lulu do kiki

You’ve perfected the art of the sharp tongue. If someone tries to hit on you while you’re fitting them with a sling, you’ll make a cutting remark about how their flirting is weaker than their arm muscles. If someone tries a pick-up line while you’re checking their vitals, you’ll raise a brow and remind them that your shift is longer than their attention span. It’s not that you’re cruel, you just don’t have the patience for nonsense. In an ER, efficiency is survival.

So when a tall, slightly disheveled young man stumbles in one evening, you don’t expect him to be any different.

“Twisted ankle,” the triage nurse mutters as they wheel him in. “Slipped in the rain.”

You glance at him. He’s clutching his ankle dramatically, like he’s auditioning for a role in some tragic play. His brown hair is damp, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his hoodie looks like it’s been through a small war with the weather. His face, however, is strangely bright despite the supposed pain, his eyes glint mischievously, and his mouth curls into a grin when he catches you looking.

Oh, great. Another one of these.

You sigh, pulling on gloves. “You can put him in bay three. I’ll take him.”

The nurse nods, leaving you alone with the man. He watches you with the kind of fascination you usually see in toddlers at the aquarium, as though you’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“You look way too calm,” you say dryly, snapping open a sterile pack. “Most people with a twisted ankle are grimacing, not smiling like they just won a raffle.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re the one treating me,” he replies smoothly, voice warm with amusement. “Pain doesn’t hurt as much when my nurse is this pretty.”

You don’t even blink. “Uh-huh. I’ll make sure to write that on your chart: pain tolerance unusually high when exposed to female medical professionals. Very rare condition.”

He laughs, clutching his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him with your sarcasm. “Wow. Sharp. I like that.”

You roll your eyes and kneel down to examine his ankle. It’s a little swollen, but not horrific. Definitely sprained, but he’ll live. “How did you manage this?” you ask, voice brisk.

“I was running,” he says, tone far too casual. “The rain was coming down like crazy, and I thought, you know, this is my moment. Like I’m the lead in some music video, running dramatically through the storm. But the sidewalk disagreed with my artistic vision.”

You glance up at him. He’s grinning at you like he’s told the funniest story in the world.

“So you tried to film a music video in your head,” you summarize flatly, “and lost to the sidewalk.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?” He sighs dramatically. “I was so close to an Oscar-worthy performance, too.”

You resist the urge to snort. “Well, your ankle got the award instead. Congratulations.”

He laughs again, clearly delighted by your refusal to feed into his theatrics. Most people probably humor him, you realize. He has that kind of energy, the type that pulls attention whether he asks for it or not. But you’re not most people. You’ve seen too many dramatics in this ER to waste time indulging them.

Still, there’s something about him that doesn’t match the usual pattern. Most flirts get awkward or defensive when you shut them down. He? He only seems more entertained.

“Do you come here often?” he asks suddenly, leaning forward as if he’s letting you in on a secret.

You raise a brow. “I work here often. Which is exactly where I’d like you to keep seeing me, because if you come in with another self-inflicted music video injury, I’m not carrying you.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” he says, eyes sparkling.

You tighten the wrap around his ankle a little more than necessary, not enough to hurt, but enough to make him wince. “Not a challenge. A threat.”

He hisses dramatically, then looks at you in awe. “You’re dangerous. I respect that.”

You shake your head, standing up to jot notes on his chart. “What’s your name?”

“Han Jisung,” he says brightly. “And yours? Or do I have to guess?”

“You don’t,” you reply curtly, scribbling. “Because you’re not writing it on my discharge papers—I am.”

“Fair enough, Nurse…” He squints at your badge and reads it aloud. Then he grins. “Pretty name. Suits you.”

You click your pen with finality. “All right, Jisung. You’re lucky it’s just a sprain. Ice it, rest it, and try not to get into any more Oscar-worthy sidewalk duels. Can you manage that?”

He salutes you like a soldier. “Yes, ma’am.”

You’re already moving to the next patient, but you can feel his eyes following you. Normally, the attention would annoy you, but there’s something almost… harmless about it. Like he’s not flirting because he thinks it’ll get him something, he’s just enjoying himself.

You shake it off. Patients come and go. This Jisung guy? You’ll probably never see him again.

At least, that’s what you think.

-

The next evening in the ER feels heavier than usual.

It’s the kind of shift where the air itself feels sticky, even though the AC hums overhead. The lights seem brighter, harsher; every sound grates against your patience. It’s not just the patients, it’s the relentless weight of everything that keeps piling on.

A patient you’ve been caring for all week is deteriorating. Their charts tell a slow, steady decline, and though you remind yourself over and over that you’re just one part of the team, that medicine isn’t magic, that you can’t save everyone, still, it gnaws at you. You keep replaying little things in your head, like maybe if you’d caught this earlier, or insisted harder on that test, they’d be better off now. The guilt sits in your chest like a stone.

On top of that, tonight’s crowd seems especially prickly. The woman who insists she needs a private room “because she’s not like the other patients.” The man who’s sure the internet knows more than you and argues with every word out of your mouth. The teenager who won’t stop groaning loud enough for the entire ER to hear, though his only injury is a scraped elbow.

By the time you glance at the clock, you’re already wishing your shift would end.

And then you hear it.

“I swear it wasn’t my fault this time!”

