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popcornpoppypop · 26 days ago

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Promises, Promises Part 1

Summary: Of course, Jack and Callie's baby would decide to make their grand entrance when an idiot tried to smoke in L&D and flood the whole floor.

Warnings: Medical inaccuracies, descriptions of labor and childbirth, blood, birth trauma, cursing

A/N: This will be a two part series because I need to get this one off my laptop and out of my head. I've been fiddling with it for months. It's a long one, so strap in!

“I can’t believe the L&D ward caught fire!” Dr. King shook her head. “they must have been so scared.”

“What idiot smokes in a hospital?” Santos scoffed.

“Dr. Robby does that mean we’ll be getting their patients?” Whittaker asked.

“No, they’re being transferred to the maternity center just down the road. Dispatch has been notified and are making sure all OB’s let their patients know. We may get in a couple of confused mothers. Nothing we can’t handle.” Robby nodded.

“Hey! Did you see the board?” Jack Abbot came barreling up to Robby at the nurses station.

“I never stop seeing it.” He sighed.

“What’s got your panties in a twist? I’m managing it just fine.” Dana scolded.

“N-no! Not that board! Ahmed has a betting board in his office. You’re all taking bets on the birth of my child?” He growled. Robby and Dana looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Relax, it’s just a little fun.” Dana patted his arm.

“Fun. You’re sick.” Jack crossed his arms.

“Never thought I’d see the day Jack Abbot was upset about a baby pool! You nervous, cowboy?” Dana smiled.

“I’d be an idiot if I weren’t.” His signature stone face never letting up. “I hear L&D is down for at least two weeks, so that doesn’t help.”

“Relax, it’s not like she’s having the baby today. The Maternity center is nice anyway!” Robby crossed his arms.

“I don’t know them! I don’t know what equipment they have! I know they don’t have a surgical suite. What if she needs an emergency c-section? No way are we going there.” Jack shook his head.

“You two will figure it out. Not like you have any other choice.” Dana smiled.

“If she calls saying she’s contracting, I’m blaming you.” Jack pointed at Robby and stormed off.

“I don’t think I have ever seen him this wound tight.” Robby chuckled.

“You boys all get like this with the first. My husband had a panic attack and passed out when I told him my water broke.” Dana sighed as she looked at her clipboard.

Jack was finishing up with a road rash case, enjoying the monotony of it, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Dr. King, take over.” He said, handing her the instruments and stepping out of the room. The name on his phone wasn’t one he was expecting.

“Liz, what’s wrong?” He answered.

“Nothing. I just hadn’t heard from Callie all day and I think she turned her phone off. I was just seeing if she’d checked in with you.”

“Oh. No. She hasn’t, can you go over and make sure-” Before he could finish his sentence in walked Callie from triage. “You know what she just walked in. I’ll call you back.” Jack hung up and ran over to her.

“And he threatened me with soft restraints and I said that wasn’t a threat that was kinky.” Callie laughed with Dr. McKay.

“Baby? What the hell?” Jack looked her over.

“Hey! I was just looking for you.” Callie smiled.

“Why are you telling my resident that story?” He glared down at her.

“Because it’s funny.” Callie shrugged.

“Callie was just tell me that she’s been having contractions for the past six hours.” McKay gave a tight smile.

“What!?” Jack looked at her aghast.

“I was fine on my own, I knew it would take a while. I didn’t want to bother you until necessary.”

“Honey, how many damn times do I have to tell you that you do not bother me.” He ran a hand down his face.

“Besides you were going to be annoying anyway.” Callie smiled, Jack couldn’t help but smile back.

“I told her about the fire.” McKay said.

“Talk about bad timing. Where are they sending everyone?” Callie asked.

“The maternity center up the road.”

“The one with no surgery? Absolutely not. No way.” Callie crossed her arms.

“My girl.” Jack chuckled.

“Why don’t we just get you into a room here, check you out until you two make your decision on where to go.” McKay offered.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. If I can’t go upstairs, it’ll be here then.” Callie stated.

“Oh, I’m not sure you want to labor and deliver in the pitt. It’s not the most relaxing place.” Mckay said.

