𝕮𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊

“and THEN she blended the contour with a damp sponge instead of a brush and i’m telling you jake, it literally changed the structural integrity of her face.”

jake blinked slowly from where he sat, one arm stretched behind you. “structural integrity.”

“yes!” you laughed. “like she went from moon emoji to greek statue in thirty seconds.”

he gave a small chuckle at first. he always did. even when he didn’t understand you, he liked hearing you excited. your voice filled rooms too easily. like confetti someone forgot to clean up.

“and okay wait because THEN i started thinking maybe i should try that peach undertone thing? but i don’t know because the lighting in sephora is literally government propaganda.”

jake rubbed a hand down his face.

“mhm.”

you didn’t notice the shift at first.

“and babe, imagine me with that glossy lip combo i showed you? the one with the liner and—”

jake exhaled hard this time.

you paused for half a second. “what?”

“nothin.” but his eyes had already drifted away from you toward the tv that wasn’t even on.

you tried smiling anyway. “no, tell me.”

another sigh.

“baby…” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “i just… i don’t understand any of this stuff.”

your fingers slowly stilled in your lap.

“i know…” you said softly, trying to laugh it off. “you don’t gotta understand makeup.”

“no but it’s like…” he shook his head. “can you stop talking about it for like, one second?”

the room went weirdly quiet after that.

jake looked irritated in the careless way people do right before they realize they crossed a line.

“it’s just… damn.” he let out a dry laugh. “you’re kinda irritating when you get like this.”

and there it was.

it wasn’t not yelled or cruel. just tossed at you casually like it wouldn’t land somewhere permanent.

your smile faded almost invisibly.

jake finally looked at you properly then.

you swallowed once and nodded a little too quickly. “oh.. yeah. okay.”

jake looked like he had been slapped by his own sentence. just genuinely stunned at what came out of him earlier.

his eyebrows pulled together.

“no—” he let out a breath, almost disbelieving at himself. “no, i did not mean that.”

“no, you’re right.” your voice stayed painfully polite. “i totally understand.”

the bubbly energy that had been bouncing around the room seconds ago vanished like somebody unplugged it from the wall.

you stood up carefully, smoothing your shorts even though they didn’t need smoothing.

“i think i’m gonna take a nap.” you said quietly. “i’m tired.”

you usually argued back. teased him. dramatically gasped and called him rude before talking again five minutes later anyway. but this? this was different. your eyes wouldn’t even stay on him now.

he sat up straighter. “baby, wait, i didn’t mean it like that.”

you nodded again. too nice. too fast. “it’s okay.”

it was the “okay” people use when it absolutely is not okay.

you started walking toward the bedroom.

jake stared at your back for two seconds before standing abruptly. “babe.”

you stopped but didn’t turn around.

he ran a hand through his hair, already hating himself. “don’t do that.”

you looked down at the floor. “i’m not doing anything.”

and somehow that hurt him more.

jake reached for your wrist gently. “baby… look at me.”

you finally did and your eyes were glossy now, trying so hard not to be.

the regret hit him like a truck with brass knuckles.

“shit…” he whispered immediately. “no, no, sweetheart…”

his hand slid up your arm carefully like he thought you might pull away.

“i didn’t mean you’re irritating.” his voice softened fast. “i was irritated. that’s different.”

you gave the tiniest shrug. “it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine if i made you feel bad.”

your face crumpled just a little at that, enough for him to realize how hard you were trying to hold it together over one stupid comment.

jake cursed under his breath and pulled you into him before you could protest.

“you get excited and you ramble.” he murmured into your hair. “i know that. i love that about you.”

you stayed quiet against his chest.

“i’m just an idiot.” he rubbed your back slowly. “a giant one. like medically concerning levels.”

a tiny laugh escaped you accidentally.

“there she is…” he whispered immediately, relief flooding his voice like sunlight through cracked blinds.

you hid your face against him. “you hurt my feelings.”

“i know.” his grip tightened. “i know, baby. i’m sorry.”

after jake apologized. more than once, actually. he hugged you and kissed your forehead and called himself an idiot, and swore he never meant it the way it came out.

but suddenly that sentence would flash through your head out of nowhere.

irritating.

it lodged itself somewhere ugly in your brain and refused to leave.

and you hated that.

because logically, you knew jake loved you.

you knew it every time he pulled you into his lap while playing games. every time he saved the pickles from his burger because you liked them. every time he looked for you first in crowded rooms like his eyes did it automatically.

you knew.

but insecurities are weird little parasites.

they don’t care about logic.

so now every time you got excited, something inside you hesitated first.

you started noticing yourself more. maybe too much.

the way your voice got louder when you were passionate about something. the way you interrupted yourself because your thoughts moved too fast. the way you jumped from topic to topic without warning.

before, it used to feel natural.

now it felt embarrassing. like becoming aware of how loudly you chew. you couldn’t unnotice it anymore.

and the worst part?

jake didn’t even realize how much it affected you because you tried so hard to act normal.

you still smiled, still laughed and still cuddled him at night.

you just… edited yourself now.

when you got excited about something from tiktok, you’d think about bringing it up… then decide not to.

sometimes you caught yourself literally checking his face while talking to see if he looked annoyed.

that part made you feel pathetic.

and the next few days they felt… off.

not in an obvious fighting way, probably worse. but you just got quiet.

jake noticed it almost immediately.

usually when you came home from college, the apartment exploded with noise within five minutes. your bag hitting the floor dramatically. you talking about professors like they were reality show villains. random makeup opinions nobody asked for. twenty different stories tangled together at once.

but now?

nothing.

that afternoon the apartment was filled with the low hum of rain again, the tv playing some random show neither of you were paying attention to.

you sat curled into the opposite end of the couch, knees tucked to your chest while scrolling on your phone silently.

too silently.

jake glanced over from where he sat.

usually you would’ve been halfway laying on top of him by now.

instead there was actual distance between you two.

it bothered him more than he expected.

he muted the tv after a while. “how was college today?”

you didn’t even look up from your phone.

“alright.”

jake waited.

normally that question unlocked a forty minute recap complete with impressions, side quests, and emotional damage.

but that was it.

“…busy, i guess.”

his eyes narrowed slightly.

“busy?” he repeated.

“mhm.”

silence again.

the rain tapped softly against the windows.

jake stared at you for another second before leaning back slowly.

another ten minutes passed and you barely spoke. every answer was short, polite or neat. like you were trying not to bother him.

jake finally tossed the remote onto the couch with a sigh.

“okay, no.”

you looked up finally. “what?”

“why are you acting like that?”

you blinked innocently. “like what?”

“like you’re in a waiting room.”

your fingers paused against your phone screen.

“i’m not.”

“baby, you’ve said maybe six words since you got home.”

you shrugged lightly. “i’m tired.”

jake stared at you.

that shrug almost pissed him off because it was so obviously fake-casual.

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “you’re still upset about the other night?”

your eyes dropped back to your phone instantly. “i said it was fine.”

“yeah, and i’m starting to realize that when you say ‘it’s fine’ it actually means i should start preparing my funeral arrangements.”

that almost got a smile.

he scooted closer slowly. “hey…”

you kept staring at your phone even though you hadn’t scrolled in thirty seconds.

his voice softened.

“baby.”

you swallowed. “what?”

“talk to me.”

your throat tightened a little at that because the stupid part was… you wanted to.

you missed talking to him normally.

but now every time you got excited about something, that sentence echoed in your head.

you’re kinda irritating when you get like this.

so instead you just shrugged again. “there’s nothing to talk about.”

jake’s expression shifted immediately.

hurt.

real hurt.

“don’t do that.”

you frowned softly. “do what?”

“shut me out because i said something stupid.”

you finally looked at him then.

“i’m not shutting you out.”

“yes you are.” he said quietly. “you don’t even ramble anymore.”

that word made your chest ache.

ramble…

because before, he used to say it like it was something fond.

now it just felt embarrassing.

you looked down at your lap. “i didn’t realize it was that annoying.”

jake’s face dropped instantly.

“baby…”

“it’s okay.” you said quickly. too quickly. “i’ve been trying to chill out more anyway.”

that sentence hit him like a brick to the throat.

because you sounded sincere.

like you were genuinely trying to make yourself smaller for him.

“no.” jake moved closer immediately. “no, don’t do that.”

you looked confused. “do what?”

“this.” he gestured toward you helplessly. “being all quiet and weird.”

your voice came out tiny. “i thought you wanted me to.”

jake physically flinched and silence filled the room again.

then suddenly he was pulling your phone gently out of your hands and tossing it onto the couch beside him.

“c’mere.”

before you could protest, he tugged you into his lap.

you let out a surprised noise, hands instinctively grabbing his hoodie.

jake wrapped both arms around you tightly. “i was irritated one time.” he muttered into your shoulder. “one time, and now my girlfriend acts like she needs customer service training before speaking.”

you huffed the tiniest laugh despite yourself.

“baby, i miss hearing you talk.” he admitted quietly. “the apartment feels creepy without it.”

you looked down. “really?”

“yes, really.” he said immediately. “i wanna hear about your professors and your makeup theories and whatever random thing your tiktok algorithm taught you today.” he rested his chin against your shoulder, holding you a little closer. “i don’t want you sitting here and second guess every thought before you say it.”

your eyes stung a little at that.

jake noticed instantly and groaned softly. “i meant it baby.”

he pulled you closer against his chest, rubbing your back slowly.

“i’m sorry, sweetheart.” he murmured into your hair. “seriously.”

then after a second.

“…now tell me how college was for real this time.”

you sniffled once.

“my sociology professor accidentally emailed the entire class her grocery list.”

jake blinked.

he leans back dramatically, clutching the packet to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “this is character development. let me struggle in peace.”

“you’ve been struggling for forty seconds. that’s not character development, that’s a cry for help.”

he narrows his eyes, but the corners of his mouth keep twitching. “you’re so mean to me lately.”

“i’m literally saving your smile.”

“my smile is already saved. it’s your favorite thing about me.”

you freeze for half a second — long enough for him to notice.

he notices everything lately.

you snatch the packet anyway, rip it open with one clean motion, and dump the powder into the boiling noodles like nothing happened. jungwon just watches you with that quiet, cat-like stare he’s been doing more and more often. the one that makes your stomach feel like it’s full of baby butterflies trying to learn how to fly.

“thanks,” he murmurs, softer than necessary.

you shrug. “anytime.”

but it’s not anytime. it’s every time. every single stupid, small thing.

he forgets his umbrella? you wait under the awning of the convenience store holding yours over both of your heads even though your shoulder gets soaked.

he loses his favorite hoodie? you find it behind the couch in the practice room and wear it once “just to check if it still smells like him” (it does, and you panic-fold it back exactly how you found it).

he falls asleep on your lap during a movie night? you don’t move for two hours even though your leg is numb and tingling, because his cheek is squished against your thigh and he’s making tiny sleepy noises and you think maybe you’ve never been this happy and also maybe you’re going to die of happiness, which would be embarrassing.

the worst part? he does the same things back.

brings you the exact iced americano you like without you asking. waits for you after your late class even when his schedule is hell. saves the last slice of convenience-store cake for you every single time. calls you “my cutie” once — once — and then pretends he didn’t, but his ears were so red you could see them from across the room.

you’re both so stupid.

it finally snaps one rainy thursday.

you’re both soaked from walking back from the convenience store (he insisted on going with you even though you said you’d be quick). your shoes are squelching. his bangs are plastered to his forehead. he looks ridiculous and perfect.

inside the dorm hallway he stops suddenly, grabs your wrist, and tugs you under the little awning above the entrance so you’re not getting rained on anymore.

you look up at him. water droplets cling to his eyelashes.

he’s breathing a little fast.