The voice is familiar, bright, almost musical compared to the monotone chorus of complaints you’ve been hearing all night. You don’t even have to look up to know who it belongs to.

Han Jisung.

Your stomach sinks. The first thought in your head: No. Absolutely not. There’s no way he’s back already.

But when you turn, sure enough, there he is. Same damp hoodie from last night, though you can tell he’s at least tried to dry it properly this time. His hair is fluffed out a little, as if he ran his hands through it too many times. He’s holding his right hand awkwardly, fingers curled in toward his palm, wrapped in what looks suspiciously like a hastily applied paper towel.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath.

The triage nurse gives you a look that says, Want me to take him? but you shake your head. If fate insists on throwing him back at you, then fine. You’ll handle it yourself.

“Bay three again,” you say, already moving past him.

“Wow, déjà vu,” Jisung says cheerfully, limping after you without even being asked. He hops up onto the bed like he owns it, swinging his legs as though this is his second home.

You cross your arms. “What did you do?”

He holds up his hand like a kid showing off a prize. The paper towel is damp now, stained slightly pink at the edges. “Burnt fingers.”

“How.” Your tone is flat. Not curious. Not concerned. Just one syllable of exhausted disbelief.

“Well…” He scratches the back of his neck with his uninjured hand, looking sheepish for all of two seconds before the grin creeps back. “I was hungry. Really hungry. And I may have… accidentally microwaved a metal fork.”

You blink. “…You what.”

“I was distracted!” he insists, voice pitching up in defense. “And I wasn’t thinking straight. Probably because I was thinking about someone.”

Your glare sharpens instantly. “Don’t.”

“What?” He tries to look innocent, wide-eyed, lips twitching as though he’s holding back laughter. “I didn’t even say who.”

“You didn’t have to,” you say coolly, reaching for gloves.

He grins, triumphant, like you’ve given him exactly what he wanted. “Wow. You do read minds. Knew it.”

You want to be annoyed, really, you do but the truth is you’re too tired. Too worn down from everything else today. Your snappish energy is drained, and for the first time, his antics don’t just bounce off your defenses. They slip through the cracks.

You gently take his hand, peeling away the damp paper towel. The skin on two fingers is red, slightly blistered, but nothing severe. You’ve seen far worse. You’ll dress it, lecture him, send him home. Easy.

He watches you work with unnerving focus, his expression softer now, though the playful smile still lingers at the edges. “You’re good at this,” he says quietly.

“Good at treating idiots who microwave metal?” you deadpan.

He chuckles. “Good at making people feel better. Even when you’re glaring at them.”

You don’t respond. You can’t, not when the weight of the day threatens to drag your mood lower. Instead, you keep working, methodical and precise, wrapping his fingers in clean gauze.

And then he does something ridiculous.

He gasps loudly, dramatically, clutching his chest with his free hand. “Wait. Are you… are you smiling?”

You freeze. You hadn’t even realized. A small, involuntary tug at your lips, the tiniest crack in your armor.

Quickly, you school your expression back to neutral. “I’m not.”

“You are!” He leans forward, eyes wide with delighted shock. “Oh my god, I did it. I made the scary nurse laugh.”

You glare, but your ears burn. “I did not laugh.”

“You so did,” he says, pointing at you with his bandaged fingers like he’s caught you in a crime. “I saw it. It was tiny, but it was real. Victory is mine.”

You shake your head, taping the bandage firmly. “You’re delusional. Probably from inhaling microwaved fork fumes.”

But when you turn away to dispose of the wrappings, you catch yourself biting back another smile.

Because the truth is, even on the worst day, when you’re weighed down with guilt and exhaustion, somehow, somehow Han Jisung’s absurdity manages to cut through the fog.

Not that you’ll ever admit that to him.

-

You tell yourself it’s just bad luck.
Twice in a row, sure, it’s possible. The ER sees hundreds of people every week. Coincidences happen.

But when Han Jisung shows up a third time, less than seventy-two hours after his dramatic debut you know the universe is playing a cruel joke on you.

You spot him immediately. He’s at the check-in desk, holding a tissue against his forehead. Blood has stained the edge of it, just enough to make the triage nurse frown but not enough to suggest an actual emergency. He’s talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands, and the poor nurse looks two seconds away from pressing the panic button just to make him stop.

You mutter under your breath, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s the middle of another long shift. The patient you were worried about yesterday has taken a turn for the worse, and though you’ve kept your face calm and professional, inside you’re bracing for the inevitable. You’ve been running between beds all evening, juggling demands, soothing tempers, and holding yourself together with sheer caffeine and stubbornness.

And now this clown is back.

“Bay four,” the triage nurse says, catching your eye and smirking knowingly. “He asked for you.”

Of course he did.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, willing yourself to stay calm. If you throttle a patient in front of witnesses, it’ll probably go on your record. Probably.

When you push open the curtain to bay four, Jisung perks up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Nurse Y/N! You are here. I was worried you’d have the day off.”

“Believe me,” you say dryly, “so was I.”

He winces in mock pain, pressing the tissue tighter against his forehead. “Ouch. Right in the ego. And here I was, injured and vulnerable.”

You cross your arms. “What happened this time?”

“Well…” He pauses dramatically, clearly savoring the moment. “I was reaching for the top shelf in my kitchen—don’t laugh, I’m short, okay?—and I might have slipped off the counter.”