“I’m only as relaxed as he is and he won’t be relaxed anywhere else.” Callie smiled up at Jack.

“Right, Room 3 is open, on the quieter side of the department. Let’s go there.” Mckay smiled.

Jack kept his hand firmly on the small of Callie’s back as they walked toward the room.

“This is your fault.” Jack pointed at Robby as they passed by.

“Well, look whose here! Callie you look radiant.” Robby chuckled.

“Robby, I don’t appreciate lies. Especially while I’m in a tremendous amount of pain.” Callie winked.

“I would never lie to you. They tell you about the fire?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Where are you thinking of going?”

“Nowhere. Here’s fine.” Callie stated as she entered the room.

“Whoa, what?” Robby grabbed Jack before he entered the room.

“She’s made her mind up. You spoke this into the universe, brother. Gear up, big guy, you’re playing catcher.” Jack smiled as he smacked Robby’s arm.

“Get as comfortable as you can, we’ll take good care of you. Not that Dr. Abbot would let anyone do differently.” McKay smiled and left.

“Honey, are you sure you want to do this here?” Jack sat in front of Callie.

“I don’t know the staff at other hospitals, I don’t know their standards. These are our people. They will make sure we’re okay. I know they’ll take care of the baby well and look after me and you. Why would I go anywhere else? For fancy bathtubs and aroma therapy? We are not those people, Jack.” Callie ran her hands through his hair.

“If you’re sure.” He smiled up at her. Callie nodded but was hit with a contraction causing her to scrunch up her face.

“They’re getting more intense.” She groaned. Jack took hold of her hand, rubbing her arm with other.

“Deep breath if you can.” He reminded her.

“Easier said then done.” Callie sighed.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Jack smiled. Callie took a deep breath as the contraction ebbed away.

“You have patients to tend to.” Callie noted.

“Nope. Patient. You. That’s it. Robby and his team can manage without me. I was heading home soon anyway.”

“Jack you haven’t slept, oh honey. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t plan to go into labor today. Besides, I’m fine.” Jack tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You should get some rest. Go to the on call room or something.”

“Oh, I’m not sleeping now. Hey, what happened to your phone? Liz said you turned it off?” Jack ran his hands up and down her thighs, something he did to ground himself.

“Oh. No. I dropped it by the TV. I couldn’t bend down to get it.” Callie sighed. Jack failed at stifling a laugh. “Don’t laugh!” She smacked him.

“Sorry, the imagery of you trying to get it was too funny.” Jack laughed.

“Well, good morning!” Dana came walking into the room.

“Dana! Is this that VIP treatment I hear so much about? I get a charge nurse to take care of me.”

“Only for you darling. You’re always my favorite patient, but you’re extra special when you’re giving me a new little niece or nephew.” She hugged Callie.

“Since when are you their aunt?” Jack looked confused.

“Since I deemed it so.” Dana gave a curt nod.

“Who else do we got anyway? Beside you’d rather have an experienced charge nurse as the secondary contact for them anyway.” Callie pointed.

“Yeah, good point.” Jack shrugged.

“How you doing, Sweetheart?” Dana asked rubbing Callie’s back.

“Oh about as good as anyone can be when a 9 pound fetus is trying to push it’s way out of their vagina.” Callie smiled.

“Oh good. Some women complain about this stuff you know.” Dana laughed.

“I never complain.”

“Bullshit.” Jack laughed.

“Why don’t you go get coffee and I’ll help you into your gown?” Dana shot Jack a look.

“Sure. You need anything?” Jack kissed Callie’s forehead.

“Juice, my hands are shaking.” She sighed. Jack looked down to see her hands were in fact shaking. It sent a shiver up his spine.

“You got it. Dana, can you get her full work up going? Protocol for new mothers, don’t fight it.” Jack pointed at Callie who raised her hands in defeat.

“Can do, Boss.” Dana smiled.

Jack walked into the break room, pouring the stale coffee into a paper cup and sipping on it, quickly grabbing a bottle of orange juice. He went to find Robby, he was going over a suture technique with one of the med students. Jack caught Robby’s eye and he came shuffling over.

“How’s she doing?” Robby smiled.

“Okay. Her hands are shaking.” Jack stated.

