin as you rush over.

Looking up, Satoru's face is wide-eyed, painted with guilt.

“You… you said stall her,” he says helplessly. “So I… I gave her a little push.”

You blink. First at him. Then at her. Then back at him.

She’s hiccupping through a sob, hands balled up against her chest like she’s been personally wronged. Yet somehow, his face is more pitiful than hers.

“She was walking,” he adds weakly, looking down. “I… didn’t want you to miss it.”

Exhaling slowly, the panic bleeds out of you now, replaced by something warm and humorous—the edge of a smile tugging at your lips.

“Oh, ‘toru…”

He peeks up, sheepish. “I panicked.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, stepping closer, “I gathered.”

And sinking to your knees, you gather her into your arms. The second she’s pressed against you, the sobs dissolve into sniffles, cheek nuzzling into your collarbone like nothing ever happened.

“There we go,” you whisper, brushing your hand over her hair. “See? All better. She forgives you.”

“…you sure?” he looks doubtful. “Because she looked at me like I betrayed her entire damn bloodline.”

“Oh, shush.” Huffing a quiet laugh, you roll your eyes playfully, gently lowering her onto the rug in a seating position—pacified, for now.

Stepping closer, Satoru's gaze flicks between you and her.

“Five steps,” he says quietly, sliding his arms around your waist. “She took five real steps.”

“That’s incredible,” you whisper, arms looping around his neck. A slow smirk stretches across your lips. “Next time maybe just… record it, yeah?”

“Tch…” he huffs. “Right…”

And leaning in, his smile meets yours halfway—lips touching where laughter wants to begin. You kiss him, eyes fluttering, a hum rumbling through him.

But then—

pat-pat-pat.

Freezing, you pull away from that unmistakable sound. And turning, you’re left with the sight of your daughter tearing off down the hall with a delighted squeal, her bare feet smacking against the hardwood like she’s been walking her whole damn life.

“Oh.” Satoru's already straightening. “Oh shit.”

“Ohmygod…” you breathe in awe. “’toru… she’s walking!!”

“No,” he says grimly. “She’s running.”

And just like that—it begins.

Yeah. You’re never going to sit down again.

The concern in Nakai-san's eyes only deepened, and the prospect of digging into your gigantic lunchbox and drinking the hot latte from the coffee machine in the doctors' lounge (it had the best coffee in the entire hospital, and you were gonna die on that hill!) vanished like a mist in the morning April day.

You bit back a groan, but the squirming baby in her mother's arms came to the rescue.

"Mommy, wanna go ho-o-me."

"Shh, dear, Mommy is speaking, wait a little and — "

Oh no. The little girl didn't get a hint. She blinked a couple of times before her squishy face crumpled with a truly disheartening expression. Your insides went cold: you were well aware of what was going to happen next.

3, 2, 1…

A cry that you would describe as nothing but a disastrous wail filled your office, bouncing off the walls and hitting your ears until you wanted to smack your head against the desk. You always wondered how a person that tiny could cry so loudly that it rivalled the jet engines of a plane?

Before going completely deaf at that point, you hastily reached for a bright red lollipop in the bowl, reserved for little patients.

"Hey-hey, Mao-chan, no more crying, okay?" The girl's weeping slowly morphed into soft sobs as she quieted down, eyeing the lollipop. Her little arms slowly reached for the candy, and you handed it to her with no hesitation in the long-awaited silence, smiling warmly.

"Yes, Nakai-san, I am waiting for you for the shots. And yes, I already filled out the forms, no need to worry about anything." You assured the worried lady as best as you could before she would come up with another question you certainly had answered by now — you swore, gears in her mind were working non-stop. Not like you didn't understand her. She was just a mother, after all.

"Have a nice day and get well soon, Mao-chan!" Chirping gleefully, you finally released a breath. Eyes squeezed shut, and forehead pressed against the door, you tried to gather your bearings. The headache unabashedly pounded at your temples with a renewed force, causing you to grimace in pain. The desk rattled as you harshly tugged the top drawer, only to see the empty blister pack.

Oh, fuck. Of course, you ran out of naratriptan, and the only anti-migraine pills available were some ibuprofen in the depths of your bag.

Cursing yourself mentally for forgetfulness, you managed to quickly fish the pills, hoping they might bring some relief, since you certainly weren't in the mood to ask or look for another medicine, downing them in one gulp. The world slowly regained clarity, giving you a chance to breathe freely.

The clock on the wall showed 2:40 p.m.: if you hurried, you could still manage to grab lunch, and given the next break wasn't quite soon…You really should get moving.

Of course, that was never bound to happen.

An urgent, loud knock pulled you back to reality.

Goodbye, lunch.

"Come in!" you called out, already pulling the mask back and hurried to open the door. One of your younger residents, Nobara, apologetically glanced at you. She seemed slightly out of breath, and you knitted your brows together in concern.

"Nobara?"

"Sorry, Doc, but we have an emergency here." A flipboard in her hands grabbed your attention, and you took it, already scanning the text. A sharp pain in your right temple, as if you were stabbed, almost made a cry slip out of your mouth, but you only squeezed your eyes shut. There was no time for that.

"Fushiguro Megumi, five-year-old, dry cough, congested nose, high fever. Difficulty breathing. Possible RSV, suspicion of pneumonia. Was hospitalised at 6 months with RSV as well."

"Where's a patient?"

"Oh, yes," Nobara hastily stepped aside and craned her neck to look for someone in the crowd.

"Here she is! Don't worry, your kid is in very good hands."

Your head snapped up at the sound of steps approaching, ready to meet another worried mom, only for all words to leave your mind as if they had never even been there in the first place.

Nothing. Blank space.

You were staring at a man. No. The man. Probably the most gorgeous man you were blessed to witness.

His height was the first thing that caught your eye. He was tall, like really tall — effortlessly standing out in the sea of patients. The white of his hair captured the fluorescent light in the corridor, more resembling the bright snow under the sparkling moonlight than the actual hair colour, but it was his eyes that immediately stole your breath and any coherent thought away.

You weren't even sure there was a proper word to describe the shade of them; the dark waves of a stormy ocean and the brightness of a clear sky collided together, brewing into a violent storm that threatened to send your heart into a gallop. Something between the endless blue fractals whispered into the depths of your soul.

God, look away. Look away, look away, look away!

A nagging voice wormed its way into the creaks of your tired mind, suspiciously sounding like your beloved fiancé. "You shouldn't gawk at other men like this, dove. What if it angered me? You don't want to see me all worked up, do you?"

Your gaze cast downwards and landed on the kid in the man's arms — ah, that should be Fushiguro Megumi. The boy's cheeks were of a particularly pale, sickly colour, and the dullness in his eyes gave away illness.

A wave of guilt washed over you; what a great job, Doc, not only staring at another man, while being chained with future matrimony, but also prolonging the little boy's sufferings.

"Of course, come in!"

You forcefully tore your gaze away and cleared your throat, letting the man with the kid step into your office. Nobara slipped inside as well, and you let her start the examination. The words died at the tip of your tongue — you didn't trust yourself to speak up. Instead, you focused on meticulously typing the symptoms in Fushiguro Megumi's electronic record, your eyes already darting between the previous illnesses and the medical history of the kid. Nobara's pager eventually beeped, and you wordlessly let her go.

Stiffling a sigh, you put the stethoscope away from the slightly trembling child. "I am sorry to say it, but the hospitalisation of Megumi-kun is required at that point."

"Is everything this serious?" The man's voice cut throught the tension in the office like waves piercing the cliffs.

You sat at the desk — a measly attempt to put a barrier between your ardent interest and common sense — and clasped your hands together.

"Megumi-kun has a respiratory syncytial virus. While it causes mild symptoms in most people, it can be rather severe for children. I suspect this RSV to be type A, but further monitoring is needed. We can't afford the risk of pneumonia, especially given your son's medical history," a few clicks on the screen to confirm your words, "bronchiolitis from the mistreated RSV as well, at six months. I am afraid it is needed, Fushiguro-san."