You blink. “You climbed onto your counter?”

“I was desperate! The cereal was up there.”

“And you fell.”

He nods solemnly, as though delivering a tragic confession. “Gravity won this round.”

You sigh, stepping closer to peel the tissue away from his forehead. There’s a small gash at his hairline, bleeding lightly but not deep enough for stitches. Still, head wounds always look worse than they are, and he seems determined to milk it for all it’s worth.

“Honestly, Jisung,” you mutter, grabbing gauze and antiseptic. “At this point, I’m starting to think you’re a danger to yourself.”

“Or,” he says, eyes twinkling, “maybe fate just really wants us to spend time together.”

You glare, dabbing the cut a little harder than necessary. He hisses but doesn’t complain, only grinning wider.

“You’re insane,” you tell him.

“Maybe,” he says cheerfully. “But you’re the only one who can cure me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh threatens to escape. You bite it back, focusing on the neat wrap you’re applying to his forehead. But the corners of your mouth betray you again, twitching upward.

Jisung catches it instantly. “There it is. The almost-smile.”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t. It’s my only defense against the pain.”

“You don’t look like you’re in pain.”

“That’s because you’re here. You’re like… morphine. But prettier.”

You snort before you can stop yourself, quickly covering it with a cough. He beams like he’s just won the lottery.

“See? I’m growing on you.”

“You’re delusional,” you say, taping down the last bit of gauze. “And if you keep showing up like this, people are going to think you’re doing it on purpose.”

He leans back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head with exaggerated nonchalance. “And if I was?”

You pause, caught off guard by his boldness. He’s still smiling, but there’s something behind it this time, something that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.

You scoff, covering the sudden shift in your mood. “Then I’d say you need a new hobby. One that doesn’t involve ER visits.”

“Maybe I already found my hobby,” he says softly, watching you too closely.

You look away, busying yourself with throwing away the wrappers and gloves. Your pulse is doing something irritating, and you don’t have the energy to analyze it.

“Keep your head clean, change the dressing tomorrow, and don’t climb counters like a toddler,” you say briskly.

“Yes, Nurse,” he says obediently, though the playful lilt in his voice makes it clear he’s not taking you seriously.

When you finally step out of bay four, you have to take a breath, steadying yourself. Three visits in less than a week. Three times he’s slipped past your defenses, if only for a moment.

Coincidence? Definitely not.

And the worst part? You’re not sure if you want him to stop.

-

Your break is late. Too late.
You should have had it two hours ago, but between a code blue, three restless patients all buzzing their call buttons at once, and a family who demanded “the nice nurse, not the scary one” (you’re still not sure if you were insulted or spared), you haven’t had a chance to breathe.

When you finally clock out for fifteen minutes, the hospital’s café feels like another world. It’s dimmer here, quieter, tucked away from the chaos of the ER. The hum of the espresso machine drowns out the beeping monitors that still echo in your ears, and the air smells faintly of coffee grounds and sugar instead of antiseptic and sweat.

You buy the cheapest coffee on the menu, lukewarm, bitter, but strong enough to keep you upright and find a small table in the corner. For the first time all day, you let your shoulders drop.

It takes a moment for your mind to stop racing. But then, of course, the silence brings its own unwelcome company: Jisung.

Three visits. Three ridiculous, impossible “accidents.” The twisted ankle. The burnt fingers. The head gash. And every single time, somehow, you were the one to treat him. He shouldn’t stand out, you see hundreds of patients every week but he does.

The way he grins even when you glare. The way he talks like every injury is a story, not just an inconvenience. The way he seems… almost determined to chip away at you, like your sharpness is just another puzzle he’s dying to solve.

You tell yourself it’s annoying. That you don’t have the time or patience for someone like him. That it’s just a game to him, and you refuse to play.

But then you remember the way you caught yourself laughing last night, the way your lips betrayed you. And the way he looked when he noticed, not smug, not cocky, but almost… delighted. Like he’d found treasure.

You sip your coffee and scowl at yourself. You are not thinking about him. You refuse.

And then, as though the universe is mocking you, his voice drifts across the café.

“…I’m telling you, she’s got this little scowl all the time, like she’s plotting my murder, but—”

You freeze, cup halfway to your lips. Slowly, carefully, you glance over your shoulder.

He’s sitting at a table near the counter, animatedly talking to one of the hospital’s volunteers, a college kid in a hospital vest who looks equal parts confused and entertained. Jisung gestures wildly as he speaks, his bandaged hand waving like punctuation.

“She’s the cutest nurse I’ve ever seen,” he continues, grinning so wide his eyes crinkle. “Sharp tongue, scary eyes, the whole package. Like, she could stab me with a needle and I’d thank her for it.”

The volunteer chokes on their smoothie. “Uh… are you sure you’re okay, man?”

“Perfectly fine.” Jisung leans back in his chair, smug. “Better than fine, actually. I’m thriving. I mean, how many people can say they’ve made Nurse Y/N almost smile?”

Your ears burn. You snap your gaze back to your coffee before he can notice.

Of course he’s talking about you. Loudly. To a stranger. In the middle of the hospital café. You want to be annoyed, you should be annoyed, but instead, warmth creeps up your neck.

You bury your face in your cup to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. And yet, sitting there with your coffee cooling between your hands, you feel something loosen in your chest. Something that hasn’t loosened in a long time.