“That’s normal. Adrenaline is coursing through her veins, shakes happen.” Robby reminds him.

“No. It’s not adrenaline. I can feel it. Something is off. She thinks it’s blood sugar, bringing her juice.” Jack shook the orange juice bottle in his hand.

“Maybe she’s right and maybe you’re instincts are off because you’re so damn nervous.” Robby said.

“Dana is pulling blood under the guise of a ‘new mothers’ protocol. She didn’t question it. She sees it too.”

“Let’s not get worked up until we see what we got going on. Okay?” Robby put his hands on Jack’s shoulders.

“I’m only going to say this once because I won’t be able to get the words out again. You save her if it comes down to it. You save Callie. We’ll survive if we lose the baby, it’ll hurt and be awful but we’ll figure it out. I won’t survive if I lose her. I can’t.” Jack shook his head.

“It’s not coming to that. I won’t let it.” Robby assured him.

“Yeah…” Jack cleared his throat.

Dana came round the corner, handing the blood off to one of her nurses to head to lab stat. She gave Jack a tight smile.

“You think something’s off too?” Robby asked scratching the back of his neck, his nervous tick.

“I don’t know. My spidey senses are tingling a bit. She looks okay, pressure is perfectly normal. Her hands shaking could just be low blood sugar. She’s not acting herself.” Dana shrugged.

“She’s in labor, who acts normally in labor?” Robby sighed.

“No, I know. But she’s distant in a way freaks me out a little.” Dana said.

“Let’s not get our nerves up until we have more information. We’ll keep a close on her vitals and do repeat labs in an hour. Get her drinking the juice, if her sugar is too low, we’ll get hooked up to an IV.” Robby stated.

“I want to know the second those labs are back.” Jack said to Dana as he left.

“Robby, you know I’m not into superstitious stuff, but something in my gut is saying this isn’t going to go well.” Dana whispered.

“If I trust anyone’s gut it’s yours. One step at a time. Labs, then we’ll go from there. Keep her calm, that’s the main thing.” Robby nodded.

“I know you prefer cranberry juice but all I got was orange.” Jack came into the room and handed Callie the juice.

“I can stomach it I think.” Callie sipped the juice.

“Is there something you’re aren’t telling me?” Jack took her hand, rubbing up and down her forearm.

“What? Like what?” Callie looked confused.

“Something you feel that you aren’t saying. You just seem off, I want to help.” Jack said.

“No, I don’t know. This is all new to me Jack. I don’t know what’s normal really. I’m tired, I’ve been tired all day. Hell! I’ve been tired for the past six months!” Callie chuckled.

“Okay. I just…I want this to go as smoothly for you as possible.”

“Are you worried?” Callie looked at him concerned.

“I always worry about you. Have since the day we met.” He smiled as he stood up and kissed her. Callie leaned her forehead against his as she started to groan through a contraction.

“Dr. Abbot they want to ask- Oh I’m so sorry!” Dr. Javadi jump and scrambled out of the room.

“Oh that poor girl!” Callie laughed through her pain.

“She’s supposed to knock for a reason.” Jack grumbled. He held Callie close as the contraction ended.

“Go put that girl’s mind at ease. She’s out there sweating.” Callie laughed.

“Let her.” Jack said.

“Be nice. They need to learn so they can be as good as you one day.” Callie cupped his face.

“In their dreams.” Jack scoffed as he got up and left the room.

“I am so sorry Dr. Abbot, I did not mean to interrupt such an intimate moment. It won’t happen again.” Javadi rambled.

“You’re lucky my girlfriend is a saint of a woman. What did you need?” Jack sighed.

“Um, Dr. Robby wanted to ask what her last appointment was like. The baby’s position, any concerns for pre-eclampsia, things like that.” Javadi said, her nervous energy was putting Jack off.

“You stay with her. Scream if she needs me.” Jack pointed at Javadi.

“oh, okay.” She cautiously entered the room.

“Oh I don’t bite like him. Stuck you on babysitting duty? You can say no.” Callie smiled.

“I absolutely could not.” Javadi gave a nervous laugh.

Jack came marching up to Dana’s desk, Robby was leaning across it. They were going over the patient flow and getting people out or upstairs.