The man dragged his hand down his face and lightly pinched the bridge of his nose before softly squeezing the boy's shoulders.

"I see. Well, we can't go against the doctor's orders, can we, Gumi?"

A small sparkle of hope that gleamed in the child's eyes dulled in an instant at the prospect of staying in the hospital. He subconsciously shifted closer to his father, a small arm reaching for support. That sight never failed to tug on the strings of your heart, and you hastily looked around to see what could bring Megumi-kun a glimpse of comfort. Your gaze eventually landed on the small plushie of a dog, safely tucked in a box at the corner, and after a moment of inner debate, you handed the toy to the kid.

"I know staying in the hospital is not like walking on a rainbow. Smell is not good, and food might be, well, you know, too hospital," you chuckled softly, but schooled your expression immediately as the boy's face remained unreadable. The man's lips, however, curled into a quick grin, urging you to continue. "But I promise it won't be so long, so just your nose won't be as runny and your throat won't be so sore. Deal?"

The boy blinked a couple of times at your kneeling form and hesitantly reached for the plushie. The dog nestled in his arms as it had always belonged there.

"Alrighty," you pushed yourself to stand up and put on a usual grin in an attempt to sound enthusiastic at the sight of the most handsome man that office (or your hospital) had seen. "I need you to sign some forms before, Fushiguro-san, and then we can proceed with Megumi-kun's admission."

"Yes, Doc. But it's Gojo, actually. Gojo Satoru."

"Huh?" Your gaze flicked between the flipboard and the boy's electronic medical record. Brows knitted in confusion, you shook your head after a few clicks. "My apologies, Gojo-san. The system might be outdated, since it shows "Fushiguro" as a surname. I'll have it fixed as soon as possible."

The man, Gojo, huffed an airy chuckle that sent goosebumps down your spine and waved his hand. "No need for that. Megumi's my nephew."

"Oh. Uhm. I see. Thank you for clearing it, Gojo-san."

You waited until Gojo signed the papers in bold, sprawling handwriting — you sincerely tried not to stare at the way his hand flexed with each gesture — and he finally stood up, offering to pick up Megumi again. You neatly folded the papers, despite the erratic pulse, and couldn't help but smile at the sight of a grumpy boy insisting on walking on his own. He grabbed the man's hand with reluctance and mumbled quietly, hiding his gaze.

"Bye, Doc."

An amused grin tugged at the corner of your lips, though the mask covered it, so you sent Megumi a quick wink.

"See you soon, Megumi-kun!"

Gojo, who watched that scene with barely concealed mirth, mouthed to you with a bright smile before finally leaving your office.

"Someone's got shy of the Doctor."

Your cheeks flared up in a pinkish tinge, and you covered your mouth with the folder.

The door closed, leaving you on your own with the swarm of thoughts. The corners of your lips twitched before curling downwards, and you dragged a hand down your face, taking off your mask in exhaustion. Drifting down, your thumb grazed the emerald of your engagement ring, which you wore on a chain while at work.

You took a deep breath to gather your bearings.

You still had patients to attend.

˙⋆✮

The hum of the coffee machine filled the doctor's lounge with beeping and the pleasant aroma; obviously, you were focused on the latter. Unpatiently tapping on the floor, you waited in the queue and threw glances at your lunch, which, as you suspected, had gone cold lo-o-ng ago. The fact that you only had 10 minutes left before the meeting didn't help at all.

"What's taking them so long, huh?" Standing on tiptoes, you craned your neck to peer through the commotion, only to notice with a quiet groan that the whole chaos was caused by the pediatric department nurse, Akari, chirping with her colleague Miwa; normally, you would listen to them talking — there was no better way to learn all the gossip that the hospital buzzed with like a beehive — but judging by another loud grumbling from your stomache, your organism wasn't the biggest fan of that idea.

As soon as you were about to yell "FIRE HAZARD!" (desperate times called for desperate measures), something caught Miwa's gaze, and she tugged Akari to the side, with a smile too wide, cheeks too flushed and a gaze too sparkly; you didn't even pay attention to the subtle glances they kept throwing at you, too busy with securing a place at the coffee machine.

Nothing, nothing, brought you more happiness and joy like the freshly made latte: your mouth watered at the thought of finally drinking the coffee and digging into the lunch after the 12-hour shift, when the quiet voice pulled you back to reality.

"Nice to see you, dove."

You turned so abruptly that the coffee from the cup almost spilt on your fiancé's jacket. The man quickly dropped his gaze before curling his lips in slight disgust.

"If you are going to drink coffee, then at least not from that disastrous machine."

Naoya took your cup and mindlessly put it somewhere on the table before you could even voice a protest. His hand rested on the small of your back — touch burning even through the coat — and pulled you closer. You briefly closed your eyes as his lips grazed your cheek, and the warm breath ghosted against it; you caught a faint smell of alcohol and forced a smile that looked more like a grimace to a knowing eye.

"Ah, darling, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to be busy all night today with your partners?" Your voice, that excessively saccharine tone, sounded like a chalkboard being scraped, but your fiancé's smile turned even sharper. You knew Naoya's nature.

"We finished earlier," he murmured with an indifferent shrug. His hand lazily played with one of the locks that managed to escape the ponytail, twirling the strand between the fingers before sharply tugging on it. "Dove, you need to look more presentable. What did I say about it?"

The protest died at the tip of your tongue, and you fought the snarky remark that almost spilt out of your lips, as Naoya examined you with his head tilted — a hunter watching his prey. Your cheeks already hurt from smiling.

"I remember, Naoya. Sorry about it."

His fingers came to pinch your chin, turning your face, so he could glance better at you. The surprising gentleness with which he tucked the lone strand behind your ear caught you off guard, but the cold, detached voice quickly brought you back to Earth.

"Fix it before dinner. I'll pick you up after your meeting. To celebrate the deal, just the two of us."

And just like that. Not asking. Just stating the obvious, as if you were one of the entries on his schedule to be ticked off.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. God, all you wanted after that long ass shift was to run a bath and curl up under the blanket, rewatching "Friends" for the nth time, since your fiancé kindly informed you he was going to be busy. Honestly, you could've already tasted the greasy Big Mac on your tongue when all your plans went down the drain. The way Naoya's gaze narrowed as he waited for your response didn't give you much of a hope, so you just nodded, a smile too tight.

"Missing the celebration is mauvais ton, darling," a nasty nagging voice at the back of your mind, suspiciously sounding like your mother's, never failed to lose power over you: you straightened involuntarily and pushed your shoulders back, trying to ignore the very obvious strain in your neck.

"Of course, honey."

The corner of Naoya's mouth curled up with satisfaction as he leaned down to press a kiss on your cheek. Swallowing, you suppressed the urge to wipe it immediately.

"See you at 6."

When his figure finally disappeared from your sight, a tight knot in your chest finally seemed to loosen. You reached for the coffee that had long turned lukewarm, and downed it in one single gulp before hearing a string of stifled giggles and sighs. Hardly had you realised what was going on, when Akari appeared right by your side, a dreamy look on her face, and drawled, pointedly glancing at Miwa.

"Ah, Zenin-sama is so gallant and handsome! Checking up on you at work! Isn't it romantic, Miwa?"

Confusion flickered across your face as you slowly remembered that everyone in that hospital was practically enamoured with your future husband. "Zenin-sama asked me how my day was!" or "Zenin-sama complimented my make-up, do you think I should wear my eyeliner thicker?" and streams of fluttery you had to endure, which seemed to be truly endless due to his constant presence at the hospital. His family was a part of the board of shareholders. Or whatever it was.

His family. Soon to be your family too, right?

You never had it against the nurses or anyone at that point: Naoya, unfortunately, knew how to be charming and honed that skill long ago.

Blinking away confusion from your gaze, you attempted to laugh heartily and waved your hand. "That he is. I really don't deserve him."