“you’re shivering,” he says, like that explains why he’s holding your wrist so gently.

“i’m fine.”

“you’re not fine. you’re always cold.”

“i’m really—”

he steps closer. not a lot. just enough that you can smell rain and the faint peach of his shampoo.

“i like that you’re always cold,” he says quietly. “because then i get to do this.”

he takes both your hands in his and cups them near his mouth, blowing warm air over your fingers. slow. careful. like he’s been practicing this moment in his head for months.

your heart is so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“jungwon…”

he lifts his eyes. they’re so close. so warm. so scared and brave at the same time.

“i think i’ve liked you for a really long time,” he whispers. “like… embarrassingly long. since the convenience store cake thing. maybe earlier. i don’t know. i just know i keep looking for excuses to be near you and then i panic when i’m actually near you and— i’m really bad at this, aren’t i?”

you laugh. it comes out shaky and wet and happy.

“you’re the worst,” you say, voice cracking. “you’re so bad at hiding it. everyone knows.”

his eyes widen. “everyone?”

“literally everyone. riki made a powerpoint.”

he groans, drops his forehead against your shoulder. “i’m gonna kill him.”

you lift your hands and gently hold the sides of his face, making him look at you again.

“i’m also bad at hiding it,” you admit. “i stole your hoodie once. on purpose. and then put it back like a criminal.”

he blinks. then smiles — slow, big, devastating.

“you wore my hoodie?”

“…maybe.”

“did it smell nice?”

“shut up.”

he laughs, bright and boyish and everything you’ve wanted to hear forever.

then he leans in — hesitant, giving you time to pull away — and when you don’t, he kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it.

soft. sweet. a little clumsy because his nose bumps yours and you both giggle into the kiss.

when you finally pull back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing like he just ran ten laps.

“i’m keeping you forever, okay?” he mumbles.

you smile so wide it hurts.

“okay.”

he kisses the tip of your nose. then your cheek. then your forehead. tiny, fluttering kisses like he can’t decide where to stop.

“idiot,” you whisper fondly.

“your idiot,” he corrects, proud.

and yeah, he really is.

finally.

© jongst4r, 2026

Jake spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at the vending machine. A deep sigh escaped him as he leaned his forehead against the glass. His reflection stared back, looking significantly less charming than usual. Tragic. 

First day as an attending anesthesiologist, he already got yelled at in front of an entire operating room. 

Jake still couldn’t fully process it. 

Not during med school. Not during residency. Not even by Professor Kwon, who once made a grown orthopedic resident cry over improper intubation positioning. 

But you? 

You had looked up from an actively bleeding patient with the coldest expression he had ever seen and said—

“Dr. Sim, are you planning to keep up, or should I ask for someone faster?” 

The room had gone silent. Even the cardiac monitor suddenly sounded awkward. Jake winced at the memory and rubbed a hand down his face. 

Okay. 

In his defense, trauma surgery was insane. Things moved at approximately the speed of light in your operating room. Instruments flew into your waiting hand before people even registered that you asked for them. Residents looked second away from cardiac arrest. Nurses communicated through eye contact alone. 

And you? 

You were terrifying. 

Not loud, not emotional, just brutally efficient. Which somehow made it worse. 

Jake grabbed an  Americano from the vending machine and muttered under his breath. 

“One rough induction and suddenly my career flashed before my eyes,” 

“You were slow.” 

He nearly fumbled the drink. Turning around, he found you standing there in navy scrubs, arms crossed loosely over your chest. 

No warning. No footsteps. Psychotic behavior, honestly. 

“You always stand there like a disappointed ghost?”

“You always complain this much?”

“Only after public humiliation.”

You grabbed your drink from the vending machine. “Then get used to it.”

Jake stared at you in disbelief as you started walking away.

“Wow,” he called after you. “That was kinda mean.”

Jake watched you walk down the hallway without looking back once.

Sure, you were dragging your steps like each one weighed at least fifty pounds after a brutal shift, but somehow you still moved through the hospital corridor with the intensity of someone seconds away from giving a TED Talk titled Why Med School Was The Worst Decision Of My Life.

Jake took a sip of his coffee.

“…I kinda respect her, actually.”

“Don’t let her hear that.”

"Jesus!"

Jake's heart almost evaporates. A nurse stood beside him now, casually punching numbers into the vending machine. Slowly, and trying to make things more embarrassing, he calmed himself down.

“Why?” he asked.

“Compliments make her violent.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “That explains a lot.”

“You’re new, huh?”

“That obvious?”

The nurse grabbed her drink with a hum. “You’re still smiling after getting yelled at.”

Ouch.

Jake leaned back against the vending machine. “Does she hate everyone equally, or should I feel honored?”

“Oh, Dr. Y/N definitely hates incompetence more.”

“…That somehow feels personal.”

“You’ll survive,” the nurse said. “Probably.”

Probably?

Before Jake could question that deeply concerning choice of words, his pager suddenly buzzed against his waist.

OR TWO — TRAUMA ACTIVATION. 

“Well,” he muttered, pushing himself off the vending machine, “time to go disappoint a woman again.” 

“Good luck,” the nurse called out, already laughing.

He took one last sip of his americano before tossing the empty can neatly into the trash bin.

Missed.

Jake stared at the can lying sadly on the floor.

“…That feels symbolic somehow.”

Then, with what remained of his dignity, he picked it up and headed toward OR Two. Straight into the beginning of his problems.

.

.

.

.

Six months later, Jake learned three important things. 

First, trauma surgeons operated entirely on caffeine, spite, and unresolved psychological issues. Second, the emergency department smelled permanently like stress and antiseptic. And third, you still hated him. Maybe hate was a strong word. Strongly disliked him? Yeah, probably that. 

“Dr. Sim.”

Jake didn’t even look up from the patient chart anymore. “That tone usually means I’m about to get criticized.”

“Because you’re leaning on the sterile table.”

He immediately stepped away. “See, this is why morale in this hospital is terrible.”

“Morale is not my department.”

“Neither is emotional damage, yet somehow you excel at both.”

Around the operating room, two residents immediately looked down to hide their laughter.

Six months ago, they would’ve been terrified to witness conversations like this. Now the trauma team had simply accepted that Dr. Y/N and Dr. Sim existed in their own strange ecosystem. Jake adjusted his gloves before glancing sideways at you. Same cold expression. Same sharp eyes. Same terrifyingly competent hands are currently preparing for surgery.

Still terrifying. Still brutally honest. Still the prettiest person he’d ever seen in an operating room.

Which honestly felt medically unprofessional at this point.

“You’re staring again,” you said flatly.

Jake blinked once. “See, now you’re just making things awkward.”

“Focus on the patient.”

“I am.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. Jake grinned behind his mask. Ah. There it was. Progress. Six months ago, you would’ve ignored him completely. Now you looked mildly homicidal instead. 

Relationship development.

.

.

.

.

A year later, Jake still couldn’t decide whether meeting you had improved his life or permanently damaged it.

Probably both.

You were still terrifying. The difference was that he had unfortunately started finding it attractive. Deeply attractive. Catastrophically attractive, even.

Somewhere between his third overnight trauma call and the time you silently handed him half your sandwich during a fourteen-hour shift, Jake realized he was in serious trouble. Not crush trouble. Real trouble.

The kind where he automatically searched for you first every time he walked into the trauma department. The kind where hearing your voice over the intercom somehow made his shifts less unbearable. The kind where your approval started mattering more than it should.

Which was ridiculous, considering you still criticized him like it was a professional obligation. 

“BP’s dropping.”

“I know.”

“Well, that response feels unnecessarily hostile.”

You didn’t even look up from the patient. “Clamp.”

The scrub nurse immediately placed the instrument into your hand.

“Pressure’s at eighty over fifty,” Jake continued, eyes moving across the monitor. “She’s bleeding faster than you’re closing.”

“That sounds judgmental coming from someone sitting down.”

Jake gasped softly behind his mask. “See? This is why people fear trauma surgeons.”

“People fear incompetence.”

“And yet you continue allowing residents into your OR.”

One of the residents nearly choked. You held your hand out wordlessly.

“Suction.”

Jake watched you work for a second.

Fast hands. Steady movements. Zero hesitation. Honestly, it was getting hard to focus professionally when you looked like that during surgery.

“Dr. Sim.”

He blinked. “Hm?”

“Focus.”

Jake stared. “You sensed me being distracted?”

“Your monitor alarm has been going off for seven seconds.”

“…Right.”

He silenced it quickly while muttering under his breath, “This is psychological warfare.”

“Heart rate stabilizing,” he said a moment later. “You’ve got a better window now.”

“How much time?”

Jake glanced at the monitor again. “If you want the patient alive? Ten minutes.”

“I only need seven.”

“That confidence is either very attractive or deeply concerning.”

Silence. Then the scrub nurse quietly turned away to hide her laughter. Your eyes narrowed above your mask.

“Are you always this annoying?”

“Only in rooms where I feel emotionally safe.”

“Then feel unsafe.”

Jake grinned immediately.

Ah. There it was. His favorite thing in the world: the tiny look of irritation you got whenever he made you this close to losing composure.

.

.

.

.

Three years later, Jake could read your moods purely based on how aggressively you tied your surgical gown.

Today?

Dangerous.

Not angry enough to kill someone, but definitely irritated enough to emotionally damage a resident.

“Why is everyone breathing so loudly today?”

Ah.

Definitely dangerous.

Around the operating room, three residents immediately lowered their heads like civilians avoiding eye contact with a predator. Jake, meanwhile, didn’t even look up from the anesthesia monitor anymore.

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”

“I’ve been awake for twenty-two hours.”

“And yet somehow your personality still finds ways to worsen.”

“Scalpel.”

The instrument landed perfectly into your waiting hand before the scrub nurse could react. Your eyes flicked toward Jake briefly. Not surprised. Just accustomed. Three years working together had turned your operating rhythm into something almost automatic.

Jake adjusted medications before you asked. You anticipated his timing without looking. The entire trauma surgeries passed with conversations made up of half-sentences because neither of you needed explanations anymore. Honestly, it was a little insane.

“BP stable,” Jake said.

“Mm.”

“Heart rate’s improving.”

“Good.”

“You know,” he continued casually, “most surgeons say thank you.”

“Most anesthesiologists don’t complain during active hemorrhages.”

Ouch.

The surgery continued smoothly after that.

Three years working together had turned both of you into something almost terrifyingly synchronized. You moved. Jake adjusted. He spoke. You already anticipated the problem before he finished the sentence.