“So, we are not putting med students on this. I didn’t think I had to say that, especially to you.” Jack growled.

“Take a beat Jack.” Dana warned.

“I’m not putting med students on this. I needed more information and Javadi is more than capable of gathering that while I juggle an entire ER of patients.” Robby snapped.

“Her chart is in the system. Normal, healthy pregnancy. No complications outside of the six weeks of morning sickness. Had an ultrasound and exam less than a week ago, baby was head down, in a good potion. No hypertension noted, no risk of eclampsia noted.” Jack recited as if he had memorized her whole chart.

“Okay. Good. She tell you anything new?”

“She’s been tired, but she’s always tired.” Jack shrugged.

“Dr. Robby, labs are back on Callie.” Perlah handed the tablet to him.

“what’s it look like?” Jack said, trying to peer over his shoulder.

“She’s got low blood sugar. Her platelet count is low and she’s slightly anemic. She’s always had anemia issues. Let’s test her clotting factors, I need to know if she’ll be able to clot when things get going.” Robby told Dana.

“I’ll get it going. You want to do a quick ultrasound, make sure there isn’t a bleed somewhere we don’t know about?” Dana asked as she typed up the orders.

“Yes. I’ll do it myself, just pull it into the room for me.” Robby nodded.

“If she can’t clot, she’ll bleed out either way.” Jack whispered to himself, but everyone heard it.

“Hey. We’re going to keep her safe.” Robby reassured.

“Dr. Abbot!” Javadi called from the end of the hall. Jack went sprinting, Robby and Dana close behind.

“What!? What happened!?” Jack barked as he slid into the room to find Callie trying to climb out of the bed.

“I’m sorry, she just was insisting on getting out of bed and I told her she shouldn’t, but she called me a really rude name and I just thought you should handle it.” Javadi said as she looked at all three of the clearly annoyed people.

“Ok, when I say scream if she needs me, I meant if something was medically wrong. Go.” Jack grumbled. Dana laughed as Javadi ran out of the room.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Jack helped Callie to her feet.

“This bed is killing my back, I don’t want to lay down. I didn’t realize it was a fucking crime to stand up.” Callie griped.

“What did you call her?” Dana smiled.

“an imbecilic child that looks like a deer in the head lights who needs to grow a pair of balls.” Callie sighed, throwing her arms around Jack’s neck and resting her head on his shoulder. She felt the vibrations of his laughter through his chest.

“Okay. Med students are not allowed in this room, I can’t have HR on my ass too.” Robby chuckled.

“Callie, your anemic. That’s why you’re tired.” Jack told her.

“Oh. That sucks.” She sighed.

“We need more blood to run a clotting test. We’re concerned you’re not going to be able to clot, which is bad when you’re about to lose a good amount of blood already.” Robby told her.

“I’m already low on blood and you’re taking more. Genius.” Callie sighed.

“Just a little more, Hun.” Dana said.

“We’re also going to do an ultrasound to make sure you’re not bleeding somewhere you shouldn’t be. Have your waters broke?” Robby asked. Callie shook her head into Jack’s shoulder.

“No.” He let them know.

“Okay. Do you want to sit so we can get this over with or do you want a minute?” Dana asked.

“Um…I need a minute. Fuck!” She groaned as a contraction hit her like a freight train. Jack rubbed hard circles on her back and swayed with her as she moaned through the contraction.

“Dana, come get me when the ultrasound is ready.” Robby whispered as he left the room.

“Here,” Dana came behind Callie and held her hips, putting hard counter pressure on them.

“Oh that’s good.” Callie sighed. Jack mouthed a thank you to Dana who just gave a nod.

“You let me know when you’re ready, Sweetheart.” Dana said, her tone soft and low. Callie sighed as she sat back on the bed. “Let’s get this over with. Should I be worried?” Callie asked as Dana started pulling blood.

“Do I look worried?” Jack asked.

“You never look worried; that isn’t a good barometer.” Callie playfully slapped his cheek.

“She’s got you there.” Dana laughed. “Honey, we’ve got you. We’re not letting anything happen to either of you. Tomorrow you’re going home with your beautiful baby and you’ll get to make Jack stay up all night while you sleep.” Dana laughed.