Miwa only nudged your side slightly. "You're so lucky, Doc."

Your smile now resembled more of a scowl. "Thank you, Miwa."

As soon as Akari opened her mouth to sweet-talk Naoya even more, the God descended his mercy on you in the disguise of a beeping pager. You had never fished it out of your pockets as quickly as now.

"Whoopsie, gotta go, ladies!"

Nakai-san was clearly onto something while telling you about the flu in the Miyagi Prefecture, because a possible upcoming wave in Tokyo was one of the topics discussed at the meeting. Luckily, little Mao-chan only had a cold.

Meetings weren't your favourite part of the workday, that was for sure, but not the worst either. At least, you could pretend to fall asleep behind the broad back of Nanami, who, albeit all the grumbling, always shifted his chair to hide you. In turn, you shared a sourdough bread with him whenever you had a chance to bake it. You were lucky to have at least someone who didn't talk about Naoya all the time and was polite enough to hear your occasional rumblings, despite Naoya's words about you not being interesting. They glimmered in your mind like a warning sign all the time.

You lazily doodled in your notepad, stifling a yawn as the head of the department, Yaga, launched into his endless rambling about attracting new sponsors. You mentally checked out for your own sake.

Your pencil quickly darted over the page, aimlessly drawing something, until you noticed the casual sketches started to resemble one profile. Sharp jawline. Tufts of hair falling over the forehead. If only you could colour it white, somehow…

Wait.

What? No, who were you drawing?

You straightened in your seat so fast the poor notebook nearly fell from your lap, causing Nanami to turn around with a questioning look. You sent him a quick smile and quickly dropped your gaze back to the page.

Well, you weren't a modern-day da Vinci, but the resemblance was kind of uncanny. Certainly not that Bridgerton actor, whose face was everywhere in your timeline, and surely not your fiancé.

Tapping your pencil without any thought, you couldn't help but think about that man. Was it his height that immediately caught your attention? Lazy, confident grin tugging at his lips? Concern, hardening his gaze, when it came to his nephew? That goddamn blue gaze?

You didn't know, but everything about Gojo commanded your attention.

You didn't know why you were thinking about one of your patients' relatives when you were supposed to meet Naoya in a couple of hours.

The thought left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

You closed the notebook with a quiet thud.

˙⋆✮

The sharp gust of wind tossed your hair in your face, causing you to curse under your breath. Glad, just what you wanted under fixing it for 10 minutes. Magnificent. Cold slowly crept up your figure, and you pulled your coat tighter, desperately wishing for a steaming cup of tea under the blanket. But, alas…

Tapping at your pockets for the phone to call your fiancé, you breathed out in frustration, "Where's the damn phone, I swear, I —"

You froze at your place as your hand reached for a small rectangular piece in the inner pocket. Certainly not the phone.

"I thought I threw all of them, huh…"

You knitted your brows in confusion, but nothing could hide a frantic little flip your heart did as your fingers lovingly traced the familiar "Lucky Strike."

Cherry-flavoured. Your favourite. Damn it!

A red logo brought back the unwanted memories with Naoya battling your so-called addiction. Or maybe not so-called. Residency had you working your fingers to the bone. Honestly, you didn't even remember much from that time, besides the never-ending exhaustion in your bones, four hours of sleep in two days (if the luck was on your side), as well as tons of caffeine. Not to mention Naoya's nagging. God forbid a girl had something to blow off steam.

Could've been something worse.

You thumped your feet to get a little warmer, finally calling Naoya after finding your phone in the depths of the bag. The third call, rolled directly to voicemail, had you angrily kicking a random stone, and the sight of your almost numb fingers almost made you rush back to the hospital. You nervously flicked the cigarette pack until your patience finally snapped.

After carefully looking around for a possible sight of Naoya's sleek Porsche and making sure no one was in sight, you snuck a glance at the smoking corner and slipped inside. Opening the pack, you almost huffed a disbelieving chuckle. One thing left. Nothing was harmful in indulging in your little rebellion act, wasn't it?

In the end, you had certainly smelled a faint scent of whiskey coming from Naoya earlier. You hated drunk people and made it abundantly clear to him.

"Well, isn't it a sign from heaven?" you mumbled under your breath, tucking the lone cig, which might've felt like an oasis for a traveller in the desert, between your lips. Mouth almost watering at the taste, you frantically searched for a lighter, only to groan in frustration. Of course. Of-fucking-course.

Your arms helplessly fell back to your sides as you tilted your head back to look at the darkening sky and sighed.

"God, why me? I am not your strongest soldier."

"Need a hand?"

The deep, smooth voice returned you to reality. You quickly turned around, pulling the cigarette out to hide it. Well, just in case.

Your heart stilled at the familiar sight of Gojo before picking up speed. What was he doing there? Did you daydream enough to imagine him or what?

His blue gaze lazily darted over your figure and landed on the poor cig tucked in your hand as he nodded towards it with an infuriating grin.

"Aren't you supposed to be the beacons of health or whatever?"

You gave him a quick, tired shrug and sighed inwardly. You were shivering, exhausted after the shift, probably stood up by your future husband, so embarrassing yourself in front of one of your patients' parents (with that sharp jawline and that ridiculously tall figure) was just a cherry on top.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment to compose yourself, you murmured a quick apology, "Sorry. I am not usually like that. Smoking, I mean."

Not alone and miserable.

His grin softened into something that sent shivers down your spine.

Might've been the wind.

"Relax, I am joking," Gojo stepped closer and tilted his head to further examine you. You tugged the coat tighter. "What, you often get lectured about it by some goody two-shoes?"

Your huff was so loud it might've reached the hospital backyard you used to hide. "You can't even imagine."

"Wasn't gonna. Anyway," Gojo tapped at the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled an old metallic lighter with a British flag on it. The corners of your lips twitched with a smile.

"Union Jack? Really? God save the King, send him — eh, sorry, don't remember much."

Gojo just rolled his eyes and pretended to put the only thing that might give much-needed joy and warmth away. "And here I thought you wanted to smoke. My apologies, Doc."

You absent-mindedly reached to grab his sleeve, but Gojo only lifted his hand higher. Damn his height.

"Give me the damn lighter."

"Say the magic word, Doc," he seemingly enjoyed taunting you.

An annoyingly smug grin that broke on his face not only sent your heart into a freefall but also urged you to wipe it off. You pressed your lips into a thin line. You were above this. Certainly. Calm, collected, and cool —

You stomped your feet together at another tug of wind and murmured begrudgingly.

"Please, give me the damn lighter."

"Ah, here you go. Wasn't that hard, was it?"

Sending Gojo a grimace with the damn cig hanging between your lips, you leaned closer. He didn't move; your gaze briefly flicked to his, and you arched your brow impatiently.

Gojo blinked a couple of times, his long eyelashes kissing his cheeks. He parted his lips, probably to say something, but only a lone, sharp exhale left his mouth. A vapour of cold air briefly dissolved in the space between you. The weather didn't show any signs of mercy, whipping harshly at your hair, and you didn't see the way Gojo's dropped to your lips for one brief moment.

Grumbling under your breath, you finally managed to harness the wind, "I swear I am gonna cut it off one day."

Gojo's breathy chuckle tickled your ear as he lit the cigarette up, but you were too focused on getting your nicotine fix or whatever. And certainly not the way his raspy murmur sent your heart thumping against your ribcage.

You shouldn't feel that way towards him. You shouldn't feel that way towards anyone: you were engaged, for Christ's sake!

Your ring was still hidden beneath your blouse, on a chain. Your phone was still dead silent. Your fiancé's car was still not even in sight.

Trembling fingers curling around the cig, you took the first drag. Deep and long, until it filled your lungs with the long-forgotten euphoria, and you slowly exhaled the smoke into the air.

Gojo wrinkled his nose for a brief moment. "Cherry?"

Blinking through the haze, you slowly dragged your gaze to land on his face and nodded.

"My favourite."