Somewhere along the way, working together stopped feeling difficult and started feeling natural. Which was honestly dangerous for Jake emotionally. 

Nearly an hour later, you finally stepped away from the operating table with a tired exhale.

“Closing complete.”

Jake glanced at the monitor one last time before nodding. “Vitals stable.”

“Good.”

The residents visibly relaxed like prisoners being granted freedom.

You peeled off your gloves with the same exhausted irritation you carried through most shifts nowadays. Twenty-two hours awake. Midnight surgery. Terrifying attitude is somehow still fully operational. Jake watched you walk toward the scrub room sink before following behind casually.

“So,” he started, washing his hands beside you, “coffee?”

“No.”

Immediate.

Jake sighed. “You reject me concerning efficiency.”

“Practice.”

“Cruel.”

“Accurate.”

Water ran quietly between both of you for a moment. Your shoulders looked tense. Heavy. The kind of exhaustion that sleep alone probably couldn’t fix. Jake leaned slightly against the sink.

“Okay,” he tried again, “then lunch tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“No.”

“Breakfast?”

“I’d rather intubate myself.”

Jake stared at you in disbelief. “See, comments like that are exactly why HR avoids our department.”

Finally, finally, the corner of your mouth twitched upward slightly. Barely there. Tiny.

But Jake noticed immediately anyway. And there it was. The reason he kept trying. Because every once in a while, after long shifts and impossible surgeries, you let tiny cracks show through the armor. Never for long. Never intentionally. But enough. Just enough to completely ruin him. You grabbed a towel, drying your hands before speaking flatly again.

“Go home, Dr. Sim.”

Jake smiled lazily. “Worried about me?”

“I’m worried your face will still be here when my next shift starts.”

“That’s the meanest possible version of concern.”

You turned to leave the scrub room. Then paused briefly near the doorway.

“…There’s coffee in the residents’ lounge.”

Jake blinked once.

“Wait.”

You kept walking.

“Was that an invitation?”

Silence.

Jake grinned slowly to himself before following you anyway.

.

.

.

.

Jake realized he was in love with you at 3:17 in the morning.

Which was deeply unfair, honestly.

Not because the timing was inconvenient— although falling in love during a trauma activation probably counted as psychological damage— but because the realization happened over something incredibly stupid.

You were eating crackers.

That was it.

Just you sitting on the counter in the residents’ lounge after eighteen straight hours awake, still wearing navy scrubs while quietly eating stale crackers like they personally offended you. Jake stood frozen near the coffee machine.

Yet somehow, while watching you silently eat crackers at an ungodly hour in a fluorescent hospital lounge, that was the only thought Jake had left. 

Oh, this was bad.

Because suddenly every annoying thing about you became weirdly endearing. The permanent frown. The exhaustion in your eyes. The way you looked homicidal before caffeine. Even your silence felt familiar now instead of intimidating.

You noticed him staring almost immediately. Of course you did. You looked unimpressed already. Comforting, somehow. Jake grabbed two coffees automatically before setting one beside you. You glanced at the cup.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“You also haven’t gone home in twenty hours. I’m taking creative liberties.”

You stared at the coffee for a few quiet seconds before taking it anyway. No, thank you, just acceptance. Jake smiled before he could stop himself. And there it was again. That horrible feeling in his chest. Warm. Heavy. Stupidly soft.

God.

He was genuinely done for.

You frowned slightly at him over the coffee cup.

“…Why are you smiling like that?”

Jake leaned against the counter beside you.

“Nothing.”

Suspicious silence.

“You’re being weird again.”

He laughed quietly. Again. Like this was normal now. And maybe that was the exact moment Jake realized the problem wasn’t that you were difficult to love. It was that loving you had become the easiest thing he’d done in years.

.

.

.

.

“Fine,” you said flatly. “Lunch.”

Jake blinked. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy. 

Ridiculously, openly happy. 

“Seriously?” he asked. 

You immediately regretted everything. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird, you just said yes.”

“To lunch.”

“With me.”

“To food.”

He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. “Right. Yes. Of course. Food.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like you won something?” 

“Because I did.”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

That exact moment had permanently altered his brain chemistry. 

But Jake couldn’t help it. Because for everyone else, lunch was just lunch.

For you?

Saying yes to anything personal felt nearly impossible. Which meant Jake remembered every tiny detail of that day with horrifying clarity. The way you sighed before agreeing. The way you rolled your eyes when he smiled too much. The fact that you stayed even after finishing your food.

Tiny things. Meaningless things. Things Jake treasured anyway, like a complete idiot.

“Dr. Sim.”

He looked up instantly. And there you were at the end of the hallway, already dressed in scrubs for the next surgery. Same exhausted expression.

Same terrifying aura.

The same woman is currently ruining his emotional stability.

“Are you coming to OR Three,” you asked flatly, “or are you planning to stand there looking emotionally compromised all afternoon?”

Jake blinked once.

“See, comments like that are exactly why I’m obsessed with you.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

“It is.”

You stared at him for a long second before turning around toward the operating rooms again.

“Five minutes.”

Jake immediately pushed himself off the counter to follow after you.

Of course he did.

The hallway lights reflected against the polished floors as both of you walked side by side in familiar silence. 

“Why are you smiling again?”

Jake looked over innocently. “You notice me a lot.”

“You’re visibly weird.”

“That’s hurtful.”

God. Even your insults sounded fond lately. Or maybe Jake was just deeply delusional at this point. Honestly hard to tell anymore.

“You know,” he said casually as both of you stopped outside the OR doors, “we should do lunch again sometime.”

“No.”

Immediate. Jake sighed dramatically toward the ceiling.

“And yet you already said yes once.”

“Temporary lapse in judgment.”

“One of the best days of my life, actually.”

Your hand paused briefly against the OR door handle. Tiny. Almost invisible. But Jake noticed anyway. He always noticed. You glanced sideways at him with narrowed eyes.

Silence.

“Dr. Sim.”

“Yeah?”

“Go monitor your patient.”

Ah.

Deflection again. Interesting.

.

.

.

.

The problem with Jake openly liking you was that nobody in the hospital found it surprising anymore.  

Not the nurses. Not the residents. Not even the janitors at this point. After three years, Dr. Sim orbiting around Dr. Y/N had simply become part of the hospital ecosystem. Jake brought you coffee. You rejected him. Jake flirted during surgeries. You threatened violence.

Nature healed. 

“You know that our hospital scrubs look good on you, right?”

“Move.”

Jake sighed, stepping aside so you could reach the patient's chart behind him.

“See, this is what I mean. You never take me seriously.”

“Because you say things like that while blocking the hallway.”

“That’s not related.”

“It’s extremely related.”

You flipped through the chart with your usual flat expression while Jake leaned beside you like a man with absolutely no survival instincts.

“I’m serious, by the way.”

“Mm.”

“That response feels disrespectful.”

“That’s because I don’t respect this conversation.”

Brutal.

Jake watched you scribble notes onto the chart, completely unaffected. Which honestly felt offensive at this point. Most people got nervous when they confessed to. You looked mildly inconvenienced.

“Three years,” Jake continued. “Three years of emotional dedication.”

“Three years of workplace harassment.”

“Wow.”

“You asked.”

Fair enough.

A resident passing by suddenly changed direction immediately after spotting both of you together.

Coward.

Jake narrowed his eyes at your profile. “Do you genuinely not believe me?”

“No.”

Immediate.

“That’s crazy, actually.”

“You flirt with everyone.”

Ouch.

Jake straightened slightly.

“Not like this.”

Finally, your pen paused. Just briefly. Tiny enough that nobody else would notice. But Jake noticed everything about you. Your eyes lifted toward him slowly.

“Dr. Sim.”

“Yeah?”

“You tell nurses they look pretty at least twice a day.”

“That’s basic workplace morale.”

“You winked at a pharmaceutical representative yesterday.”

“In my defense, she gave us free pens.”

Your expression flattened further somehow.

“Exactly my point.”

Jake stared at you for a second before laughing quietly under his breath.

God.

This was the issue. You genuinely thought this was just how he was. That he was naturally charming, affectionate, and absolutely naturally unserious.

You finally closed the chart and handed it to him. Your fingers brushed his glove briefly. Accidental. Meaningless. Yet Jake still felt like an idiot.

“Trauma consult in ten,” you said.

Then, just before walking away—

“…And stop flirting in hallways. You’re disturbing the residents.”

Jake blinked. Slowly, a grin spread across his face. 

Not stop flirting. 

Just—not in hallways. Oh. Interesting.

.

.

.

.

The next morning, you looked terrible.

Not visually terrible. Objectively, annoyingly, you still looked good. But Jake had worked with you for three years. He knew your normal expressions, your normal silences, your normal levels of hostility.

Today? Something was off. You were quieter. Not calmer. Just exhausted in a way that sat too heavily on your shoulders.

You adjusted your gloves with visible irritation before looking over the trauma scans clipped beside the monitor.

“Patient’s unstable. We don’t have time.”

Jake kept watching you carefully.

Pale.

“Dr. Y/N.”

“What.”

“You have a fever.”

“You diagnosed that from across the room?”

“I diagnosed it from your personality, somehow getting worse.”

No response. Which, honestly, worried him more. Usually, you’d insult him by now.

“Pressure dropping,” Jake said sharply.

“I know.”

“You’re too slow.”

“I said I know!”

Your voice cracked harshly through the operating room. Everyone froze instantly. Not because you yelled. You yelled all the time. But because your hands trembled afterward. Barely noticeable. Barely there.

Jake’s stomach dropped immediately.

“Dr. Y/N.”

“Focus on your side.”

“Dr. Sim,” you said flatly, though your voice sounded weaker now, “either help me keep this patient alive or stop staring at me.” 

Jake looked at the monitor again before adjusting the medications quickly.

“BP stabilizing.”

“Good.”

Your shoulders lowered slightly in relief.

The surgery ended nearly four hours later.

Successful. Technically. But the entire day had gone horribly for you. Two emergency traumas back-to-back. One difficult family consult. Three residents are asking questions at the exact wrong time. No proper meal since yesterday afternoon.

And now this surgery.

By the time you stepped out of the operating room, your face looked noticeably pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Jake noticed immediately. Of course he did.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Automatic. Flat. You didn’t even look at him while stripping off your gloves. The second the operation ended, you scrubbed out quickly and walked straight out of the hallway without your usual post-op lecture to the residents. Jake frowned immediately. That wasn’t normal. The residents looked confused, too. You never skipped the chart review. Never disappeared first.

Jake watched you push through the heavy emergency stairwell door before it shut behind you. For a moment, he stayed where he was. Then, without really thinking about it, he followed quietly down the hallway.

The stairwell door didn’t close completely. Just enough of a gap remained for him to see through the narrow opening.

And there you were.

Sitting halfway down the stairs with your elbows resting against your knees, eyes closed briefly as your head leaned against the wall. Still wearing your scrubs. Still carrying exhaustion in every inch of your posture. Silent.

Jake froze near the doorway. Something unpleasant tightened in his chest immediately.