“Alright. See? This is why we’re here and not at Presby or that fucking maternity center.” Callie smiled.

“Hi, Mrs. Abbot. It’s good to see you again!” Dr. Mel King came in with an ultrasound followed by Robby.

“Not Mrs. Abbot Mel. You can just call me Callie.”

“Right, Sorry. Force of habit. How are you feeling?” Mel asked, wringing her gloved hands.

“Fine. Guilty for making you all deal with his anxious, grouchy behavior.” Callie laughed.

“Oh, it’s common for first-time fathers to be anxious, especially if they work in the medical field, as they’ve seen how things can go wrong.” Mel said.

“Dr. King, how about we focus on the ultrasound.” Robby sighed. Callie stifled a giggle as she smacked Jack’s arm as he growled.

“I thought I said no students.”

“She’s not a med student, she’s a resident. You don’t get to kick people out of MY room.” Callie said. “Go ahead Dr. King.”

“I was going to take the lead on the ultrasound, Callie.” Robby stated.

“Oh you’ve had a million years of practice. Give it to her. She can do it. I’ve seen her work.” Callie nodded.

“I’m going to go bald and it’s your fault.” Jack whispered in her ear.

“Okay, Dr. King she’s all yours. I’ll just be observing.” Robby got up from the stool.

“Yay! I love doing ultrasounds, babies are the best!” Mel smiled as she started putting the gel on Callie’s belly. She moved the wand around her skin, pushing in deeper in some spots.

“Tell me what we are looking for, Dr. King.” Robby stated.

“Any abnormal bleeding, especially within the uterus and around it. If there is we could be dealing with placental abruption.” She stated.

“But we aren’t seeing any.” Robby said as Jack stood up to look at the screen.

“As of right now, there are no abnormalities and baby is in good position.” Mel smiled as she wiped the gel from Callie’s belly.

“Thank you, Dr. King.” Callie smiled.

“If it’s alright with you, when it’s time for delivery I’d like to assist.

“No” “Yes” Jack and Callie said at the same time.

“Let me just see real quick, is your vagina and every intimate part of you about to be on display as you are in an indescribable amount of pain?” Callie questioned Jack.

“No, it’s not.” Jack sighed.

“Okay, so I think I get to say who gets to be in the room when that’s happening. And I’m already not thrilled that Robby is going to be in the hot seat, but here we are. I like Dr. King. Dr. King is a good doctor, and she’s kind and has a nice smile. If she wants the opportunity to learn and be a part of this, then I will make that decision.” Callie scolded. Jack sat back, crossing his arms. Robby and Dana had to hide their faces so he wouldn’t see them laughing.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to cause a fight.”

“We aren’t fighting.” Jack and Callie said at the same time.

“I’d love to have you in here for the delivery. Thank you, Dr. King.” Callie smiled.

“Thank you, Mrs- Callie!” Dr. King smiled as she ran off.

“You two are school children.” Jack barked.

“It’s just so satisfying to see someone put you in your place in the same way you do it to everyone else.” Dana laughed.

“Don’t you have an ER full of patients to tend to?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll be back in a bit. Drink your juice.” Robby ordered as he and Dana left.

“I can’t believe you want those two to be godparents.” Jack shook his head.

“Jack…” Callie groaned as a contraction took her breath away. Jack jumped up and grabbed her hand, rubbing her back.

“Breathe, in through the nose out through the mouth. You got this.” Jack said kissing her forehead.

Robby was typing on his computer, focused on his patients when Gloria came into view.

“Dr. Robinavitch, a word?”

“What can I do for you Gloria? I have a full house needing care, which you are impeding.” He scoffed.

“When were you going to inform us that Abbot was not coming in tonight?” Gloria asked.

“As soon as I remembered. I was a little preoccupied with making sure his family was safe and healthy. She’s doing fine, by the way.” Robby sneered.

“We need to know as soon as possible in order to properly staff-”

“When have we ever been properly staffed?”

“Why have you been taking extra time with Abbot and his fiancée?”

“She’s anemic and has low platelets. We’re running her clotting factors right now. He’s worried, I am making sure my patient is taken care of and her partner isn’t losing his mind making her job harder.” Robby snapped.