Because for all his theatrics, for all his nonsense and dramatics, one thing is becoming impossible to deny:

He really means it.

You finish your coffee quickly, pretending you didn’t hear a word. When you stand to leave, you walk right past his table. Jisung looks up mid-sentence, eyes widening when he spots you. For once, he’s speechless.

You don’t acknowledge him. Don’t even glance in his direction. You just keep walking, shoulders squared, face calm.

But behind the safety of your cup, your lips curve upward.

You don’t usually let patients get under your skin.
That’s one of the first things you learn in the ER: if you let every interaction linger, if you let every flirt or insult or complaint sit in your chest, you’ll burn out before your first year is up. The job demands thick skin, and you’ve worn yours like armor for years now.

Which is why Han Jisung annoys you. Not because he’s rude, he’s not. Not because he’s a difficult patient, he’s honestly one of the more cooperative ones. No, he annoys you because he gets past your armor. Because somehow, against all odds, he keeps dragging out pieces of you you’ve tucked away: smiles, smirks, the twitch of amusement in the corners of your mouth.

You hate it.
…You don’t actually hate it.
But you pretend you do.

After catching him in the café bragging about “the cute nurse with the scowl,” you’ve doubled your efforts to ignore him. You tell yourself he’s just a kid with too much time on his hands. A flirt. Someone who will get bored eventually and stop showing up.

And yet, when you step out of the café with your cup in hand, you hear footsteps pounding against the tile.

“Y/N!”

You don’t turn. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you didn’t hear people, angry relatives, stubborn patients, even overeager coworkers. If you don’t acknowledge him, maybe he’ll-

“Y/N, wait up!”

Too late. He’s jogging alongside you now, slightly out of breath, one hand holding the bandage on his forehead in place as if he’s worried it’ll fall off. He looks ridiculous, and of course he knows it.

You keep walking. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Here,” he says brightly. “Right next to you.”

You shoot him a sidelong glare. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

“Didn’t sound like a rejection either,” he fires back instantly, grin in full force.

You roll your eyes, quickening your pace. He matches it, of course. Like a stray dog that’s decided you’re its new best friend.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I think I’m actually becoming part of this hospital. Like, they should give me a badge. Maybe a little embroidered jacket. ‘Resident Disaster’ or something.”

“More like ‘Walking Liability,’” you mutter.

His grin widens. “That has a nice ring to it too. But you’d be my assigned nurse, right? My handler?”

“I’d quit first.”

“Harsh.” He clutches his chest like you’ve shot him. “Do you talk to all your patients like this?”

“Only the ones who keep showing up on purpose.”

He gasps. “So you admit you’ve noticed!”

You clamp your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He watches you, eyes sparkling, waiting for the tiniest crack. You keep your expression stone-cold.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Honestly, I think I’m in love with your triage system.”

You blink, thrown off. “…Excuse me?”

“Think about it,” he says, warming to his subject like he’s giving a TED Talk. “You guys really nailed it. Red means I’m dying, yellow means I’m dying but slower, green means ‘probably fine but still deserves attention,’ and blue means ‘get this guy a juice box.’ It’s basically the hospital’s version of a dating app. Swipe right if you’re hemorrhaging!”

The words slip past your defenses before you can stop them: a sharp, startled laugh bursts out of you.

You freeze.
He freezes.

You clap a hand over your mouth instantly, horrified. You never laugh like that on shift, not with patients, not with anyone. It’s too personal, too vulnerable. But Jisung is staring at you like you’ve just transformed into an entirely new species.

“…Did you just—” he whispers, eyes wide with mock reverence. “Did you just laugh?”

You turn on your heel, desperate to walk away before he can milk it further. “No.”

“Yes!” he says, skipping to keep up with you. “Yes, you did! That wasn’t a smirk, that wasn’t a fake cough—Nurse Y/N laughed at my joke. My joke! Do you know what this means?”

“That I’ve lost brain cells.”

“That you think I’m funny!” He’s practically glowing now, bounding along beside you. “You, the scariest, sharpest nurse in this whole building, think I’m funny. Oh my god, I need to write this down.”

“You’re insufferable,” you say, but your cheeks are still warm.

He notices, of course. He notices everything. But instead of rubbing it in, his grin softens just slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. And for the first time, you realize he isn’t just chasing your reactions for the thrill, he genuinely cares about them.

That scares you more than anything.

Because you’re starting to care, too.

You don’t stop him from following you back to the unit, but you don’t encourage him either. You keep your pace brisk, your gaze straight ahead, the practiced scowl on your face that’s usually enough to scare off chatty patients. Not him, though. Never him.

He’s still riding the high of your laugh, your real laugh and it shows in the way he practically bounces along beside you. “I can’t believe it,” he says, half to himself, half to you. “The scowl cracked. I’m legendary now. They should put my picture on the hospital wall next to the donors.”

“Please don’t,” you mutter. “We’d lose funding.”

He clutches his chest with his bandaged hand. “Wow. First you laugh at my joke, now you roast me? This is the best day of my life.”

You shake your head, refusing to let him see the smile tugging at your lips. It’s dangerous, how easily he pulls these reactions from you. You’ve built your walls tall and unyielding, but Jisung keeps finding cracks, slipping through them with disarming ease.