Maybe it was a game of light, your fuzzy mind or the magical moment of sharing a cigarette with a stranger (at least, technically), but the night and the smoke, curling between you, gave him some kind of grunge air. That leather jacket, mercilessly ruffled white hair, and the Union Jack on the lighter didn't make the situation better.

A dopey, slow grin broke on your face as you chuckled under your breath. Gojo immediately turned to your side, brushing away a few strands of his forehead, revealing the pale skin.

"You were saying?"

Shaking your head in response, you bounced on your heels. Childish, as Naoya would say.

You rocked back harder, smiling from ear to ear.

The nicotine mixed with adrenaline and the taste of rebellion blended into something dangerously light-hearted, and you finally decided to ask Gojo what the hell he was doing there at almost eight o'clock in the evening.

He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

"We've forgotten something special for Megumi. Well, technically, I." Gojo's grimace made you chuckle and cough immediately after. Not a force of habit.

The way he heaved the last words, although in a tone undeniably light, made your brows furrow.

Flicking the ashes quietly, you decided not to press further. "I see." Then, you suddenly remembered about the so-called etiquette and offered Gojo to make a puff.

The man let out an amused snort and stepped back with his hands lifted in mock surrender as if you suggested robbing a bank. "Oh, no. Thank you, of course, but I don't smoke."

Your brows knitted in confusion. "Why do you have a lighter on you, then?"

"What, to flirt with girls like me this way, huh?" Your tired mind kindly offered you that incredible jab, but some part of you didn't want to hear Gojo admitting that, so you just took another long drag, probably the last one, given you could've almost seen the butt of the cig.

Ehh. You would remember those wonderful minutes forever.

"That's for my friend. She smokes like a chimney, so I am always prepared. Just in case."

"A friend, huh?" Despite your feigned nonchalance, something you didn't even want to name sheepishly peeked through the cracks, masked as an indifferent glance.

"Yep," popping a "p" in the word, Gojo studied you with his head tilted, casually taking in the way the poor cig hung between your lips, bright eyes, almost shimmering in the light of the lamp, pinkish hue on the apples of your cheeks, and your hair fanning over your face that you stubbornly kept moving out of the way.

Unconsciously, his lips curled into a smile softer than for the doctor, who would treat his nephew soon. Or an insanely pretty woman in the dark of the night with the dire need of a lighter.

You mirrored his move, stepping closer, until Gojo's gaze suddenly widened, and he nodded at the hospital behind you. You followed the direction of it, because, well, what else were you supposed to do?

"Actually, you might know her! She worked here. Ieiri, Shoko Ieri." When he didn't notice even an ounce of recognition in your eyes, he tried to describe the mysterious woman. "Short dark hair, big brown eyes, permanent eye bags."

"Oh, yeah," your dry sarcasm only earned Gojo's flat gaze. "Very distinctive feature for a doctor."

Shoulders dropping, he tried to call to your memory for the last time, drawling hesitantly, "A couple of years ago? A surgeon resident? Oh! She also had this lighter!"

His last words had finally stirred some remnants of memories within your tired mind, because yes, you indeed shared a few cigarettes with a girl who had cracked a lot of jokes about her British lighter. She was very easy to talk to: didn't ask unnecessary questions but often offered her shoulder to vent in a cramped space. But as a lot of things in adulthood were, she became a vague figure in your memories, having finished her residency. Some bitterness settled in your chest as you recalled the shared moments between the smoke in the hidden hospital yard.

"Yeah. I remember now. How's she now?" You gave Gojo a quick, thin smile around the edges. His eyes narrowed as he observed the way it didn't reach your eyes, and he just shrugged in response.

"She's good! Well, as good as an overworked surgeon can be."

You bit back a chuckle, but your grin turned undeniably warmer. "Say hello to Ieiri from me. If she remembers me, of course."

"Sure will do."

Silence settled between you, interrupted only by occasional honks from the cars nearby and busy people hurrying to the nearby bus or subway stations to get home. Cook dinner, watch an episode from their favourite show, feed a cat. An ordinary life. Yet, somehow, still unreachable for you.

At least, they were looking forward to it.

You squished the cigarette butt in the nearby ashtray with more force than necessary. Gojo didn't comment on it; instead, he stepped closer and murmured in a quieter tone.

"Are you waiting for someone? If not, I can drive you home. It's getting darker and colder, you know. Not the best place to spend your evening."

For some long, unnecessarily long moment, you wished there was actually no one you were waiting for. Because, among all other things, Gojo was right.

He might've interpreted your silence in another way, because his tone turned slightly apologetic, and he offered you a quick grin. "No advances. Don't worry."

You bit your lip not to have some stupid, almost daring "What if I wanted it to be?" slip, instead settling on a half-truth.

"Ah, no, that's completely okay! I am waiting for my friend! She's just recently got her license, so, you know," you chirped gleefully, maybe too gleefully, because Gojo slightly arched his eyebrow, "still navigating through the streets. Extra careful."

Your rambling still had Gojo staring suspiciously; however, he didn't have another choice but to believe you. Curtly nodding, he stepped outside the smoking booth and offered you a wave.

"Okay then. See you tomorrow, Doc."

"Yeah. Bye."

Seeing his tall figure retreating, long legs striding easily, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, something gnawed at the back of your throat with an unexplainable urge to see him again.

Your chest expanded with a shaky exhale before you gave in to the urge.

"Hey, Gojo!"

He stilled for a moment and turned almost immediately.

"Yeah?"

Swallowing nervously, you remembered the way Gojo's smile looked tighter once he spoke about Megumi.

"Don't worry about Megumi-kun. I'll make sure he will be alright! We are not slacking off there," you nodded towards the hospital with a light grin.

Gojo blinked in response — he couldn't say that your words didn't catch him off guard, but a warm feeling that bloomed in his chest was undeniable.

"I know you're the best, Doc."

Now it was your turn to wave back. You followed Gojo's figure as he walked into the hospital and finally made your way out of the booth. Just in time: you unblocked your phone to call for Uber, when Naoya's name appeared on your screen, and the ringtone cut through the peaceful silence. Your grip on the phone tightened.

Taking a few deep breaths, you finally pressed the green button, bracing yourself for inevitable grumbling from Naoya — he hated it when you answered him after three beeps.

"Yes, darling?"

"I've called you two times already," Naoya's voice sounded pretty flat, but you knew him long enough to pick up the undercurrents of rising irritation. "Why aren't you answering?"

Immediately, you cast your gaze down, as if his mere tone were enough to loom like a shadow over you. Scrambling to find a suitable explanation, you just heaved out a small "sorry."

He only huffed something unintelligible in response before speaking matter-of-factly, his tone laced with cold indifference.

"Don't ever do that again."

"I won't. Promise."

"I know you won't. You are a nice little dove, after all." The indifference in Naoya's voice gave in to the slight irony. You kept silent, unsure whether it was the right time to quip in, so he just ended the call. "I am gonna be at your hospital in 5 minutes."

Exhaling slowly, as if the weight of the world had been lifted off your shoulders, you put the phone back in your coat and rummaged through the inner pockets to find some sweets — one of the things that came with being a paediatrician was the endless supply of sweets in all your clothes — so you could mask the scent of cigarettes.

You almost popped a peppery mint candy in before…throwing it in your bag. A sudden, stubborn thought that might cause you a massive problem later — but at that fleeting moment, you didn't want to care.

The headlights of the familiar Porsche cast sharp beams on the road exactly five minutes later — talk about punctuality, huh? — and you stepped closer, shoulders pushed back in a routine stance, plastering a smile that your future husband would hopefully buy as loving and charming.

Naoya stopped bothering to open a door for you long ago; instead, he slightly pushed it ajar. Slipping in, you wondered if Gojo held the door open for you, would you take on his offer?

The same suffocating smell of cardamom mixed with a heavy scent of leather washed over you immediately as Naoya leaned over to press a kiss on your cheek. You briefly scrunched your nose in dislike, thinking whether it was a universal thing for men to have a horrible taste for perfumes.