“did you say fiancé?” Perlah leaned over.

“He has her down as his fiancé in his paperwork. I don’t know if he’s even actually done it but I can’t prove otherwise without potentially spoiling something. I haven’t confirmed.” Gloria rolled her eyes.

“Gloria, can we get back to work and stop gossiping and griping about insignificant details.” Robby sighed. Gloria huffed and stomped off.

“Do not spread that please,” Robby warned Perlah.

“Hey, the clotting come back yet?” Jack came up to the desk, coffee cup in hand.

“Not yet.” Robby said taking his glasses off and rubbing his face.

“Are you two engaged?”Perlah asked.

“What? No. Who said that?” Jack looked confused.

“Gloria.” Perlah shrugged.

“I put her down so that if anything happens we have legal rights to know medical information in emergencies and can make decisions. She doesn’t want to get married.” Jack sipped his coffee.

“How’s she doing?” Dana asked as she sat down.

“She’s sleeping. I couldn’t stand the quiet, so I have Princess parked at the desk across from her room.”

“Since when have I ever let you park my nurses?” Dana squinted her eyes.

“Since you’d have done the same thing.” Jack tilted his head. Dana threw a pen at him.

“Mohan, why is your laceration still here?” Robby asked as he saw Samira walk by.

“Getting them out now. Hey, I heard Callie is here?” She stopped by Abbot.

“She is, she’s sleeping don’t you dare wake her up.” He warned.

“No, of course not! You must so excited!” She smiled.

“I’m excited for this to be over and we can go home.” He said. Samira rolled her eyes and left.

“Oh, clotting is back.” Robby sat up, putting his glasses on. “okay, it’s not bad, higher than I would like but I’ve seen worse on delivering mothers that had no complications.” Robby said.

“I still don’t like it.” Jack said.

“She’s doing okay Jack. You should get some rest too.” Robby said.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Dr. Abbot! Robby!” Princess yelled. The two men took off down the hall, Dana shouting orders to Perlah to take over as she followed.

“Her water broke, it’s bloody.” Princess informed them as they entered the room. Callie was standing, leaning over the edge of the bed, panting through a contraction, tears rolling down her face. A puddle was at her feet, an unmistakable red.

“Princess call up and get an OR ready, see if any OBs stuck around if not anyone who can do a c-section.” Robby ordered.

“Jack!” Callie called out. Jack snapped from his frozen state and was next to her, putting pressure on her hips.

“I’m here, baby. I got you.” He told her.

“Callie, there's a lot of blood in your amniotic fluid, which means you’re placenta has separated from the uterus. We are going to have to take you to get surgery.” Robby told her as he snapped on gloves.

“It’s going to be okay.” Jack whispered into her ear.

“I’m going to do a quick exam and make sure baby isn’t too far into the birth canal.” Robby said.

“Jack, I’m scared now.” Callie whined.

“Have I ever let anything happen to you?” He forced her to make eye contact. She shook her head. “I won’t let anything happen to you now. You’re going to be fine. Baby is going to be fine.” He kissed her temple as he looked down at Robby, whose face was emotionless.

“Dr. Robby?” Princess called, the phone still to her ear. “They don’t have any ORs and no one will do the surgery.” Robby pulled his gloves off and grabbed the phone and went to the hall where he could be heard shouting.

“You’re doing great, Sweetheart.” Dana said as she cleaned up the floor and Callie’s legs.

“Oh fuck!” Callie groaned as the contraction grew stronger. Jack rubbed circles on her back and whispered encouragement in her ear. His hands were shaking now.

“Okay, Callie, we’re going to do things a little differently now. Normally we would send you up and get you a c-section so we could control the blood loss. We don’t have an OR or surgeon available. They’re calling in some one but I don’t know when they’ll get here.” Robby explained.

“Jesus Christ, Robby!” Jack yelled.

“I know. What I’m going to do is get you hooked up to some medication to help you clot as well as some blood.”

“Can’t an ambulance take us somewhere with surgery?” Callie whined, another contraction rolling over her.

“It’s took risky. I can’t control how you deliver and the blood loss in an ambulance. It would take too long and expose you and the baby to infection.” Robby said.