By the time you reach the double doors that separate the general hospital corridors from the ER unit, your professional instincts reassert themselves. This is your world, the controlled chaos you know how to handle. And it’s the line Jisung doesn’t get to cross.

You stop in front of the scanner, one hand tightening around your badge. Then you turn, placing your palm against his chest not hard, but firm enough to make him halt.

“You’re not allowed past here,” you say quietly.

He blinks, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in your tone. Then he nods, his expression softening. “Right. Got it. Lines and boundaries. I can respect that.”

You expect him to crack another joke, to deflect with his usual theatrics. But instead, there’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. His grin falters, just for a heartbeat, and you realize he’s thinking.

And then, before you can stop him, the words tumble out of his mouth.

“Would you… like to go on a date with me?”

The hallway seems to still around you.

You freeze, your hand still hovering against his hoodie. For a moment, you’re not a nurse, not the quick-witted shield of sarcasm you’ve built yourself into, you’re just… you. Caught off guard, staring up at him.

Jisung looks like he wants to snatch the words back immediately. His usual confidence is gone, replaced with something rawer hope, yes, but also fear. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, bracing for rejection.

You should say no. That would be the logical, professional thing to do. Keep the boundary sharp. Remind him you’re his nurse, not his friend, not his… anything else.

But the word doesn’t come.

Instead, you take a slow breath, swipe your badge against the scanner, and as the lock clicks open, you glance over your shoulder at him.

“I’d like to,” you say simply.

It takes him a second to process. Then his face splits into the brightest grin you’ve ever seen so wide it could light up the sterile hospital corridor.

“You would?!” His voice echoes a little too loudly, and before you can tell him to calm down, he’s fist-pumping the air with his uninjured hand. “Yes!”

The doors swing open, and you slip inside before anyone else can witness the spectacle. But just as the doors close behind you, you hear him on the other side, whooping in celebration like he’s just won a championship.

You press a hand over your mouth to stifle the laugh threatening to burst out. But it’s no use. your shoulders shake, and the sound escapes anyway, muffled and real.

For once, it feels good to let it out.

-

You almost convince yourself it won’t happen.

People say things in the heat of the moment all the time. Patients thank you for “saving their life” when all you did was hook them up to fluids. Family members promise they’ll be better to their loved ones, only to return with the same problems a week later. And Jisung is all impulse and dramatics. His “date” question could have been another performance, another line in his ongoing comedy routine.

But then he shows up.

Not in the ER but outside the hospital doors the next evening. He’s leaning against the wall, hood pulled up, sneakers tapping restlessly against the ground. He looks less like a patient and more like someone waiting to be picked up after class fidgety, excited, nervous.

You spot him the second you step out, but you don’t call out. Instead, you watch for a moment. His leg bounces. He keeps adjusting his hoodie, checking his phone, glancing up every time the doors swish open as though he’s terrified you won’t show.

The sight tugs at something in your chest you didn’t know was there.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you say as you approach, arms crossed.

His head snaps up. Relief floods his face, so clear it makes your stomach flip. “Of course I came! I thought you might bail.”

“I considered it.” You say it dryly, but there’s no bite in your tone.

He grins anyway, the nervous energy in him bubbling over. “So… um… hi. You’re off duty. Which means…” He takes a dramatic breath, sweeping his arm toward the parking lot like he’s unveiling a grand stage. “We’re officially on a date.”

You arch a brow. “In the hospital parking lot?”

“Temporarily.” He pulls out his phone, fumbling with it. “Okay, listen. I know most guys would plan something super fancy, but considering my track record—” he wiggles his bandaged fingers, still healing “—I thought I’d keep it simple. Dinner. Somewhere close enough that if I accidentally set myself on fire, we can walk back here.”

You snort. “Comforting.”

“See? Already thinking ahead.” He beams, and you roll your eyes but follow when he gestures toward the street.

The restaurant he picks isn’t fancy. It’s a late-night diner, tucked between a laundromat and a 24-hour pharmacy, the kind of place you’ve passed a hundred times without ever going in. Neon signs buzz faintly in the window, and the smell of fried food hangs in the air.

“Romantic, right?” Jisung says, holding the door open with a flourish.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he corrects, leading you to a booth by the window.

The vinyl seats squeak as you slide in. He sits across from you, leaning forward with both elbows on the table, chin propped on his hands. His eyes are fixed on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at in the room. It’s… unsettling. But not in a bad way.

“Stop staring,” you mutter, reaching for the menu.

“Can’t,” he says simply. “I finally got you here. Gotta make sure this isn’t a dream.”

You shake your head, hiding behind the laminated page. The truth is, you’re not used to this, being the focus of someone’s attention without it being transactional, without it being tied to their injury or complaint. It makes you feel exposed. But with him… it’s not uncomfortable. Just new.

The food arrives, greasy fries, burgers stacked too high, milkshakes that drip down the sides of the glasses. Jisung digs in like he hasn’t eaten in days, talking between bites, his hands flailing as he tells stories that veer wildly from embarrassing childhood memories to absurd near misses (“I once almost burned down my dorm making instant noodles. Don’t ask.”).

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch more than once. And when he makes a joke about how he’s basically singlehandedly keeping the ER in business, you actually laugh. A full, unguarded laugh that makes him freeze mid-bite, staring at you like you’ve just done magic.