Because he’d spent three years watching you survive impossible shifts without slowing down once. Three years watching you carry entire trauma rooms on your shoulders like it was normal. Yet right now, sitting alone in a quiet emergency stairwell, you looked tired in a way he’d never seen before.

Not the kind fixed by sleep. The deeper kind of doctors ignored themselves constantly.

Jake’s hand rested lightly against the stairwell door. He could go inside. You’d probably insult him for following you. Tell him to leave. Tell him you were fine.

But for once, he didn’t think you wanted someone talking to you. You just wanted silence. So Jake stayed where he was. Quiet. Hidden behind the door like an idiot. Watching long enough to make sure your breathing evened out slightly. Watching until some of the tension slowly left your shoulders.

The exhausted one sitting alone on emergency stairs because the hospital never stopped needing pieces of you. Jake lowered his eyes briefly before exhaling quietly to himself.

Hopeless. Completely hopeless.

Then, careful not to make noise, he stepped away from the stairwell door and walked back toward the hallway—leaving you your five minutes alone.

.

.

.

.

The emergency department immediately dissolved into organized chaos the second the paramedics pushed the gurney through the trauma bay doors.

“Male, thirty-eight,” one of the paramedics reported quickly. “Blunt abdominal trauma, hypotensive en route, possible internal bleeding—”

You were already moving before they finished speaking.

“Prep OR Two,” you ordered sharply. “Get blood ready. FAST ultrasound now.”

Jake watched you take over the room instantly. Like always. Fast hands. Fast decisions. No hesitation. The exhaustion from earlier disappeared beneath pure instinct the second a patient’s life landed in your hands.

That was the terrifying thing about you.

No matter how exhausted you were, trauma mode always came first. The patient groaned sharply as nurses transferred him onto the trauma bed. Disoriented. Agitated. In pain.

“Sir, stay still,” you said firmly while checking the abdominal tenderness.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped immediately, trying to shove your hand away.

Jake frowned slightly from beside the monitors. Pain response. Confusion. Not unusual. But the patient kept going.

“Where’s the real doctor?” he barked harshly.

Silence flickered briefly across the trauma bay. One of the residents visibly stiffened. You didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. Just continued checking his injuries calmly.

“I am the trauma surgeon,” you replied evenly.

The patient laughed bitterly through clenched teeth. “Yeah? Then why do you look about sixteen?”

Bad move.

Jake saw several nurses immediately avoid eye contact. Because everyone in the trauma department knew one thing very clearly: You hated incompetent men. But you hated disrespectful ones even more.

Still, your expression never changed.

“You have internal bleeding,” you said flatly. “You can either cooperate with treatment or continue arguing while your blood pressure drops.”

“Unbelievable,” the patient snapped loudly. “You people always act like you’re smarter than everyone else.”

Jake’s jaw tightened slightly.

Because normally? Normally, you’d shut this down immediately with one terrifying sentence and move on. But today you just looked tired. Not offended. Not angry. Just tired.

“OR is ready,” a nurse interrupted carefully.

You nodded once. “Move him.”

.

.

.

.

The silence between you stretched quietly beneath the fluorescent lights.

Cold water still ran over your hands. The steady sound echoed softly through the scrub room while the rest of the hospital continued moving somewhere beyond the walls—pages overhead, hurried footsteps, distant monitor alarms.

Jake stayed near the doorway. Not leaving. Not speaking. Just there.

You finally shut the water off with a tired exhale before reaching for a paper towel. “You’re hovering.”

Jake leaned lightly against the doorframe. “You look like you’re about to commit aggravated assault on the next resident that breathes wrong.”

“That’s not unusual.”

“…Fair.”

The corner of your mouth almost twitched upward. Almost. Jake noticed immediately anyway. Three years later, and he still reacted to every microscopic change in your expression like a man discovering religion. You tossed the paper towel into the trash before finally looking at him properly for the first time since surgery.

“What?”

Jake shrugged slightly. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring again.”

“You got yelled at by an idiot patient and still saved his life thirty minutes later. I think I’m allowed to stare a little.”

Your expression flattened automatically at that. Deflection. Distance. Armor back up.

“It’s part of the job.”

“I know.”

“And I’m fine.”

Jake looked at you quietly for a second too long. Because that word again.

Fine.

Your favorite lie.

The thing was—you probably believed it too. You’d spent so many years surviving impossible shifts and impossible expectations that exhaustion became normal. Hurt became background noise. You kept functioning, so technically nothing was wrong.

Jake hated that.

Not because he thought you were fragile.

God, no.

You were probably the strongest person he’d ever met. But strong people still deserved someone noticing when things got heavy.

“You know,” he said softly, “being good at handling something doesn’t automatically mean it doesn’t suck.”

For the first time that night, you looked caught off guard.

Tiny reaction. Brief. But real. Your eyes lowered for a second before you shook your head lightly, almost annoyed at yourself for reacting at all.

“Since when did anesthesiologists become therapists?”

Jake grinned faintly. “Since trauma surgeons became emotionally constipated.”

“Watch your tone.”

“There she is.”

That finally earned him a quiet scoff from you. Small. Tired. But genuine. And somehow that felt like victory.

It wasn’t the first time a patient had looked at you and questioned your abilities. Wasn’t the first time someone assumed you were too young, too cold, too arrogant to be good at your job. And it definitely wasn’t the first time a man raised his voice at you because you refused to soften your tone for his comfort. None of it was new. You learned years ago that being a trauma surgeon meant growing thick skin fast, so you did. You became sharper. Colder. Harder to offend. Most days, it worked. Today just wasn’t most days.

The trauma patient was eventually stabilized after agreeing to surgery at the last possible second. The operation itself went smoothly—efficient, controlled, another life saved. Everyone in the OR moved on quickly afterward. Residents talked about the procedure, nurses cleaned up, and another trauma page already echoed somewhere down the hallway. The hospital kept moving. It always did. You stripped off your gloves quietly before stepping out of the operating room without saying much to anyone.

Jake noticed immediately. Of course he did. He watched you stop near the scrub room sink, hands braced lightly against the counter while cold water ran over your fingers. Just breathing. Just existing for one second without somebody needing something from you. Jake stood near the doorway quietly, not interrupting this time. No flirting. No teasing. Because he knew. Not exactly what it felt like, but enough. Enough to understand that being hurt by something didn’t mean you were weak for it. You could hear the same insult a hundred times and still feel it on the hundred-and-first. Especially on days when you were already running on nothing.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then quietly, without looking at him, you muttered, “…He’s alive.” 

Like that was the only part that mattered. Jake’s chest tightened painfully. 

Because even after getting screamed at, doubted, and disrespected, your first concern was still whether the patient survived. Not your pride. Not your feelings. The patient. And standing there beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, exhausted down to the bone yet still worrying about somebody who had insulted you to your face, Jake felt himself fall in love with you all over again.

A few weeks after that night, the hospital didn’t get any quieter.

It never did.

But something between you and Jake had shifted in a way neither of you said out loud. He still trailed after you through corridors, still made unnecessary comments during surgeries, still acted like your personal irritation in human form. And you still told him to move, still rolled your eyes, still treated him like he was one bad joke away from getting kicked out of your OR.

But it wasn’t just that anymore. It had started to feel consistent. Familiar in a way that didn’t belong to colleagues.

That night, another trauma page came in just after midnight. Jake was already in OR Two when you arrived, tying your gown with sharp, efficient movements that didn’t quite hide how exhausted you were.

“Male, forty-two, MVC,” Jake said as you stepped in. “BP unstable en route but responding to fluids.”

“Start transfusion protocol,” you replied immediately.

No hesitation. No wasted movement. Just instinct and control.

The patient came in fast. Too fast. The room snapped into controlled chaos the moment the gurney crossed the threshold.

And Jake noticed it again. You were tired. Not obvious to anyone else—but obvious to him. A fraction slower between movements. A tighter set to your jaw. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t show up in posture, only in timing.

“Dr. Y/N,” Jake said quietly while adjusting anesthesia, “you slept at all this week?”

“I sleep.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one you’re getting.”

He sighed under his breath, but didn’t push further. He’d learned that pushing didn’t help with you. Not like that. The surgery progressed. Bleeding controlled. Vitals stabilizing. Everything is technically going right.

Until a resident hesitated at a critical step. A second too long. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to.

“Step aside,” you said flatly.

The resident froze.

“I said step aside!”

They moved immediately. The room went tense for half a second before stabilizing again. Jake watched it happen, not with judgment—but recognition. Because he knew that silence. That tone. It wasn’t anger for the sake of control. It was exhaustion protecting something fragile underneath it: the patient not dying on your table.

The surgery finished cleanly after that.

“Vitals stable,” Jake said.

“Close,” you replied.

And just like that, it was over.

You moved to the sink afterward, stripping off gloves with slightly slower hands than usual. The kind of tired that had started to settle into your bones lately instead of passing with the shift.

Jake stayed with you this time. Not behind. Not beside like a passing colleague. Just there. Close enough that it was intentional. The water ran quietly between you for a moment before he spoke.

“You’re not fine.”

Your hands paused under the stream.

Not startled. Just… aware. He didn’t continue immediately. Didn’t push. His voice stayed steady, lower than usual.

“I’m not saying that as your anesthesiologist,” he added. “I’m saying it as someone who actually cares about you.”

Silence. That landed differently. You slowly turned off the water and reached for a paper towel.

“…That’s not your job,” you said flatly.

Jake gave a quiet, humorless exhale. “Yeah. I know.”

You finally looked at him then. Properly. Tired eyes. Controlled expression. Walls still up, but thinner than they used to be.

He didn’t look away. Because he meant it. Not as a colleague. Not as a coworker orbiting your OR schedule. As someone who had spent too many nights noticing when you stopped being okay before you ever admitted it.

“I don’t care about this job boundary thing,” Jake said more softly.

That made your expression tighten slightly. Not anger. Something more complicated.

“…You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

He just stayed there beside you in the harsh fluorescent light, like leaving you alone wasn’t something he was willing to do anymore.

“You should stop,” you said.

“Stop what?”

“This.”

A beat.

You gestured vaguely between the two of you, like it explained everything and nothing at once. Jake’s expression tightened slightly, but he didn’t back off.

“No,” he said simply.

That one word landed harder than expected. Because Jake didn’t usually refuse you like that. Not seriously. Not like he had decided something.

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I am deciding it,” he corrected, voice calm but firm. “Because you’re not actually asking me to stop. You’re telling me to leave you alone so you don’t have to deal with it.”

Your jaw tightened.

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “And I get it.”

That stopped you for a second. Not because you agreed. Because he wasn’t arguing your competence. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t pushing your patience just to get a reaction.

He was just seeing it. Like he had been paying attention longer than you realized.

Jake stepped slightly closer—not invading, not cornering, just closing the distance enough that you couldn’t ignore him without effort.

“I’ve watched you for three years,” he said. “Not just in the OR. Everywhere.”

Your eyes flicked to his face briefly, guarded. He continued anyway.

“You don’t slow down. Not when you’re exhausted. Not when people are disrespectful. Not when you’re clearly running on nothing.”

A pause.

“And I used to think that was just who you are.”

His voice softened slightly, but didn’t lose its edge.