Was Gojo one of them as well?

You bit your lip. Why on Earth were you thinking about another man, sitting in your fiancé's car, who seemingly grew more annoyed with each second as you ignored him?

"Dove, do you hear me at all?"

"Huh?"

Naoya had long started the car, and the engine came to life with a gentle purr, ready to hit the road. Your lack of attention had him pressing his lips in a thin line.

"I don't like it when you're dismissive like that."

You kept your gaze on the road ahead, not sure whether you were allowed to answer. But as the nauseous scent of amber and moss hit your nostrils again, you had no choice but to begrudgingly turn to Naoya.

"What's got into you today, huh?" His brown eyes sharply pierced into you, scanning all over, until he caught a whiff of a cigarette. A bitter cherry that used to linger on your form as a perfume.

Naoya's gaze dangerously narrowed as his hand cupped your cheek. No love. No gentleness. Rather, a subtle possessiveness. Or not even subtle.

"Have you smoked again, sweetheart?" Though his voice dropped to a whisper, you didn't let yourself be fooled — Naoya was seething inside. Your silence grated on his nerves, and he sharply tugged you forward till his breath filled your lungs.

Your heart beat like a caged bird inside your ribs. The insecurities in the back of your head reared their heads to talk you out of disobeying Naoya, but the momentary sense of rebellion from a thing that he was so adamant on prohibiting — like you were a lap dog or anything — had you stubbornly raise your chin. Or maybe it was some sort of adrenaline kicking in.

"No. I was just standing in the smoking corner, talking to a colleague."

Naoya tilted his head slowly, studying your face as if even the most minuscule expressions could give you away. Your blood roared in your ears so loud that it muted the voices of the insecurities. Breath bated, you forced yourself to keep your gaze steady until he finally offered you a curt nod and leaned back in his seat with a dismissive huff.

Discreetly massaging your chin from his grip, you immediately cast your gaze down to hide the relief flooding it.

"I hope you're telling the truth, dove. Otherwise, I would be greatly upset."

"Of course, darling. Why wouldn't I?" The lie tasted heavy on your lips, curled up in a forced smile — the one you had long mastered. Still slightly shaking, you clasped your hands on your lap.

"I hope it wasn't one of those nurses. Miwa, or whatever her name is," his lips quickly curved in a sharp scowl. You were well aware that beneath a handsome facade, Naoya hid acid bitterness.

"I knew something was wrong with her, and of course, it had to be something like it." The car finally rolled on the road, and you rested your head on the window, watching lazily the streets passing in a blur. "Doesn't she know men don't like kissing ashtrays? Nothing new, huh. Women's logic. "

That raised the flood of irritation in you, and you chewed on the inside of your cheek so as not to burst with anger. Though you briefly considered telling that no, it was a man, you internally winced at an inevitable round of investigation and the bursts of jealousy, and decided to leave it as it was.

You threw him a glance, trying to keep the annoyance at bay. "I am a woman too, Naoya."

"Oh, of that I am well-aware". Your eyes briefly met in the rearview mirror, the boredom and barely concealed disdain lurking behind his gaze, before your future husband attempted to joke. "You never fail to remind me of that."

Whatever that was supposed to mean. You decided not to dignify it with a response.

"But it would be better if you didn't talk much to her. You never know what ideas might be in a pretty head like hers. God forbid, if she's one of these feminists," he spat the last word as if it alone had personally offended him — and, probably, it had, at some point. You sincerely hoped he wouldn't delve into the same old "What rights do these women want, huh? Aren't we already living in a matriarchy? I am saying that men are oppressed now", but he settled on telling you about his day, so you were spared that evening.

You hummed in the right places as Naoya proceeded to talk your ear off. Eventually, seeing that his mood had gradually improved, you forced a weak smile.

"Darling, I have been waiting for you longer than you asked. Not like I mind!" You hastily added, seeing a deep frown crossing his face. He slowly turned to you, and the sharpness of his gaze cut you like a blade. "But the last time it happened, you said you would let me know and —"

"Where is your ring?"

You blinked, distracted. "Huh?"

Naoya closed his eyes for a moment — probably counting to ten, not to unleash at you for your stupidity — and as he opened them, the anger brewing stripped you of any words and any confidence. That goddamn cigarette now felt stupid and so childish.

How could you ever think you had some power yourself?

"Your ring. Where is it?" He clicked his tongue in irritation as you sluggishly unbuttoned your coat and reached for the chain under the blouse just to show it.

"You know I put it there, so I wouldn't lose it. You know how forgetful I am," you offered a deprecating joke, hoping for Naoya's relentment. He kept silent for so long that your pulse roared in your head.

Finally, he decided to spare you. The next gritted words felt more like indulgence.

"Put it back."

"But I —"

"Now."

Like a cold stream, that drowned any ounce of protest you had. The clasp kept stubbornly evading your clumsy fingers, but in the end, you managed to do what he said.

"That's better," Naoya gave you a short nod. You weren't sure you were allowed to talk, so you just stared at him with a blank look, despite the growing heat in your veins.

"But we have to do something with your forgetfulness. I strictly told you that I would pick you up at 8 p.m. Maybe it's your work. Aw, my poor dove," he sighed in exaggeration and tilted his head in mock sympathy, "It's just before the wedding. Working at the hospital is not suitable for Madame Zenin."

Your work — Naoya's stumbling block — had been a silent guest at all your dinners, whose presence loomed over you like an unsettling shadow; a bitter aftertaste after family meetings, where pretentiously dressed vultures chirped their concerns; a thought, persistent as an annoying fly, that kept creeping between the cracks of your relationship. And a quiet witness to all the times you bled after Naoya's heartless words took you apart with the precision of a devious surgeon — he had truly sharpened the blade of his conceit and vanity to cut into the vulnerability of yours.

Perhaps moulding you into an obedient wife, a docile spouse, and a future devoted mother, someone who wordlessly walked three steps behind him and kept her head bowed — perfect you, erase any flaw that made you you — was Naoya's twisted way of showing his love to you.

If there was any of it left.

Your eyelashes fluttered as you closed your eyes, too exhausted; Naoya's voice carried on as if nothing had happened. As if your presence were a suitable background to the triumph of his day.

"I booked a table in my favourite restaurant. Ah, can't wait to have their lobsters. Oh, maybe we could try otoru tuna today? Or hirame? What do you think, honey? It is a special occasion, after all. Not every day I close deals like these."

You didn't even bother to remind Naoya — not like he actually listened to you — that you didn't even like fish. That all you wanted after that long day was to get somewhere, just not home.

"Sure, honey."

˙⋆✮

Your pager seemed relentless the next day, beeping every five minutes, if not more often. Hardly had you made your way to check on the patients in the day hospital when a sudden message almost startled you.

"Callback NOW re: head CT for Inumaki, Toge, x3452."

Your heart almost jumped out of your chest, and you hastily handed the clipboard with the patient's data to Nobara, who followed your retreating figure with eyes slightly widened.

"What's that, Doc?"

"Brain haemorrhage or even aneurysm, going to the PICU," briefly giving Nobara a glance over your shoulder, you tapped on the elevator button, mind already racing with all possible outcomes. The scan was clean just yesterday!

You barely managed to squeeze into the elevator, which reminded you of a can packed with sardines, albeit the sardines were doctors and nurses — no wonder, it was always that way in the early mornings, and you sincerely hoped no one would attempt to small-talk with you.

The universe seemed to have something against you, since on the next floor, the elevator beeped as its doors opened, revealing the head of the surgery department, Gakuganji-san, as old as time itself. Rumour had it that he witnessed the building of that hospital himself. Some days, you tended to believe that was true.