“I don’t know…” Callie sobbed.

“Callie,” Robby stood in front of her, taking her hands in his. “I am not going to let anything happen to you or your baby. I swear. I’m going to take care of you, I just need you to trust me.” He told her.

“Okay, I trust you.” Callie shook her head. Robby nodded and stood up.

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x oc #jack abbot x reader #dana evans #dr. robby #dr. mckay #tw blood #tw childbirth #tw birth #tw birth trauma #tw traumatic birth

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dollyswishingwell · 13 days ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.7

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, for this person who recommended this thank you, made it almost headcanony, not that much mamas girl in this, lowkey a dad and daughter bonding fic

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ It’s a daddy daughter dance

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“I’m not going,” Rafayel declared from the bathtub, arms draped dramatically over the porcelain like a drowned Victorian widow. “It smells like glue sticks and abandonment trauma in that place.”

You didn’t look up from your mascara wand. “She asked for you. Specifically.”

Rafayel blinked at the ceiling. Then muttered, “…Fine.”

—

Three hours later, he was standing in the preschool auditorium wearing a sheer lavender button-up, pearl cuffs, and glitter in his waves, glitter, while his daughter twirled around in a custom-made seafoam tutu with a cape that trailed behind her like a royal decree.

The gymnasium reeked of juice boxes and low self-esteem. He hated it here.

“I feel ill,” he whispered, crouching beside her.

She was gnawing on a sugar cookie and beaming at you across the room. “Mama’s pretty,” she said dreamily.

Rafayel made a noise like a kicked crab.

—

Then the music started.

He rose, hand out. “Shall we, my pufferfish?”

She stared up at him.

Then, horror of horrors,

She ran to you.

“I wanna dance with MAMA!” she wailed, cheeks puffed. “Not Daddy! Mamaaaa!”

The crowd turned.

Rafayel’s arm dropped.

You gave him a pitying smile. “She’s just shy—”

“No,” he said, dead-eyed, backing into the shadows like a disgraced villain. “I get it. I’m not the favorite. I’m just the guy who makes couture capes and fries shrimp.”

He sulked in the bleachers the rest of the night, swiping glitter off his sleeves like betrayal.

—

Later that night, you woke to find him curled around both of you in bed. The toddler drooled on his bare chest, tiara still skewed on her head. He stared at her like a ghost.

“She said you’re her favorite.”

You kissed his temple. “She also called a pigeon her ‘real dad’ last week.”

A pause.

He muttered, “…I’ll take second place.”

But he tucked her in tighter anyway.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne adjusted his tie in the car mirror, dead silent. His dress shirt was crisp, coat tailored, glasses polished within an inch of their life.

“She said we had to ‘match,’” you reminded, fixing his boutonnière, a tiny satin heart your daughter taped to his lapel. It was crooked. It would stay crooked. He didn’t flinch.

“I’m aware,” he said flatly. “She also said I’m not allowed to wear black because it’s ‘boring and sad.’”

You kissed his cheek. “You’re a vision in beige.”

He didn’t smile.

But his ears were pink.

At the dance, he held her little hand like it was a surgical instrument. Gentle, precise.

She stomped her feet with wild abandon, glitter shoes flashing, curls bouncing. Zayne followed her lead stiffly, like someone trying to dance without disturbing a sleeping cat.

Other parents whispered.

Your daughter stared up at him mid-spin.

“You dance like a robot.”

He blinked.

She tugged his sleeve. “But you’re my robot.”

His face didn’t change.

But you swore you saw his mouth twitch.

After the slow song, she abandoned him entirely. Ran to you.

“Mommy,” she said between giggles. “Daddy tried to twirl. It was terrible.”

Zayne sat on a tiny plastic chair off to the side, arms folded, expression blank. The tape-heart on his lapel had fallen off.

You brought him a juice box. He took it without looking.

“She called me terrible.”

“She also said you’re her robot.”

Zayne’s glasses slid down his nose slightly. “I suppose I’ll take that over being replaced.”

Pause.

He glanced at the dance floor.

Then at you.

“…Do you want to dance?”

You smiled. “Absolutely.”