“But it’s not strength when it’s constant depletion.”

The word hit differently. You hated that it did. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.

“I’m fine,” you repeated automatically.

Jake shook his head once.

“No,” he said again, quieter this time. “You’re functional. There’s a difference.”

Silence stretched. The hum of the hospital overhead felt louder now. You looked away first, which annoyed you more than anything else.

“…You’re overstepping,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” Jake admitted immediately.

That made you look back at him. He didn’t apologize. Just nodded slightly as he accepted it.

“I am,” he said. “But I’d rather be annoying than watch you keep pretending you don’t need anything from anyone.”

Your throat tightened slightly—something you refused to name. Jake exhaled slowly, then added, softer but steadier:

“And I’m not doing this because you’re my colleague anymore.”

That part landed differently. He held your gaze. No grin. No flirting. No easy exit. Just honesty, stripped down.

“I care about you,” he said. “More than I should for someone I work with.”

A pause. Then, more firmly.

“And I’m not going to pretend I don’t anymore.”

The space between you felt too quiet after that. Not empty. Just full in a way neither of you had labeled yet.

.

.

.

.

You didn’t hate people.

Jake had stopped believing that version of you a long time ago. What you hated was the aftermath—the chaos left behind when someone else made a mistake, and you were the one expected to turn it into something survivable again. The delay. The preventable damage. The clean-up that always landed in your hands. Inconvenience disguised as responsibility. That was what irritated you, not humanity itself.

Because if it had truly been hatred, you wouldn’t pause the way you did when a patient’s voice cracked in fear. You wouldn’t adjust your tone when someone was too scared to understand instructions. You wouldn’t stay late when there was nothing in it for you except making sure things didn’t fall apart after you left. Jake had seen it too many times now for it to be an accident.

You had always told yourself engagement with people was complicated—that it meant getting pulled into problems you never agreed to take on, responsibilities that didn’t belong to you, emotions that would slow you down. So you built distance. Sharpness. Efficiency. Cold professionalism that made everything easier to manage and harder to reach. A system that worked, most of the time.

But life didn’t let you stay detached. Not here. Not in trauma. Because here you were anyway—standing in the middle of chaos, cleaning up what other people broke, making impossible decisions in seconds while others hesitated. Everything you said you didn’t want, you were already doing. Jake watched you for a moment longer and thought, quietly, that maybe it was never about hating people at all. Maybe it was just that you cared too much and never permitted yourself to call it that.

So when others called you cold, Jake no longer agreed. Because to him, you weren’t the coldest person in the hospital. You were the one who cared the most. Just in a way that didn’t ask for credit, didn’t ask to be seen, and definitely didn’t ask to be understood. And somehow, that made you the warmest person he had ever known. 

.

.

.

.

The trauma page came in just after midnight.

MVC. High speed. Multiple casualties.

By the time you reached the ER, the chaos was already organized into sharp, practiced motion. Gurneys rolling in, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in a frantic rhythm.

“Male, early thirties,” one paramedic reported quickly. “Severe chest trauma, hypotensive, possible internal bleeding. Passenger vehicle. Wife is also incoming—pregnant, third trimester, conscious.”

That made your steps pause for half a second. Then you kept moving.

“Bring him to OR One. Prep blood now,” you ordered immediately. “Call OB for standby.”

The husband was already fading when they transferred him. Too much damage. Too fast. Internal bleeding, you couldn’t fully stop, even as you worked. Jake was there, but he didn’t speak much, just watched the numbers, adjusted what he needed to adjust, stayed exactly where he was needed.

And you?

You didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t break rhythm. Didn’t allow anything to slow your hands. But even before the final moment, you knew. That quiet, awful certainty that sometimes came in trauma. When effort stopped being about saving and started being about not losing control of the room.

“BP dropping,” Jake said softly.

“I know,” you replied.

You pushed harder anyway. Longer than most would have. Longer than was reasonable. Long enough that everyone in the OR understood what was happening without saying it.

Finally—

silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

The final kind.

Jake’s hand slowed on the monitor. No dramatic announcement. No unnecessary words. Just a small pause before he looked at you.

“…Time of death,” he said quietly.

You didn’t respond immediately.

For a second, your hands stayed where they were, still in position, still doing the job your body refused to stop doing. Then slowly, you stepped back.

“Stop,” you said flatly to the team. “Call it.”

Your voice didn’t shake. Not outwardly. The room moved again after that—procedures, documentation, cleanup—but everything felt muted now because the patient wasn’t just a case. Not this one.

When the OR finally cleared, you stood at the sink longer than usual. Washing your hands even after they were already clean. Jake didn’t say anything. Just stayed nearby.

And then the wife was brought in.

She was still in pain. Still in shock. Heavy pregnant, barely able to sit up properly, one hand gripping her abdomen while the other reached for the space beside her.

“Where is he?” she asked immediately.

No one answered right away. Not the nurses. Not the resident. Not Jake. Your name was the only one that mattered now. So you stepped forward. The hallway suddenly felt too small.

“I’m your trauma surgeon,” you said calmly.

Her eyes locked onto yours instantly.

“Where is my husband?” she asked again, sharper now, fear breaking through.

A pause. One that stretched too long. Jake watched your posture carefully. Saw it before you even spoke. That moment where you were still composed—but only just.

“He didn’t survive the surgery,” you said.

Simple. Direct. No decoration. The words hit her like an impact.

“No,” she whispered immediately, shaking her head. “No, that’s not—he was fine. He was talking to me. He said he was going to see the baby—”

Her voice broke. And you stood there, still. Holding it together in the only way you knew how. stillness, control, distance. But then she started crying properly. Not quietly. Not politely. The kind of grief that filled the space.

“He promised,” she said, voice cracking. “He promised he would be there. We waited so long—this baby—he—he can’t just—”

Her hand tightened over her stomach like she was trying to hold everything together physically. And something in you shifted. Not visibly. But deeply. Because it wasn’t just grief. It was love. It was a future that had already existed in her head, being taken away mid-sentence.

Jake saw it immediately. The way your expression didn’t change, but your silence did. He stepped slightly closer, not to intervene, but to stand near you. A quiet presence. Because he knew you. And he knew what moments like this did.

The wife reached forward suddenly, grabbing your sleeve with shaking hands.

“Please,” she cried. “Please, you have to do something. You’re the doctor. You’re supposed to fix it. You can’t just—he can’t be gone—he can’t—”

Your breath stopped for a fraction of a second. Just one. Barely noticeable. But Jake saw it. And so did you. Your hand lifted slightly, then paused mid-air, unsure whether to hold her wrist or let her hold on. For the first time all night, your voice didn’t come immediately.

And when it did, it was quieter. Not clinical. Not sharp. Just human.

“…I’m sorry,” you said.

The wife broke completely then.

And you stood there while she cried into the reality you had just given her, your composure holding like something inside you had taken a hit it couldn’t cleanly repair.

Jake stayed beside you. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there. Because for once, there was nothing to fix.

The hospital kept moving as if nothing had happened. Paperwork was completed, the OR was reset, and another trauma page already echoed somewhere down the hall. But you didn’t go back. You didn’t speak. You just walked until you reached the emergency stairwell, the one place in the hospital where the noise couldn’t follow you. The door shut behind you with a soft click, and suddenly everything went quiet.

You sat down slowly on the steps, as your body had finally decided it couldn’t stay upright anymore. At first, there was only silence. Then your breath broke. Small, uneven, almost imperceptible. You pressed a hand over your mouth like you could contain it, like control was still something you could choose. But it wasn’t. The grief came anyway, quiet and heavy, slipping through every restraint you’d built over years of training and survival. Tears fell without sound as you stared at the floor, unable to look away from the memory of a wife holding onto hope that had just been taken from her.

The stairwell door opened softly behind you, but you didn’t turn immediately. Jake didn’t speak when he stepped in. He didn’t rush toward you or try to fix anything. He just closed the door carefully and sat one step above you, close enough that the space didn’t feel empty, far enough that you didn’t feel cornered. For once, there were no jokes, no teasing, no words at all—just him staying there with you in the quiet, so you didn’t have to break alone.

“Hey.”

Your shoulders tensed slightly, but you didn’t look up.

Jake shifted down one step, slower this time, closer without invading. “You don’t have to stop,” he said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That did something worse than comfort, it loosened the last bit of control you were still holding onto. Your breath hitched again, shorter this time, and you turned your face away instinctively as you could still hide it. But Jake had already seen enough. He lowered himself fully in front of you now, careful, steady, not rushing. “Look at me,” he said softly.

You didn’t at first. So he waited. No impatience. No teasing. No pushing. Just him, there. Eventually, your eyes flickered toward him, tired, wet, unguarded in a way you never allowed anyone to see. Jake’s expression softened immediately.

“There you are,” he murmured.

That was it. Something in you broke properly then. Jake didn’t hesitate. He reached forward and pulled you into him. Arms around you, firm and steady, like he was catching something he refused to let fall further. One hand came up to the back of your head, holding you gently against him. The other stayed at your upper back, grounding you with quiet pressure.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, close enough that you could feel his voice more than hear it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to hold it right now.”

Your hands froze for a second in the air, uncertain, before finally gripping his scrubs like you needed something real to anchor yourself to. Enough that you knew you weren’t alone in it.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Just breathe.”

And for the first time since the hospital had swallowed the night whole, you let yourself fall apart without standing back up immediately afterward.

.

.

.

.

A few months after the stairwell incident, things between you and Jake felt strangely normal again. At least on the surface.

You were back in the OR. Back to correcting residents before they make mistakes. Back to moving through trauma consults like exhaustion had never touched you at all. And Jake? Jake was back to orbiting around you like usual. Except now there was something quieter underneath it.

Something harder to joke away.

It happened late at night after a long surgery. The residents had already left, the nurses were finishing cleanup, and the hospital had finally slowed into that eerie post-midnight stillness.

You stood at the scrub sink washing your hands while Jake leaned against the counter nearby. For once, neither of you spoke immediately. Then Jake sighed softly.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t think you understand how I see you.”

You glanced at him briefly. “Unfortunately, I hear enough from you already.”

Usually, that would’ve made him laugh harder. This time, he only smiled faintly.

“I’m serious.”

That made you pause slightly. Not because he’d never said things like this before—he had, constantly. But lately, he sounded different when he did. Less playful. More certain.

You shut off the water slowly. “Jake.”

“No, listen to me for a second.”

His voice stayed calm. Steady. Not forcing, but not backing away either.

“You think I like you because I enjoy bothering you.” A small exhale left him. “And yeah, okay, I do enjoy that a little.”

“A lot.”

“A lot,” he corrected easily. “But that’s not why.”

Silence settled briefly between you. Jake straightened slightly, eyes fixed on you now with an honesty that immediately made you uncomfortable. Not because it was unpleasant. Because it was real.

“I like the way you care about people even when you pretend you don’t,” he said quietly. “I like that you keep showing up for everyone, no matter how exhausted you are. I like that you’re honest even when it makes people dislike you.” His mouth softened slightly. “I like that you’re strong without making it everyone else’s problem.”