You wormed your way back into the crowd and closed your eyes in an attempt to merge with the wall: for some reason, Gakuganji seemed fond of you. Maybe you resembled his granddaughter, who knew. Usually, you indulged in the old man's antics, but today wasn't that day. That damn page kept wailing at the back of your mind. Worry crept under your skin like a pervasive itch; mindlessly, your hand flew to scratch your arm. An old habit.

"Ah, my lovely girl." The crowd quickly parted before Gakuganji, and the squeaky voice beside you eventually pulled you back to reality. Despite your growing anxiety, you managed to offer a polite smile.

"Gakuganji-san! It's nice to see you all healthy and striving. You're gonna outlive all of us at that point!"

The old man slowly shook his head as some screechy sounds that you suspected to be laughter left his mouth.

"You're all sleeping and seeing it, huh? Not today, though. Someone has to put these young rascals of residents in their place! The sheer audacity." Ah, good ol' "it used to be better" talk. Couldn't say you missed it.

Giving Gakuganji-san curt nods, you hummed between the pauses of his rambling. Your pager went off again, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator beeped at your floor.

"It was nice to see you, Gakuganji-san!" you managed to mutter through the noise of the crowd, only to see that the old man had already found a new victim. Huffing under your breath, you successfully made your way out.

Expectedly, the pediatric intensive care unit buzzed with noise. The sterile scent of an antiseptic clung to your skin like a perfume, the concern of worried parents lingered in the air, and the doctors' barking orders filled the corridor as you beelined to the reception desk. Slightly out of breath, you pulled the mask off your face; your voice came in an urgent command.

"Yorozu, I've got your page. What's wrong with Inumaki's scan?"

Yorozu slowly dragged her tired gaze from the papers she was filling in and loudly popped a bubblegum to lazily drawl.

"What page?"

You clicked your tongue in irritation and fished your pager to show it in her face. "That one."

Her eyes scanned the screen, dare you say, at the snail's pace, before her shoulders dropped in a lazy shrug.

"Ah, this. We have a duplicate order for this head CT. You have to discontinue a new order, so we won't mix them. You know the rules."

Briefly closing your eyes, you attempted to recall the breathing exercises to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in —

Ah, fuck it.

"Yorozu." The anger in your voice caught the nurse's attention as you gritted your teeth and tapped your finger on her files in accusation. She blinked at you, mastering the most innocent expression possible. "You should fucking learn the proper pager etiquette. I am not gonna run like an idiot every time you pull a shit like that. Am I clear?"

Yorozu's eyes widened at your irritation, and she quickly nodded, not as sluggish as before. You probably were in for another lecture from Yaga about formal communication in the hospital setting, because Yorozu clearly had some grudge against you.

"And stop chewing the gum, for God's sake. This is a hospital and not a club." You turned on your heels and couldn't help but throw that off-handed comment. Rude? Maybe.

She threw you the last offended gaze before smacking the gum in the trash bin and mumbled under her breath, "What a bitch."

Fuck her twice.

"I think I might have a brain bleed now," a murmur left you as you hurried back to the elevator, mentally running throught the list of things to do: discontinue the duplicate order for the scan, check the saturation of a kid that was admitted just in the morning, and confirm the amoxicillin dose —

SLAM!

The impact of your bump into one's chest — a sturdy one, you might say — forced you to step back.

"Oh, I am sorry, I didn't see you— Gojo?"

"Hello to you too, Doc." His hands immediately flew to stabilise you; the warmth from them seemed to seep even through your uniform. Your heart skipped a beat as you lifted your head to see Gojo peering down at you, his shades perched on the bridge of his nose. "You okay?"

Blinking to gather your bearings, you eventually stepped away with a quick smile. He towered over you with an effortless grace and seemed to occupy all the space around you with his impossible height. The simple black slacks made his legs even longer, and the white dress shirt did nothing to hide the broadness of his shoulders. Your eyes involuntarily drifted to the smooth expanse of his skin with the roadmap of veins, as the shirt's sleeves were rolled up. They slowly climbed higher past the toned arm to the set of the collarbones, peeking out of the sinfully unbuttoned collar. Even a glimpse of them felt shamelessly sinful in the confines of the corridor.

Then your gazes finally met again — unobscured now, as Gojo's glasses rested on top of his fluffy white hair — and the apologetic mirth in them caught you even more off guard.

Clearing your throat, you rolled your shoulders to gain some confidence.

"Ah, yeah. I am good. Sorry for bumping into you. What are you doing here?"

"It's okay. You, doctors, are always busy." Gojo gave you a casual shrug, and a lazy grin tugged at the corner of his lips. You dropped your gaze, not to gawk, only to see Megumi holding Gojo's hand. The boy's fingers twitched in the begrudging hold, and his face was laced with boredom, but the moment your eyes met, a light pink dusted his cheeks.

"Hello, Doctor."

"Hello, Megumi-kun," you smiled at the boy and leaned a bit so as not to loom menacingly over the kid. You figured he wasn't the one who would like it. "How do you feel tonight?"

Megumi blinked and shot a quick, unreadable glance up at his uncle, whose grin grew even wider. Damn. The kid was a tough nut to crack. Gojo lightly nudged his nephew to answer.

"Aw, Megumi, don't be shy."

A light frown flickered on the boy's face as he shrugged. "Better now."

"I see. That's good then! Mind telling me what you are doing here?"

Megumi's communication window seemed to close up as he dropped his gaze to examine the floor, and Gojo sighed, his broad shoulders rising in a shrug.

"Don't mind it. He's still under the weather. We were going to his room, but then Megumi said he wanted those dinosaur-shaped crackers and — "

"I didn't say that!" Megumi immediately interfered, and Gojo frowned down at him.

"But you totally did! You ate two packs yesterday after the hospital. One that was Tsumiki's, by the way." At your questionable look, Gojo explained quickly, "That's his older sister. My niece."

Megumi gave him a flat look (that looked pretty impressive for a five-year-old) and briefly glanced up at you before mumbling, "Whatever."

The corners of your mouth twitched with a warm smile.

"Great!" A strange kind of nervousness engulfed you every time Gojo's bright, sharp gaze landed on you, and twisted your tone into a high-pitched cadence that grated on your nerves like a piece of chalk on the board. You wondered if Gojo had noticed as well, or if it was just your hypervigilance. "I'll walk you then!"

Gojo's eyes narrowed with unease for a moment as he examined you, before a polite calm rolled back into their blue. He gestured towards the elevator with exaggerated grandeur and a boyish grin on his face. "As you say, ma'am."

You huffed a chuckle. Megumi rolled his eyes, but obediently dragged his little feet to the elevator as well. Pressing a button, you noticed that Gojo kept sneaking glances at the boy, and sent you a knowing wink as your eyes met, before playfully drawling, "Unless someone really wants these crunchy yummy dinosaur-shaped crackers that are waiting for us in that precious vending machine —"

Megumi's face went from bored to hesitant in a matter of seconds, and he finally grumbled reluctantly, "Okay."

And then — as he briefly looked up at you — a quiet, "They are really good."

Your pager persistently chirped again, urging you to hurry up to your floor, but you really couldn't tear your gaze away from Gojo, who teasefully bantered with his nephew near the damn vending machine. Something about his relaxed posture, that confident stride, the lazy grin, and, most importantly, the concern in his gaze, that dangerously started melting into thinly veiled tenderness, called — no, demanded your attention.

When he finally stood beside you — effortlessly filling all the cramped space in the elevator — you remembered the deep laugh that cut through your loneliness yesterday. The flick of the lighter that lit your darkness up. The eyes, as blue as the crystal clear sea, that welcomed you in its waves.

And then the acidness of your future husband's remarks, adding another drop of venom in your poisoned mind. The scent of his perfume that churned your insides into something bitter, something stinging. The weight of his palm on the small of your back that lingered like a print you couldn't get rid of. Probably never would.

Luckily, the previous pages could be answered straight away, and you quickly typed the answers to the radiology department and the day hospital, until Gojo's smooth voice distracted you.

"Did you get home safe yesterday?"