“What?” you demand, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the softness in his eyes betrays him. “Just… you should laugh more. It’s nice.”

You duck your head, stabbing at your fries to avoid his gaze. But warmth spreads through you all the same.

By the time you leave, it’s past midnight. The air is cool, the streets quieter. You walk side by side, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, yours wrapped around your bag strap. Neither of you rush.

“So,” he says finally, voice lighter than the night air. “Did I do okay? For a first date? No catastrophic injuries, no ER visits…”

“Yet,” you point out.

“Yet,” he echoes, grinning.

You pause outside the hospital doors, the glow of the lobby lights spilling onto the pavement. You should say goodnight, go back inside, return to the version of yourself that exists within those walls. But for once, you don’t want to.

Instead, you glance at him, taking in his hopeful expression, the way he’s clearly holding his breath for your verdict.

“You did okay,” you admit.

His grin widens. “Just okay?”

“Better than okay,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He exhales like you’ve just handed him the world. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. So… second date?”

You shake your head, already stepping toward the doors. “We’ll see if you survive the week.”

Behind you, his laughter follows bright, unrestrained, and utterly contagious. And though you keep your back to him, your own smile slips out, small but certain.

Because against all odds, Han Jisung is starting to feel less like an accident and more like something inevitable.

One hundred days.

It shouldn’t mean much, not compared to birthdays, not compared to holidays, not compared to the never-ending calendar of night shifts and double shifts and “not another code blue.” But somewhere in the quiet corners of your heart, it does.

You don’t want it to.
You’ve never been the type to care about random milestones. You don’t count days on a calendar, you don’t demand chocolates or candlelit dinners every month. You’ve seen enough real problems in the ER, life and death, pain and recovery that fussing about anniversaries always felt… unimportant.

But with Jisung? It’s different.

Maybe because he’s the type to make a big deal out of small things. He celebrates every smile you give him like it’s a victory. He brags to every nurse, every volunteer, every cafeteria worker about “my girlfriend, the terrifying but secretly soft nurse.” He turns even your worst days into something brighter, just by barging into them with his grin and his absurdity.

So when the one-hundred-day mark creeps up, you can’t help but wonder if he’ll mention it. If he’ll make one of his chaotic grand gestures.

Except he doesn’t.
Not a word.

And so you tell yourself not to care. You tell yourself it’s silly to expect anything. You even consider returning the small gift you picked up days ago, a simple thing, not expensive, but something you thought would make him smile. It’s tucked deep in your bag now, weighing on you with every step of your shift.

You bite your lip when you think about it. Because you don’t want to be the person who forces importance onto things that maybe don’t matter to him.

You’re still chewing on the thought when another nurse pokes her head around the corner, grinning.

“Hey. Your boyfriend’s here.”

You blink. “…What?”

“Han Jisung,” she says with a teasing lilt. “Waiting at the front. Again. You really bagged yourself a golden retriever, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but warmth curls in your chest anyway. Because it’s true: everyone knows. He made sure of that. Jisung practically announced it to the entire hospital the day you agreed to be his girlfriend, and he hasn’t stopped talking about you since. It’s equal parts mortifying and… endearing.

When you step into the lobby, he’s there, leaning awkwardly against a pillar, pretending to look casual. The moment he spots you, his face lights up, and he pushes off the pillar like he’s been waiting hours just for this.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning down to peck your lips before you can even greet him. And then, with a magician’s flourish, he pulls a bouquet from behind his back.

Bright, colorful flowers. Fresh. Carefully chosen.

You gasp, caught off guard.

He grins, eyes crinkling. “What? Did you think I forgot?”

Relief rushes through you so fast you laugh soft, almost breathless. “Maybe a little.”

He frowns dramatically, clutching his chest like you’ve just shot him. “How dare you doubt me? One hundred days with you? Like I wouldn’t throw a parade if they let me rent one of those floats?”

You shake your head, hiding your smile behind the flowers. But you can’t hide the way your heart swells.

He insists on taking you to his place for the evening. He doesn’t explain why, just grins mysteriously and refuses to answer your questions. “Trust me,” he says, eyes twinkling. “You’ll like it. Probably.”

The “probably” doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, but you let him tug you along.

And when you step into his apartment, your breath catches.

It’s decorated. Not over-the-top, but enough to make your chest tighten. String lights crisscross the ceiling, casting the room in a warm glow. The small dining table is set with mismatched plates, candles flickering in jars, and what looks suspiciously like a folded paper napkin swan.

You press a hand to your mouth, blinking back sudden tears. “Jisung…”

He shifts nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh… I wanted to make it special. You know. For us. So I, um, cooked dinner.”

That makes you look at him sharply. “You what?”

He raises his hands defensively. “I swear it’s edible. Probably. Mostly. Okay, like ninety percent sure.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling out before you can stop it. “You cooked?”

“Don’t look so surprised!” he protests. “I can follow a recipe. Eventually.” He gestures grandly to the table. “Sit. Relax. Let me take care of you for once.”

You hesitate, eyeing him suspiciously. But his hopeful expression, earnest and unguarded melts any resistance you might have had. So you sit.

Dinner, against all odds, is delicious.