Your chest tightened faintly. You hated conversations like this. Not because they were insincere. Because you never knew what to do with sincerity once someone handed it to you directly.

Jake continued before you could interrupt.

“And I know you think I flirt with everyone.” He smiled a little, tired this time. “But what I feel for you stopped being casual a long time ago.”

The room suddenly felt too quiet. You crossed your arms instinctively. Defensive.

“That sounds like a bad idea.”

Jake’s expression barely changed. “Because you don’t feel the same?”

Your jaw tightened immediately.

“That’s not what I said.”

Something flickered across his face, then small, hopeful enough to annoy you. You looked away first.

“I don’t…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think about relationships.”

“That’s a lie.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You think about everything.” Jake’s voice softened slightly. “You just avoid things that feel complicated.”

You hated how accurate that sounded. He stepped closer, careful, measured.

“And I know this is complicated,” he admitted. “We work together. We spend almost every day together. If things go wrong, it could affect everything.”

“Exactly.”

“But I still want you anyway.”

Your throat tightened slightly at the directness of it. Jake looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, quieter this time.

“I’m not asking you to decide anything right now,” he said. “I just need you to understand that I mean it.”

A pause.

“That this isn’t a joke to me anymore.”

The honesty in his voice made something shift uncomfortably in your chest. Because the problem wasn’t that you thought Jake was lying. The problem was that you were starting to believe him.

The problem wasn’t Jake.

That was what made this difficult. If he had been careless, immature, or insincere, you could’ve dismissed this easily. You could’ve rolled your eyes, told him to stop being dramatic, and continued your life the same way as before. But Jake meant it. You knew he did now.

And somehow, that made everything worse.

The hospital had taught you how to manage almost everything—pressure, exhaustion, grief, and responsibility. You knew how to function in chaos. You knew how to make impossible decisions without freezing.

This felt uncertain in a way trauma never did.

Because surgeries had protocols. Complications had procedures. Even death had steps you could follow after it happened. Relationships didn’t. Especially not with someone who worked beside you every day.

You sat alone in the attending lounge long after your shift ended, staring blankly at the untouched coffee in your hands. Jake’s words kept replaying, whether you wanted them to or not.

I still want you anyway.

Your jaw tightened faintly. You hated complicated things. And relationships felt like the most complicated thing possible. Not because you thought love was impossible. You saw it all the time. Families crying in waiting rooms, spouses refusing to leave hospital bedsides, people holding onto each other through impossible situations.

You knew it existed. You just never imagined it fitting into your life. Your life was sharp corners and unpredictable hours. Trauma calls at three in the morning. Twenty-hour shifts. Emotional exhaustion, you barely knew how to process yourself.

Jake already knew this life, too. Which meant if things went wrong, there would be no clean escape from it. You would still see each other in the OR. Still work trauma cases together. Still stand across operating tables pretending nothing happened while everyone around you noticed the tension anyway. The idea alone sounded exhausting.

You exhaled quietly and leaned your head back against the chair. The worst part was that you still didn’t know what you felt. Not fully.

Jake mattered to you. That much was obvious now in ways you couldn’t comfortably deny anymore. His presence had become something familiar. Important. He irritated you constantly, yet somehow made the hospital feel less unbearable at the same time.

But caring about someone and wanting a relationship weren’t automatically the same thing.

Were they?

You genuinely didn’t know. And that uncertainty unsettled you more than anything else. Because for the first time in years, this wasn’t a situation you could solve by being competent enough.

.

.

.

.

Jake, unfortunately, did not know how to quit.

After that conversation, any normal person probably would’ve backed off a little. Given you space. Allowed you time to process your feelings without constantly hovering around your existence like an emotionally persistent golden retriever in surgical scrubs.

Jake did none of those things.

“You know I’d marry you tomorrow if you asked, right?”

You didn’t even look up from the patient file. “I’d rather induce my own coma.”

“That’s not a no.”

“That is absolutely a no.”

Yet somehow, he never made it feel like pressure.

Jake didn’t confess because he expected something from you immediately. He confessed because he wanted you to know the feeling still existed. Constant. Unchanged. Certain.

And every time you dismissed him, he just smiled like someone who already understood your language better than you realized.

“Morning,” he greeted one day, falling into step beside you while you speed-walked toward trauma rounds. “You ignored three of my messages.”

“They weren’t messages. You sent me photos of hospital cats.”

“They reminded me of you.”

You stopped walking immediately. “Explain that statement carefully.”

“Mean eyes. Doesn’t trust people. Hisses when approached.”

“You’re brave today.”

“Love makes people fearless.”

“You need a psychological evaluation.”

Jake grinned like that was a compliment. That was the issue with him. Every rejection somehow fueled him, rather than discouraging him.

A week later, he cornered you at the vending machine at two in the morning while you aggressively tried to choose caffeine.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if we dated, I’d let you steal my fries.”

You stared at him flatly. “I can already do that.”

“Yeah, but romantically.”

“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Not true. Remember when I said epidurals were easy?”

Your expression darkened immediately. “I almost reported you to HR for that.”

“Yet here we are. Stronger than ever.”

You genuinely couldn’t tell if Jake was flirting or simply surviving on a level of confidence normal people didn’t possess. The worst part? He somehow adapted to your personality instead of fighting it. When you ignored him, he kept talking anyway. When you insulted him, he looked entertained instead of offended. And when you got exhausted enough to stop responding entirely, he just walked beside you quietly until you recovered enough to threaten him again.

It was deeply inconvenient.

One afternoon after a brutal trauma surgery, you dropped heavily into a chair in the staff lounge while reviewing scans. Jake appeared two minutes later like a curse.

“You look terrible,” he said sympathetically, handing you coffee.

You accepted it automatically before narrowing your eyes. “Why are you here?”

“I sensed emotional distress.”

He sat across from you casually, watching while you drank the coffee in exhausted silence.

“You know I’m still trying to date you, right?”

You closed your eyes briefly.

“Jake.”

“I’m just making sure we maintain clear communication.”

“You confessed to me yesterday.”

“And today.”

“You’re proving my point.”

“That I’m consistent?”

“That you’re insane.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered.

“Okay, but statistically speaking, eventually you’re gonna accidentally fall in love with me.”

You looked at him over the coffee cup.

“…That’s not how statistics work.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Then I’ll simply have to increase exposure.”

You stared at him for a long moment before muttering, “I actually understand why residents avoid you now.”

Jake looked delighted.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Jake shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head slightly.

“So?” he asked lightly. “Any progress on accidentally falling in love with me?”

You stared at him. Jake stared back hopefully. And despite everything, the exhaustion, the complicated feelings, the fact that relationships still sounded terrifying and inconvenient and deeply impractical, you felt your mouth twitch slightly.

Small. Real. Jake immediately pointed at you. 

“That’s improvement.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Too late. I’m celebrating internally.”

You shook your head under your breath.

Still no answer. Still uncertain. Still not ready to call whatever this was by its real name. But this time, when Jake called after you—

“See you tomorrow, Dr. Y/N. I’ll continue loving you then too.”

You didn’t tell him to stop..

Jake watched you disappear down the hallway until the automatic doors closed behind you with a soft hiss. Around him, the hospital kept moving the same way it always did—pages overhead, hurried footsteps, another resident sprinting toward a consult somewhere down the corridor. Nothing had changed. And yet somehow, everything had. Because for the first time since falling in love with you, Jake realized he no longer needed an immediate answer just to keep going. 

And honestly?

For now, that was enough. 

You openly disliked men, especially arrogant, entitled ones who moved through the world as if it had been built solely for them. Every man in your life has given you a reason to. A father who dismissed every achievement unless it benefited him. An ex who cheated, then somehow made betrayal sound like your failure. Colleagues whose eyes lingered too long, whose jokes crossed lines, whose confidence was mistaken for competence far too often. You never understood why society bent itself around them as though they were the natural center of everything. As if possessing a dick automatically granted authority, importance, the right to be heard first, and doubted last. Truly, what was so revolutionary about having a third leg that made them act like first-class citizen??

The trauma pager screamed before dawn. Sharp enough to cut through the thirty minutes of sleep you had managed to steal in the on-call room. By the time you pushed through the emergency doors, scrub top half-buttoned and hair still damp from a rushed sink wash. The paramedics were already rolling in a young man slick with blood and road dust—multiple collisions, hypotensive, barely conscious. Nurses moved around you in practiced chaos, monitors shrieking, metal trays clattering, everyone waiting for your first order. 

“Or now!” you snapped, gloving your hands as you walked. “Crossmatch six units, call radiology, someone page anesthesia.” 

Then, from just behind your shoulder, calm as if the room wasn’t drowning in panic, came a familiar voice. 

“Already here, doctor.” 

You turned, and there was Jake Sim, leaning into the storm with an easy expression. 

Seeing his smile makes your blood boil. Of course, it was him. Even with alarms blaring, blood on the floor, and a man hovering between life and death, Jake Sim still looked unbearably composed, like this was all mildly inconvenient rather than catastrophic. 

“Try looking useful for once,” you said sharply, already moving beside the gurney as the nurses rushed the patient down the corridor. 

Jake fell into step beside you without missing a beat, one hand adjusting the oxygen mask over the patient’s face while the other checked the monitor leads. “Good morning to you, too, doctor,” 

“It was good until I saw you.” 

“Then I’ll try standing behind you next time.” 

You ignored him. Flipping through the paramedic report clipped to the patient’s chest. Male, twenty-three, motorbike collision, hypotensive on arrival, suspected abdominal bleed, decreasing consciousness. 

“BP?” you asked. 

“Eighty over palp,” a nurse answered. 

Jake glanced at the monitor—expression sharpening despite the teasing tone still lingering in his voice. 

“Airway’s deteriorating. I’m tubing now.” 

“Do it while moving.” 

“Bossy.”

The elevator doors opened, and the team flooded inside with the bed. You stood at the patient’s side, hands pressed firmly over the soaked dressing at his abdomen. Jake positioned himself at the head of the bed, drawing up medication with practiced speed. 

“Etomidate. Rocuronium,” he said. 

The nurse passed them over instantly. You looked up just in time to catch him glancing at you. 

“What?” you snapped. 

“You’ve got blood on your cheek.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“You wear it well.”

Jake laughed under his breath and pushed the medications. Within seconds, he intubated smoothly, securing the tube as the elevator dinged open onto the surgical floor. The door parted. 

“Move.”

The gurney surged forward again, wheels rattling across polished floors as the operating room doors were thrown open. Inside, the scrub team was already waiting. You scrubbed at the sink with aggressive efficiency, barking orders over your shoulder. 

“Prep for exploratory laparotomy. Massive transfusion protocol. I want vascular on standby.” 

Jake entered the room behind you, tying his mask in place. 

“Demanding as always,” he said. 

“Shut up.” 

Jake only chuckled and stepped closer to the scrub counter. 

“You look hot when you’re angry.”

You shot him a flat look over your shoulder. 

“Maybe seek psychiatric help.” 

Jake only smiled again, the same maddening, effortless smile as he moved to the head of the operating table and began preparing to keep your patient alive while you open him up. 