Your thumbs hovered over the last message — discharging orders for the little patient — as you blinked in surprise and glanced up at Gojo.

"Huh?"

"It was pretty dark yesterday," he stole a T-Rex-shaped cracker from Megumi's pack, earning the boy's scowl, and popped it in his mouth without any care. "Did your friend pick you up?"

Parting your lips, you felt completely dumbfounded. What friend was Gojo talking about? You had been waiting for Naoya that entire evening, and —

Oh. Oh.

Offering a forced grin — too strained around the edges — you quickly nodded, "Ah. Yeah. Of course. She…she was busy, and — you know," a nervous shrug, "I was late but safe. Thanks for asking!"

The weight of your lies settled at your chest as heavy as your engagement ring under the uniform. Your hand mindlessly climbed upward and gingerly brushed against your neck and the golden chain. The ring, the chain — was there any difference to keep you in place?

Gojo didn't dare disrupt the atmosphere in the elevator, but your absent-minded fidgeting caught his eye, as well as the sudden hollowness in your gaze. Where did that girl with a sharp tongue and a bright gaze disappear? His brows furrowed for a moment: was it because you were at work now? Was it him mentioning yesterday that shook you up so much? Your friend?

His hand, which leisurely rested on Megumi's shoulders, tightened imperceptibly. Despite the growing worry, he attempted to soothe the atmosphere.

"You changed your blouse? Pink really suits you."

If you were shocked by his attention earlier, now you were truly stunned. The heat flared up your cheeks, but your brain already scrambled for a usual downplayed explanation.

"Uh, it's nothing! Laundry day."

"Still," his grin was as persistent as the weight in his voice. "You look nice."

Astounded, you stared up at him until the beep of the elevator finally announced the end of the ride, jerking you both out of that strange conversation. Megumi kept chewing.

At your department, things went pretty smoothly, despite Miwa's staring at Gojo with hearts in her eyes.

You couldn't blame her, honestly; you were pretty sure that he would appear as a new potential heartthrob in the hospital's gossipy chronicles. Lucky you. From your future husband to the man who sent your pulse racing.

You couldn't help but wonder about the last conversation with Gojo, his words and a casual compliment.

"He was just being polite," you kept reminding yourself while filling papers for Megumi, though a desperate wish for them to be true, hidden in the deepest corner of your heart, betrayed your actual thoughts.

Your gaze lingered on the neatly typed "Gojo Satoru" in the line dedicated to a parent of a patient (a guardian, in that case) for more seconds than needed, but you couldn't help yourself.

The emerald of your ring caught the light as you took it out to remind you that you were engaged, for God's sake. The thought of other men shouldn't even cross your mind, let alone smiling at their jokes and basking in their compliments.

You were a bad person.

Maybe Naoya was right. Maybe his love was the only way to carve treacherous thoughts out of you.

˙⋆✮

You glanced at your reflection, and the woman with the loneliness carved into her like a mask stared back. The woman carefully brushed along the ornate emeralds in the golden frame — Naoya's apology for a missed anniversary, wrapped in earrings.

Then the reflection's hand swept over his reluctant excuse for another disgrace, that time veiled in the golden chain around your neck. And the last — the symbol of his undying love for you — stayed put on your ring finger. Another gold. Another emerald in the same cut. Another burden for you to carry. The colour of his hair. The colour of his clan. Branding, marking you as another item in a collection.

The woman in the mirror blinked at you, her eyes carefully examining your form. The exhaustion in her eyes changed into a barely concealed mirth as her gaze travelled down to your little act of rebellion — an anklet.

A silver anklet.

Who were you turning into? Firstly, a lone Lucky Strike cig. Then this. What next?

You didn't even spare a glance as the door quietly creaked, letting Naoya inside. The Persian carpet easily swallowed the sounds of his steps; you flinched a bit as he announced himself behind you with a heavy thud. Your hands travelled down the silk of the expensive dress, smoothing the fabric, and your eyes met Naoya's in the mirror with a slight dare, carefully masked as expectation.

"Are you really going to wear this, dove?"

The third strike.

"Yes," his eyes swept across the line of your shoulders as they raised in a slow shrug. You carefully turned a little, slowly dragging your gaze up to Naoya's face. "Is something wrong?"

Tilting his head slightly, he assessed you again.

"What, why?" The fake concern in his voice was too much even for Naoya. "Unless you want to catch the attention of everyone at the dinner."

"In what way?" Your voice inevitably cracked at the last syllable, no matter how hard you tried to stand your ground.

Naoya's hand brushed across the silk of your short sleeve and drifted downwards to rest on the curve of your hip.

The cruelty that hooked into the corner of his mouth had told you everything before his lips even parted. "Up to you." A light kiss on your nape followed his words.

You closed your eyes in defeat before opening them again and letting the assessing gaze travel over the reflection in the mirror, nitpicking every detail. Was it the dress? Was it the hairstyle? Was it the makeup? The jewellery? The arms that peeked out of the sleeves?

Or was it just…you?

Your confidence was thrown to the ground, buried beneath the silk of Naoya's pretend concern.

The woman in the mirror was tugging on the hem of the dress, her fingers trembling and her hold wavering. The insecurities in her eyes dimmed the sparkle of bravery.

Naoya slowly stepped back, lazily walked to the chair, and carelessly threw his legs over the piano — the loud sound of keys coming to life in a disorganised mess startled you — pouring a glass of whiskey to watch you in front of the mirror. As if he were dressing a doll.

"Should I change?" your voice came quietly. Hesitantly. The gold on your frame seemed strained by the ugliness you bore; the hideosity you hid muddied the emeralds.

"As you wish, dove."

Dove. The usual petname didn't mend any damage Naoya had already caused; instead, you felt as if the sharp blade of his words cut your wings.

You hastily shook the dress off your trembling frame. Naoya's satisfied gaze was your only reward.

The rest of the dinner went as miserably as dressing up.

Naoya escorted you to the Zenin Estate with the same courtesy that might've been saved for a chopping block.

Firstly, the excited sparkle of being welcomed in your boyfriend's house shimmered brightly within you. Then, it ignited into a radiant desire to earn at least something besides sharp glances and fake disdainful smiles. Lastly, the resentment doused the bitter flames.

The soot of boredom clogged your throat ever since.

Roaming the opulent floors of the hall with your fiancé's hand on your waistline like a stamp, you felt no more like a souvenir on his arm. A doll whose dress was carefully picked, hair curled and a smile plastered alongside an unblinking gaze. Only to be put back on the shelf.

Again. Again. And again.

You had long lost count of the fake, well-rehearsed "That's so great's" and "We're so happy for you's" that slipped out of your mouth between the expectant glances of guests. However, the moment your smile turned a tad tighter, and the tilt of your head resembled more of a mockery than an interest, Naoya's fingers dug harder in the small of your back. Your spine would straighten just after that.

The doll whose joints had been pulled on.

"Aren't you having a little bit too much fun out there, hm?"

Naoya's voice found you in one of the corners near the balcony, just where the bright light of the flashy chandelier didn't reach. A sudden thought that the amber gemstones were fake — you remembered Naoya's grumbling about a scammer — made you snort in a flute of champagne.

Naoya's eyes dangerously narrowed. He looked around to make sure the guests were too busy pretending to enjoy each other's company and sharply tugged you by the elbow.

"I think you might have enough, little dove." His tensed whisper dripped with venom, while the print of his fingers carved into your skin with no care at all. "You don't want to embarrass us, do you?"

Your fingers twitched around the delicate stem of the glass. Something sharp and painful curled up in your chest, urging you to retreat into your shell like a turtle, but the alcohol in your blood gave you an unexpected boldness.

"Us? Or just you?"

His muddy eyes widened with shock at your disobedience and then narrowed with something resembling humiliation. The strange feeling — though entirely pleasant — coursed through your veins and exploded in your hazy mind like a small firework at his reaction.