You both end up giggling through most of it, at his frantic stories about trying to stop the smoke alarm with a dish towel, at the way he insists the pasta sauce “just happened to turn out gourmet.” At one point, you’re laughing so hard you nearly spill your wine, and he beams at you like you’ve given him the best gift in the world.

And then dessert comes. Simple slices of cake, clearly bought from the bakery down the street. But somehow, it’s perfect.

The mood shifts, quieter now. Softer.

You set your fork down, looking at him across the candlelit table. “You really did all this?”

He shrugs, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Yeah. I wanted you to know I don’t take you for granted. That every day with you matters. Not just the big ones.”

Your throat tightens. You blink quickly, trying to chase away the sting in your eyes. “Jisung…”

He reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles gently.

“I just.. I never believed in love at first sight,” he admits quietly. His voice is steady, but his eyes shine with something that makes your chest ache. “Not until I saw you.”

The words hit you like a jolt. Not cheesy, not over-rehearsed. Just honest.

And before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning across the table, kissing him soft, lingering, full of everything you can’t put into words.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He grins, brushing his nose against yours. “You don’t have to thank me. Just… stay with me. That’s all I want.”

And sitting there, surrounded by string lights, mismatched plates, and the lingering smell of homemade pasta, you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

//

masterlist.

a/n: for @jisunggy 🐿️

the catalogue

join taglist here

PART 1 • PART 2 • PART 3

solo

#lovestay by @chrizzztopherbang

reader

stress relief by @live-laugh-bangchan

wash it away by @chrizzztopherbang

dont look away + silver hair by @starlostjisung

so it goes by @chanstardust

sweet n sour by @maho6any

ovulating II + stethoscopes & submission SERIES by @pixie-felix

ride for me by @midnightpaperco

e: explicit content ft hyunjin + you can be the boss + tumblr by @ybklix

the innocence is gone by @straykeedz

easy like sunday morning by @strayingawayy

i shouldn't want you but i do + playing the part by @chrizzzbang

i can be a better boyfriend than him + loves patient by @angel-writes-skz-here

1:31am by @thevampywolf

unknown number + hands on my throat + ceremony by @leriexoxo

fwb!chan by @jj-one

backstage pass ft hyunjin + felix SERIES by @writteninessence

just the tip + heat of it by @hyunniesamericano

playing with his hair by @yunhotteoks

i like being yours by @lonelystczennie

come here by @skzfflovers

did i do good? by @writeonwhiskey

cosmic love ft felix by @bahablastplz

spring into summer SERIES by @levanterhaze

mine? no. she's ours ft hyunjin + pretty please? by @ivyyisbored22

that's right listen to my voice baby by @flwrkissed

jock!chan by @suskz

escape from reality by @seochanhwang

between stages by @hwanghhjinie

a kiss from chris + crawl by @baby-yongbok

i volunteer by @valkyriexo

mamacita by @minniesmutt

nerds do it better by @facioleeknow

yeah you, silly by @becomingmina

five more minutes by @bbokicidal

stay by @whatudowhennooneseesyou

day seven: bang chan by @kpop---scenarios

seven minutes in heaven by @skzficdump

bodyguard: the first guard SERIES by @skzdarlings

three of a kind SERIES ft hyunjin by @seospicybin

member x member

needy little pup ft Felix + Seungmin by @writingforstraykids

male/gn reader

try again by @kiss-of-moonlight

livin la vida loca by @star-suh

dream of me by @anemoiadawn

sleeping around by @james-is-here

The apartment is quiet, soft afternoon light spilling across the floor. You’re curled up on the rug with a warm blanket around your shoulders, a small stack of puzzles set in front of you. Changbin is already on his knees beside you, legs tucked under him, cheeks flushed from excitement.

“Okay, Bin,” you say gently, tapping the edge of the puzzle box. “Let’s see if we can finish this together.”

His eyes light up instantly, a small squeak of delight escaping him. “Yay! You’ll help me, right?” His voice is high, eager, and you can’t help but smile.

“Of course,” you murmur, reaching out to guide his hands to the pieces. “We’ll do it together, step by step.”

Changbin carefully holds a piece in his chubby fingers, trying to fit it in. He frowns slightly, concentrating, and you reach over, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Not quite, baby. Try turning it this way.”

He wiggles the piece, tilts it, and then beams as it clicks into place. “I did it! I did it!” He claps his hands, bouncing slightly on his knees.

“You did so well,” you praise, brushing a soft kiss across his temple. “Good job, my little helper.”

He giggles, leaning against your arm, small and warm. “Can we do the next one?” His big round eyes are full of trust and excitement, already diving back into the puzzle pieces.

You nod, letting him pick up the pieces, guiding him gently when he struggles. Every time a piece fits, he squeals and jumps a little, and you can’t help but laugh at his infectious enthusiasm.

“Here, let me help with this tricky one,” you murmur, placing your hand over his small one and rotating the piece together. “See? Together we can do anything.”

Changbin leans into you, tiny head resting against your shoulder. “You’re the best, noona,” he whispers, voice soft and warm.

You wrap an arm around him, pressing your cheek to the top of his head. “You’re my best little boy, Bin. I love seeing you happy like this.”

Another piece falls into place, and he squeals again, bouncing in your lap. “I love puzzles!” he chirps.

“I love seeing you smile,” you reply, tucking him close. “How about after this one, we have a snack too? Cookies?”