By your second year in trauma surgery, the hospital had already given you a reputation you never asked for. Some called you difficult, others called you cold, but most settled on the nickname whispered through hallways and break rooms with equal parts amusement and caution–the men-hater. 

It was easier for them to say that than admit how many times male residents had tried to explain their own cases back to you, how attendings praised the same ideas only after a man repeated them louder, how patients searched the room for a ‘real doctor’ after you introduced yourself. 

Every sharp reply you gave, every boundary you enforced, every refusal to smile through disrespect became proof of your bitterness in their eyes. Fine. Let them think you hated men. It was simpler than explaining that you only hated what they kept getting away with. 

Then there was Jake Sim. 

The hospital effortlessly adored him; people adored men who were handsome, competent, and just charming enough to never be threatening. Nurses smiled when he entered a room. Residents straightened when he spoke. Even attendings, people who looked unimpressed by default, seemed to soften around him. Dr. Jake Sim, anesthesiology’s golden boy. 

You disliked him on principle. 

Men like Jake moved through life cushioned by a grace rarely afforded to women. If he was blunt, he was confident. If he was playful, he was charismatic. If he challenged authority, he was bold. You had done the same things and been called difficult, abrasive, and emotional. 

Worse, Jake seemed entirely aware of the effect he had on people, yet wore it lightly enough to seem innocent. He joked with scrub nurses, remembered everyone’s coffee orders, charmed frightened patients before surgery, and still somehow managed to perform flawlessly once the stakes were real. It would have been easier if he were incompetent. Easier if he were arrogant. Easier if he gave you a clean reason to hate him. 

Instead, Jake Sim was annoyingly good at his job. He’s kind when no one is watching, and most annoyingly of all, far too interested in you. 

You never smiled at his jokes. Never thank him for favors that you hadn’t asked for. Never looked impressed when others did. If anything, you treated him with the same clipped indifference you reserved for men who thought too highly of themselves. 

For some reason, that only seemed to make him come closer. 

The nurses filtered out one by one, murmuring good afternoon, leaving the two of you alone in the oversized room. You reached for the strings of your gown, fingers slower now that the adrenaline had drained away. 

Before you could undo them, Jake stepped behind you. 

You stiffened immediately. “What are you doing?” 

“Relax,” he said, voice low and annoyingly calm. “You’re taking forever.” 

His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he untied the knot. Even through layers of fabric and fatigue, the touch felt far too noticeable. 

“I can do it myself.” 

“I know.” 

The gown loosened, slipping from your shoulders. He stepped away if nothing had happened. You turned sharply. 

“Then why didn’t you let me?”

Jake was peeling off his gloves, expression unreadable now that the teasing had softened. 

“Because your hands are shaking.” 

You froze. You hadn’t even noticed. When you looked down, there it was, the fine tremors running through your fingers, the aftermath of hours spent forcing steadiness into chaos. Humiliating. 

You curled your hands into fists. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

“Mm…” 

That sound alone made irritation flare again. He tossed the gloves aside and walked toward you, stopping close enough that the scent of antiseptic clung to him. 

“You don’t have to act invincible every second of the day.” 

Your jaw tightened. 

“Don’t act as if you know me.” 

“I know enough.” 

Jake studied you for a moment, eyes dropping briefly to your clenched hands before meeting your gaze again. 

“I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he said quietly. “I know you took over suturing because the resident was panicking. I know you blamed yourself when his pressure crashed, even though it wasn’t your fault.” He tilted his head slightly. “And I know you’re about two minutes away from collapsing.” 

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

You hated him. 

Hated the calm certainty in his voice. Hated how he said those things without pity, without mockery, without trying to make himself look noble for noticing. Most of all, you hated that after everything—every clipped response, every glare, every deliberate attempt to keep him at arm’s length, yet he still insisted on treating you gently. 

It was infuriating. 

Why couldn’t he just dislike you properly? 

Why couldn’t he return the coldness you handed him so generously? Why couldn’t he be offended, dismissive, petty? Anything easier to understand than this steady, maddening kindness? 

Men were predictable when they were angry. Predictable when their pride was bruised. They snapped, sulked, withdrew. You knew how to handle that version of them. But Jake Sim only kept showing up with a warm smile, calm eyes, and observations you never invited. 

You wanted to push him into becoming the kind of man you already knew how to hate. Instead, he kept refusing the role. 

The next morning began badly. 

You had slept for three hours on a call-room mattress thin enough that your bones were screaming in agony. Woken twice by pagers that turned out not to be yours, and spilled half of your coffee down the front of your scrubs while trying to read overnight labs. By the time you stepped into the trauma conference room, patience had already abandoned you. 

A cluster of residents fell silent when you entered.

Good. 

You dropped into your seat at the end of the table, flipping open the chart for morning rounds. 

“If anyone presents nonsense today, I’m sending them back to medical school personally.” 

No one laughed. 

Also good. 

The door opened, and Jake Sim walked in carrying two coffees and looking offensively well-rested. Fresh shower. Crisp navy scrubs. Hair still slightly damp. Not a trace of the sixteen-hour shift he had also worked. You narrowed your eyes immediately. 

He noticed, smiled, and changed direction from the empty seat across the room to the chair beside you. Of course he did. 

“You look radiant,” he said quietly as he sat down. 

“Shut up.” 

“Mean already? We haven’t even started rounds.” 

“Dr Sim,” honestly, you almost lost it. 

He set one coffee beside your folder. You stared at it. 

“Take it back.” 

“No.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know. You rarely ask for anything. It’s one of your more exhausting traits.”

You pushed the cup back toward him without looking. “Try poisoning someone else.” 

Jake slid it neatly back into place. “Oat milk. No sugar. Extra shot.” 

Your hand paused halfway to the chart. Annoying. 

“You need hobbies,” you muttered. 

“I have one.”

You glanced at him despite yourself. “What?”

He met your eyes, expression perfectly innocent. “Getting under your skin.” 

Before you could reply, the attending entered, and the room straightened instantly. Rounds began in a blur of scans, bloodwork, complications, and clipped presentations. You corrected three residents, questioned one medication order, and dismantled a surgical pan so flawed it nearly offended you personally. 

Jake said little. He simply sat there, reviewing anesthesia notes, occasionally leaning over to slide relevant vitals or postoperative concerns onto your side of the table before you had to ask. You hated how useful he was.

Halfway through the meeting, the attendees discussed a difficult abdominal trauma case from the previous night.

“Post-op hypotension likely due to fluid shifts,” one senior resident offered.

You opened your mouth. 

Jake spoke first. 

“Or missed retroperitoneal bleed.” 

The room turned. The attending frowned thoughtfully. “Reasoning?”

Jake gestured toward the scan. Calm. precise. “Expanding flank ecchymosis, dropping hemoglobin despite transfusion, rising lactate.” 

You felt your irritation sharpen. Because he was right. The attending nodded slowly. 

“Good catch. We’ll re-image.”

Then his gaze shifted to you. “Thoughts, doctor?” 

“I think anesthesia got lucky.”

You crossed your arms. A few residents choked back smiles. Jake didn’t even blink. 

“And I think surgery should buy me breakfast.” 

The room laughed. You did not. But when you reached for your coffee a moment later, it was still warm. 

.

.

.

.

A few weeks after the surgery, Jake Sim was still impossible to avoid. 

Not because he chased you through corridors like some desperate intern with no dignity–though you suspected he was capable of it, but because he had somehow woven himself into the rhythm of your days. In trauma calls, he was there before you finished giving orders. In the OR, he stood behind the drapes with that infuriatingly calm voice. In the break room, there would already be a coffee waiting where you liked to sit, as if the cup itself had developed poor judgment. 

You told yourself it meant nothing. 

Jake was friendly with everyone. Helpful to everyone. Annoyingly competent with everyone.

So why should it matter that he remembered your orders before you gave them, or noticed when you skipped meals, or somehow knew exactly how you took your coffee without ever asking?

It didn’t.

That was what you were telling yourself when he cornered you outside the staff elevators after a fourteen-hour shift. The corridor was nearly empty, lights dimmed to evening mode, your pager blessedly silent for once. You were too tired for conversation and too hungry for patience. 

Jake stepped in front of the elevator doors just as they opened. 

You stared at him. “Move.” 

“Dinner.” 

“No.”

“That wasn’t a statement.”

“It sounded like one.” 

“It was an invitation.” 

You jabbed the closed-door button repeatedly. “Declined.”

He reached past you and caught the elevator door before it could shut, entirely too close for your liking. 

“Tomorrow night.”

“No.”

“Tonight, then.”

“No.”

“Coffee after shift.” 

“No.”

Jake tilted his head, studying your face with that same maddening calm he wore in operating rooms and arguments alike. 

“Are you rejecting me,” he asked, “or just enjoying saying no?”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re stupid or joking.”

“Neither.”

“Then what is this?”

“A date.”

You gave a short, humorless laugh. “Right.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s the stupid option.”

Something like amusement flickered across his face, but he didn’t step back.

“You really think I’ve been asking because I’m bored?”

“I think men like attention.”

“And you think I’d go through weeks of being insulted for fun?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fair,” he admitted. “But wrong.”

The answer annoyed you more than if he had argued.

You crossed your arms. “You flirt with everyone.”

“I’m polite to everyone.”

“You’re smug with everyone.”

“Only with you.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“It’s not a case.” His voice lowered slightly. “I like you.”

You blinked once, more out of irritation than surprise.

“No, you like provoking me.”

“I like that too.”

“Jake.”

It was the first time you had said his name without adding an insult after it. His expression changed almost imperceptibly.

“Dinner,” he repeated softly. “One hour. If you hate it, I’ll stop asking.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You promise?”

“No.”

“Unbelievable.”

“But I’ll stop asking for a week.”

“That’s not tempting.”

“It should be. You look tired.”

“I look like I regret speaking to you.”

“You always look like that.”

The elevator chimed impatiently behind you.

You stepped inside, forcing him to move back.

“Goodnight, Dr. Sim.”

He smiled, hands in his pockets, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Think about it.”

The doors slid shut between you. You exhaled sharply, pulse annoyingly uneven. Then looked down and realized he had slipped a protein bar into your coat pocket sometime during the conversation.

You hated him.

.

.

.

.

Three days later, you made a mistake. 

It happened at 12.40 p.m. After back-to-back consults, a trauma activation that turned out to be alcohol and poor decisions, and a resident who asked whether the spleen was ‘strictly necessary’. You were hungry, irritated, and too tired to defend yourself properly. And the last thing you want to happen the next day is Jake still asking you to date. 

After all, luck was never on your side. 

Jake found you outside the imaging suite, leaning against the wall with two coffees and the expression of a man who had never once suffered inconvenience. 

“Lunch,” he said.

“No.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I meant it yesterday, too.”

“How about today?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Why are you like this?”

“Persistent? Handsome? Deeply committed?”

“Unbearable.”

He grinned. “Still available for lunch.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then at the clock, then at the hallway stretching endlessly back toward more work. You were starving.

The cafeteria was five minutes away.

And if agreeing to one meal made him stop asking for at least a day, it counted as strategic surrender.

“Fine,” you said flatly. “Lunch.”