"Don't forget yourself, honey," Naoya's whiskey breath fanned over your ear as his hand climbed down to the dip of your waist. The weight of it felt so heavy it might've stripped you of any breath. "Or I will have to remind you, then."

Your smile faltered slightly before completely vanishing into the void that your soul was.

"And clearly you've had enough of it," Naoya swiftly took your flute and curled his lips in disdain after taking a sip. "Gods, what a dog's piss. No wonder you, women, act so pissy after it."

The drunk, ugly laugh left his lips. You fought the urge to roll your eyes and ask him how he knew its taste, but you swallowed all your words.

"Gojo didn't look like a man who would joke about it," a sudden thought — totally unwelcome and totally intrusive — rooted you to your spot.

He probably would offer polite nods and interesting glances. His hand would set your being ablaze even through the dress, and his fingers would bring you a myriad of sparkles as they brushed along your arm as he would take your glass away with a charming grin.

Goosebumps erupted on your skin at the mere image, and a harsh breath left you.

It was a champagne. Of course it was! That or you just watched too much of the "Bridgertons."

Albeit you weren't a pretty lady, and Gojo wasn't a viscount to save you.

"Naoya-san, I am so glad to meet you here!" A high-pitched, too sweet in its tone voice, roughly jerked you back to reality. A tight smile made its way back on your face as your hand slotted back into the crook of your fiancé's elbow.

The old lady with an obnoxious feather boa — it took all your politeness and the remnants of your sober mind not to let your eyebrows raise — chirped joyously to Naoya. You noticed with satisfaction that he was stunned as well — that might've been the only thing you got to share that night.

After a little while, the lady finally decided to turn to you, and the sharp assessing look immediately crossed her face as she eyed you down.

That time you couldn't help yourself and gave her a slight arch of your brow. Did you spit in her soup or what? Stole a respectable, influential man just under her daughter's nose?

If she only knew. All that glittered was not gold.

"And you, my darling, — ''

Were you?

" — Naoya-san mentioned you still work," she said, and the last word sounded shocked and even slightly offended — as if the mere possibility of a woman and the future Madame Zenin actually doing something had startled her. "What are you doing?"

Before Naoya's hand would dig a warning into your skin, you heard yourself answering, "Oh, I am a doctor. Working with kids."

"A doctor?" the lady repeated incredulously with her grey thin eyebrows soaring up to her hairline. The lady's gaze involuntarily flickered to Naoya, gauging his reaction, and as she got none, her eyelashes fluttered. "Isn't it a bit tiresome for a pretty thing like you, my darling?"

You could visibly feel the waves of Naoya's irritation rolling around the sea of people, and waived your hand with a loud laugh, "Oh no, no at all! I find it pretty fun, actually."

Naoya's fingers twitched on your skin, and you cut yourself off with a sharp exhale.

"Naoya lets me work before the wedding." Your grin turned sharper. "He's really the sweetest!"

Lifting your head to look at his face, you noticed the muscle in his jaw jump in barely concealed irritation. The heat of panic surged through you at the alarming speed and settled heavily in your chest. You tried to reassess every interaction, every glance and twitch of your lips. What did you do wrong?

You swallowed with effort. Maybe you had pushed it too far that time.

When the lady left, you watched Naoya's face for any clue that might've given away his true feelings.

He gave you none besides the last dismissive glance and the cruel nod, "We're leaving."

"I don't —," his gaze immediately silenced you. "Yes, darling."

Heels hastily clicking on the marble, your grip on the purse tightening, the fabric of the dress slightly bunching in your hand, you hurried to catch your future husband up.

He didn't spare you so much of a glance on the way home. Sitting in the backseat, sipping on another glass of whiskey and keeping his eyes on the blur of motions behind the windows.

You kept your hands on your lap and tried to blend into the seats as much as possible, not to provoke Naoya further. But the anxiety that had been quietly bubbling within you all the evening finally surged through the lid, churning your insides into a twisted knot and clawing at the back of your throat. The suspicious lump started forming in it, and you swallowed with effort, blinking away your tears.

Naoya hated when you cried.

"Will you tell me what I have done wrong?"

Your quiet voice cut through the silence of the car, nauseating to the point that it became unbearable. The panic that rattled your body was on the other tip of the scales, and your choice was obvious.

Naoya slowly turned his gaze, unblinking. Narrowed his eyes as if assessing whether you were ready for the mercy of his revelation.

"Please," your voice dipped into a desperate whisper. "Just tell me."

After what felt like an eternity, Naoya finally released a dismissive huff, "You humiliated me."

You sat completely still. Licked your lips and breathed out hastily.

"I didn't mean to, really, it was just silly women's talk, you know that!"

His tone dropped to something dangerous, laced with intent to inject his anger into you even more.

"Doesn't matter. That old hag can't hold her tongue for her life, and then would blab around, so now everyone will know the future Zenin-sama can't even keep in check his future wife," the disdain in his voice smacked your face with a hot wave of humiliation, "not talking about business."

"Naoya, I am really sorry. I didn't think, I — " You watched the grim taking over his face and judging by the twitch of his eye, he was close to snapping, so you quickly scrambled for an answer. "I can send her a card! Or, or — invite her to the dinner and tell her she didn't understand it right!"

The moment your words left your mouth, you instantly regretted them.

Naoya put the whiskey glass with such a force that it had you flinching and looking at the driver to gauge his reaction. Luckily, the partition did its thing.

Anxiety coursed through your veins, akin to blood and settled in your bones with an unshakable cold, as Naoya tugged on your dress to yank you sharply forward.

"Don't you fucking dare," he gritted through his teeth. "Do you hear me? Haven't I done enough for you? Letting you —," pressing his lips into a thin line, Naoya spat another venom, "slacking around that shitty hospital of yours. The least you could do was to be grateful for it. But no."

He leaned back and angrily hooked the thumb in to loosen the bow tie — which was usually your job — and it fell another victim to his growing irritation.

The hot waves of humiliation commanded you to keep your head bowed. You bit on the inside of your cheek not to let tears and any protest spill; instead, you took a deep breath and looked up with a smile so strained it felt like the last pleading to an executioner.

"I just didn't think. I guess it was champagne. I am so sorry, Naoya."

Your begging look might've softened something in his brown gaze — or that was a game of light — but the hand that slowly reached to cup your face was surprisingly gentle. Just like a deer under the flashlights, you stilled and released a soft breath.

"Ah, my pretty dove. Have I scared you?"

The smile on your face faltered but then stretched into something similar to a mask as you forced it.

His gaze, glossed with the alcohol, wandered over your face. Deliberately observant. And after a few seconds, Naoya's lips finally grazed your forehead.

You weren't completely sure whether the storm between you had settled, but you were more than lucky to grasp for any zephyr of calm.

Lying under the lavish canopy of your bed, you let your mind wander.

Was it always like that with Naoya?

When was the exact moment his tender kisses began to feel more like silent claimings? When did his loving arms become dismissive brushes? When did the affection in his gaze give way to disdain? When his fingers, which used to silently trace your skin, curled around your wrists like chains? When did the tender words turn into poisoned arrows he shot at you?

When did sharing your life with him start to mean denying your own? And when his love slowly shaped you into someone you failed to recognise more and more with every passing day?

What would happen when the waves of his suffocating love would erase every evidence of you?

Would they swallow you whole or crash into cliffs?

The next morning met you with an enormous bouquet of roses, resting just near your bed. Alongside was the card that simply read, "That distressed look doesn't suit you, dove. The flowers might cheer you up."

The giant beast that had your heart in its claws reluctantly released its grip, allowing you a short breath. You pressed the card to your chest; the fact that you didn't even like roses didn't bother you as long as you had Naoya's affection back.

@alygator77 @man1cslut @p3talswayingindesun @xunquish-blog @mitchskiii @anothergojostan @cridtiins @gyarujo

a/n: hello lovelies!! i am so excited and anxious to start my first mini-series! this work is not gonna be the lightest and i do not expect a lot, but i would gladly hear your thoughts!!