“Cookies!” he cheers, bouncing even more, and you laugh, shaking your head. “Alright, my little puzzle master. One more piece, and then snack time.”

He concentrates fiercely, tongue poking out in determination, and you sit back, letting him lead the way while your hands hover nearby for guidance. The afternoon stretches lazily, filled with quiet giggles, soft praise, and the warm, comforting feeling of just being together.

When the puzzle is finally done, he throws himself against you, snuggling into your chest. “We did it, noona! All done!”

“Yes, we did,” you murmur, wrapping him in a gentle hug. “All done, my perfect boy.”

He sighs happily, already sliding a tiny hand into yours. “Can we do another one tomorrow?”

You press a kiss to his hair, smiling down at his flushed, happy face. “Of course, baby. Every day if you want. I’ll always help you.”

------------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

Taglist(closed): @aria-again@maddy24207@bangchansgirlsblog@straykidsdreamer@magikdaekholm@wolfhallows4@thatcuntblog @yxna-bliss @simpqueen2005@necrozica @d4ily-s-nsh1ne@satosugu4l@leehyejoon1@scribblesnsketches05@encoredesires @jeonginslittledoll @leejoon1

“look at you,” he mutters, voice rough as his fingers curl around your thigh, pulling you back into his mouth after your attempt to scoot away, again. “running already? i’ve barely even started.”

your black lace panties were pushed to the side, soaked straight through. he’s got your legs spread wide for him, keeping you open as his tongue’s dragging deliberate strokes through your folds, moaning and groaning into your pussy like he’s fucking addicted.

“mmh.. missed this sweet little cunt,” chan mumbles into you, licking up the mess he’s made between your legs, letting spit and slick coat his chin, his expression so sinfully smug it makes your whole body shiver. “always so fuckin wet for me. weren’t even in the house five minutes before i could smell how bad you wanted it.”

you whine out helplessly, face smushed into the pillow, thighs twitching when his tongue slides back down and fucks into you. the lewd squelching sounds fills up the room, it’s almost pornographic, but worse than that is the way he hums like he’s proud of it. like he wants you to hear just how messy you are.

“that’s it, baby. stay right there. nice and still for daddy, yeah?” he coos when you squirm again, trying to crawl away from the overwhelming pressure in your core. “you act like you don’t want it, but you keep creamin’ all over my fuckin’ face. such a pretty little liar.”

he spits again, right on your sensitive clit. watching as it drips down between your folds, catching it with his tongue, licking it up like he’s starving. “fuck, i love the way you taste. could eat this cute little pussy for hours.”

you try to hold it in, the sounds, the moans, the little cries that slip out when his tongue flicks over your clit just right— but it’s no use. not when chan knows you too well. not when he likes making you struggle. his grip tightens when you keep squirming around, strong hands dragging you back down the bed, back onto his hungry mouth.

“nah,” he growls, “you don’t run from me. not after you came into my house wearin’ these slutty little panties under that short skirt.”

you could only mewl in response, one hand clawing at the pillow beneath your face. the lace is digging uncomfortably into your skin, soaked and useless, nothing but a flimsy excuse for modesty.

“you quiet now, huh?” he huffs against your core, mouth wet and glossy. “where’d all that bratty attitude go?”

his tongue fucks into your soaked hole, lips sloppily wrapping around your clit, groaning like hes drunk off the taste. everytime you try to push up or close your legs, he just forcefully pulls you back down, keeping you open with a grunt and a tighter grip.

you’re full-on crying now, mouth open in choked gasps, more tears come slipping down your cheeks. he chuckles darkly, then pushes two fingers into you without warning, making you hiccup at the sudden intrusion.

“there she is,” he whispers, “my messy little cockslut. always so tight for me. always so greedy. even with your best friend sleeping ten feet away, you still spread your legs like a good girl the second i call.”

his tongue is back on your clit, circling slow while his fingers curl just right, hitting that spot that makes you shake. he’s relentless with it— slurping your arousal, spitting again, humming like he lives between your legs.

“you like this, huh?” he mutters, fucking his fingers deeper. “like sneakin’ around and letting your best friend’s daddy ruin you in the room next door?” he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, fingers curling harder, voice low and venomous as he up looks at your trembling state.

“you like that it’s wrong.”

your whole body twitches at his words, you’re so close, he can feel it. you’re clenching around him, whining now, begging without even able to form coherent sentences.

“gonna cum already?” chan cocks his head slightly, “you always cum so fast when it’s my mouth. don’t you, sweetheart?”

you nod desperately. legs shaking. can’t even lift your head from the pillow.

“go on then,” he coaxes, his tone laced with faux sweetness. “make a mess, cum all over my face. but you better keep that pretty mouth shut. don’t wanna wake your little friend now, do we?”

thats when you finally break.

your orgasm ripples through you, brutal and sudden, your body locking up, mouth permanently agape, toes curling as white-hot pleasure crashes over you. chan keeps licking, doesn’t stop even when you’re crying from the overstimulation, thrashing violently around his face.

he moans into your cunt like he’s getting off on it, like your pain is pleasure, and your pussy is his favorite fucking drug.

your body falls limp against the bed, spent and twitching, he doesn’t even give you time to fully recover. he’s already crawling up towards you, his cock rock solid against the wall of your ass, a low graveling against your ear.

“we’re not done, baby,” he whispers, “not even close.”