Jake blinked. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy. 

Ridiculously, openly happy. 

“Seriously?” he asked. 

You immediately regretted everything. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird, you just said yes.”

“To lunch.”

“With me.”

“To food.”

He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. “Right. Yes. Of course. Food.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like you won something?” 

“Because I did.”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

You turned and started walking before he could say anything worse. He fell into step beside you, annoyingly energetic for someone who had also worked all morning. 

“Do you want noodles or rice?” he asked.

“I want silence.”

“Cafeteria might not have that.”

“You’re very close to losing lunch privileges.”

“You’ve already given me privileges?”

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut skin. He only smiled wider.

The entire walk there, Jake was insufferably cheerful. He held doors open, moved people aside with polite excuses, and somehow looked proud simply carrying your coffee beside you. Two nurses passed and exchanged startled glances.

One of them mouthed finally. You nearly turned around. 

By the time you reached the cafeteria, Jake was practically glowing. 

“Explain.”

“What?”

“Why do you look like a golden retriever that just got told he’s going to the park?”

He laughed loud enough to earn stares. “That’s specific.”

“It’s accurate.”

Jake looked at you for a second, smile softening into something less playful. 

“Because you said yes.” he said simply. 

Your chest tightened in a way you deeply resented. 

“It’s lunch,” you said coldly. 

“I know.”

“Not a date.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“Good.”

He nodded once, still smiling. “Then let’s have lunch.”

You hated that your pulse was uneven over something so stupid. You hated more that when he reached for a tray, he grabbed one for you automatically.

The cafeteria was louder than usual, packed with staff escaping their departments for the brief illusion of rest. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, pagers went off in every corner. You chose a table near the back out of habit. Jake sat across from you like he had been invited there his entire life. 

You set your tray down and immediately noticed he hadn’t touched his food. He is just looking at you. Not casually, not absentmindedly. Looking at you with an expression so openly pleased, it made irritation rise on instinct. 

You frowned and unwrapped your utensils with more force than necessary. “That’s unsettling.”

Jake only leaned back slightly in his chair, still watching you with the same warm, maddening gaze. As if sitting across from you in a mediocre hospital cafeteria was somehow the best part of his week. You hated that. 

“Eat your food,” you said.

“In a minute.”

“Why not now?”

“Busy.”

“With what?”

His eyes moved over your face slowly, almost thoughtfully. “Memorizing this.”

Your chopstick paused midair. “Memorizing what?”

“You're agreeing to have lunch with me. You look annoyed, but less than usual.”

“I look annoyed because I am.”

“Still came.”

“I came for carbohydrates.”

Jake smiled softly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You looked down at your plate, refusing to acknowledge the sudden warmth crawling up your neck. He laughed quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze softened again in a way that made your chest feel annoyingly tight.

“I like seeing you like this,” he said.

“Hungry?”

“Relaxed.”

You almost scoffed. “I’m not relaxed.”

“You’re not working. That’s close enough.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the cafeteria blurred around the table. Jake looked at you as if there were no one in the room. No urgency, no performance, just quiet, uncomplicated fondness. It was deeply unfair. 

“If you keep staring, I’m leaving.” 

He picked up his chopstick at last. He only smiled into his food, still far too happy for a man who had simply gotten lunch. 

You told yourself the attention should have irritated you more than it did. 

It should have felt invasive, performative, another version of the same male habit of taking up space wherever they pleased. You had spent years sharpening yourself against men like that. But this didn’t feel like that. 

Jake wasn’t trying to corner you, impress an audience, or collect gratitude for basic decency. He wasn’t asking for anything in return. He simply sat across from you with that stupid soft expression. 

You didn’t hate it. That was the problem. 

Youd idn’t love it either. It made you restless, suspicious, vaguely off-balance in a way you disliked. There was no clear angle to defend against, no obvious flaw to dissect, no cruelty beneath the surface waiting to reveal itself. Just Jake Sim. 

You didn’t understand him. You didn’t understand why a man like Jake Sim, liked by everyone and wanted by easier women, kept choosing resistance. Why did he return after every sharp word? Why did kindness from you seem optional, but your presence somehow mattered? And perhaps most unsettling of all—

LEE HEESEUNG‎

heeseung is genuinely the most patient about it at first. he wakes up before you, just kind of lays there for a moment, watches you sleep for maybe two seconds before he decides it's time.

starts with the shoulder tap—not aggressive, just steady.

when you don't move he shifts closer and just and wraps himself around you. arm around your waist, chin near your shoulder, and then he starts pressing soft kisses to your forehead. then your nose. then your cheek. very deliberate about it too, like he's taking his time on purpose.

he'll murmur your name in that low morning voice and it's genuinely unfair. it's too gentle to be annoyed at but just present enough that it pulls you out of sleep whether you want it to or not.

but the moment he realizes you're very much awake and just choosing to ignore him—the energy shifts completely

he'll give you maybe one more kiss and then the blanket is gone. just ripped off. no hesitation. he's not mean about it, he's almost laughing while he does it, but the cold air hitting you is immediate and very effective

if you curl into a ball he'll laugh and toss the blanket back over you and try the whole process again from the beginning. patient man honestly.

PARK JONGSEONG

jay is not waking you up with noise. he's not shaking you. he is not doing anything as straightforward as tapping your shoulder. jay operates differently.

he's up early, quietly. you won't even hear him leave the bed. he's just gone and you're still completely asleep like nothing happened.

and then it starts. the smell. whatever he's cooking travels through the whole place and at some point your brain just registers it and starts pulling you toward consciousness whether you want to or not. it's almost manipulative how well it works.

he'll come back to the room with something already plated, sit on the edge of the bed, and just wait. maybe he'll reach over and push your hair out of your face, press a kiss to your temple, another to your cheek. very calm, very unhurried about all of it.

if you stir he'll smile and say something like "food's ready" in the quietest voice, not loud enough to startle you but enough that it registers.

the kisses aren't rushed either—they're just there, consistent, soft. forehead, cheek, corner of your mouth if you're already starting to smile. he thinks it's funny when you're half asleep and still reaching for him or the food.

SIM JAEYUN

half the time jake does not want to get up either. he will absolutely use you as an excuse to stay in bed for as long as possible

"you're still tired right?" he's asking but he's already pulling you back against him. he's settled. he has committed to this.

he's very warm and he knows it and he uses it against you. you can feel him smile against your hair when you stop resisting and just sink back into the mattress.

he'll talk to you quietly while you're in that half asleep space—just small things, whatever's on his mind, nothing that requires a real response. it's oddly soothing and probably keeps you in bed even longer.

but when you actually have somewhere to be and there's no more delaying it, jake gets up and goes straight to the curtains. no easing into it. just pulls them open and lets the full morning light hit everything.

he's not apologetic about it either. he just turns around looking very awake and holds out his hand for you like "okay, come on"

you get up mostly because he's already standing there with his arms open and it's honestly a good enough reason

wraps around you the second you're upright. big hug, chin on top of your head, swaying just slightly. the transition from bed to standing up feels less terrible than it should because of this.

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon wakes up and just looks at you for a second, the way he does, and then starts very gently tapping your shoulder.

when you shift even slightly he leans in and presses his lips to your shoulder. not your cheek, not your forehead—your shoulder. it's such a sunghoon thing to do and it's weirdly intimate for how casual he makes it seem.

then he's just there beside you, playing with your hair. not to wake you up necessarily, more like he's content to do it and if it happens to wake you up then great. his fingers move through it slowly and he's smiling the whole time—not a big smile, just that small pleased one he gets when he's comfortable.

very unhurried energy in the beginning. he's in no rush to disrupt the moment.

but if you've been "asleep" for a suspicious amount of time and he knows you're faking it, something changes.

he'll grab the pillow and hit you with it. no warning. not aggressive but not gentle either. just enough to get the point across. and then he's already laughing before you can even react, which is annoying and endearing at the same time.

if the pillow doesn't work he will actually climb on you. not his full weight, but enough that you can't really ignore it. you'll feel him trying not to laugh while you groan.

"okay okay get up" and he's grinning and fixing his hair like he didn't just do all of that.

sunghoon waking you up is somehow both peaceful and chaotic depending entirely on how long you try to pretend to be asleep. choose wisely.

KIM SUNOO

sunoo wakes up and genuinely does not want to rush you. he'll look at the time, look at you, and then decide you have a few more minutes. he's already decided this on your behalf and he's very confident about it.

eventually starts with the softest nudge. not even a real shake, just a little pressure at your arm.

kisses your cheek. waits. kisses it again. and you can feel him smiling against your face which is unbearable honestly.

he'll say your name in that bright way he has, not loud, but warm. the kind of tone that makes it hard to be annoyed even when you're half asleep and annoyed at everything.

sunoo genuinely doesn't stress about the morning. he's not rushing through it. if you need five more minutes he's okay with that, he'll sit there and scroll his phone with your head on his shoulder like it's nothing.

but when it's actually time he makes the whole thing feel easy. just that cheerfulenergy of his that kind of smooths the transition from asleep to awake without it feeling jarring.

probably says something small and sweet when you finally open your eyes. not dramatic about it, just easy. the kind of thing that makes you feel like waking up isn't the worst thing in the world.

YANG JUNGWON

jungwon wakes up with energy. this is both his best and most troublesome quality in the morning.

he starts reasonable enough—sits next to you, presses a forehead kiss to yours, which is genuinely very sweet and you'd appreciate it more if you were conscious.

but he's already bouncing slightly and you can feel the energy radiating off him and it's honestly a little alarming.

if you don't stir he will grab your shoulder and shake it. not violently, but it's not subtle either. it's very much the energy of a younger sibling who has decided that sleep is over.

the jump is not off the table. he will absolutely launch himself onto the bed with a little too much enthusiasm. he's not thinking about consequences when he does it, he just commits fully and lands next to you with enough impact to wake the dead.

if you groan at him he'll do the forehead kiss again, very sweetly, like that cancels out the chaos he just caused. somehow it kind of does.

he'll pull you to sit up and hold your hands while you do it, which is probably the most grounding thing about the whole time.

mornings with jungwon are a little loud and affectionate. and you're never quite sure which version of him you're going to get.

NISHIMURA RIKI

real talk—at least half the time it's you waking him up. he sleeps deeply with absolutely no awareness of what time it is. you shake him and he just relocates further into the pillow. it's impressive.

but on the rare mornings when he's up first, there's a decision that gets made. and that decision is almost never "let me wake them up gently."

he'll grab his phone first. you don't see this happening because you're asleep. but he finds the most obnoxious sound he can—could be an alarm blast, could be something chaotic, could be a random video he thought was funny—and he'll hold it right next to your ear and play it.

he's already backing away before you react. he knows what he did.

if he's in a slightly calmer mood he skips the phone and lays on you. his full weight, completely unapologetic, face pressed somewhere near your shoulder. this is his version of a gentle wake up call.

you'll feel the weight and then he'll press a couple of very careless kisses to whatever part of your face or neck is closest to him, very niki.

if you push him off he goes nowhere. if you yell at him he laughs. he is genuinely having a great time regardless of how you're feeling about it.