He didn’t flinch when your daughter climbed between you, tiny arms curled around his leg.

Zayne just held you both, coat sweeping the floor.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Xavier arrived in a full white suit.

Why?

Because she said he looked “like a sleepy prince.”

His silver hair was braided with little flower clips. Not by you. By your daughter. He had no say. He simply blinked once and said, “Okay.”

He carried her in one arm and a paper bag of lemon cookies in the other. They both wore glittery stickers on their cheeks. Also not his idea.

They lasted eight minutes into the dance.

Eight.

You were helping at the photo booth when your daughter came trotting up alone, curls bouncing, tutu fluffed.

She pointed one tiny hand behind her. “Papa’s sleeping again.”

You looked. Yep.

Xavier had found a beanbag chair in the corner of the auditorium, folded himself into it like a dead swan, and passed out, arms crossed, mouth slightly open, dreamless.

There were children climbing around him. He didn’t stir.

Your daughter pouted at him for the next half-hour.

She didn’t want to dance without her Papa.

So naturally, she dragged him by the hand onto the dance floor when he finally woke up.

He blinked, disoriented.

“You’re late,” she scolded.

Xavier bowed with a serious nod. “Forgive me. I was… unconscious.”

They slow-danced like two ghosts, her standing on his feet, his hands holding her up gently.

She leaned in and whispered, “You’re not allowed to sleep at my wedding.”

He froze.

“…I’ll set an alarm.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

“Do I look like a man who attends dances held in public school gyms?” Sylus asked, arms spread dramatically, already in a custom-tailored black-on-crimson suit.

You deadpanned. “You bought the school yesterday, Sylus. You own the gym.”

He smirked. “Precisely. That’s why I shouldn’t be seen in it.”

—

But the moment his little girl appeared at the top of the stairs in her feathery black tutu and matching crow pin, Sylus fell silent.

She looked exactly like him, silver curls, red eyes, smug little tilt to her chin.

He knelt and offered her his hand like she was royalty. “Shall we show these mortals what grace truly looks like?”

She nodded. “But I wanna do spinny moves.”

“…Fine.”

—

The second he stepped onto the glitter-covered gym floor, a dozen moms swooned. A dad visibly panicked.

Sylus ignored all of it, twirling her with theatrical flair while muttering to his earpiece, “Make sure no one posts footage. I will destroy the internet.”

She tugged his sleeve mid-dip. “Daddy. You’re scary.”

He blinked down at her. “Good.”

“Noooo,” she giggled. “You have to smile! Like this!”

She showed him, wide teeth, big cheeks, crinkle eyes.

He looked… unwell.

“…Horrifying,” he muttered. But he did it. Just for her.

—

By the third song, she spotted a little boy in suspenders dancing alone.

She marched up. “You dance with me now.”

The boy looked terrified. Sylus appeared behind him like a shadow. “She asked nicely.”

The child nodded frantically.

Sylus returned to your side, arms crossed, eye glowing faintly. “If he steps on her toes, I’ll ruin his lineage.”

You sipped your punch. “Normal dads just threaten curfews.”

He raised a brow. “She deserves a throne, not curfews.”

—

Later that night, she fell asleep in his arms in the back of the car.

Sylus stared down at her small, sparkly form. Quiet for once.

“…I’d tear down empires for her,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You leaned against him. “She just wants a plushie throne.”

He smirked. “Done.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

He arrived in full Farspace Fleet formal uniform.

Yes, the one with aiguillettes, gloves, boots, and tactical perfection.

Why? Because his daughter had looked up at him with those big purple eyes and said,

“Dress like a prince pilot general man.”

And so he did.

—

The gymnasium was decorated with streamers and tissue paper stars. Caleb entered like it was an off-world battleground, scanning exits, calculating fire code violations, and quietly making a note to replace the ceiling tiles with reinforced anti-quake material.

You leaned against the snack table and whispered, “Are you going to debrief the DJ too?”

He glanced at you.

“He’s already been briefed. Twice.”

—

His daughter, in a starry blue gown and tiara, stood on his polished boots with her arms up.

“Daddy,” she said very seriously, “tonight is our night but mommy has to dance with us too.”

He didn’t blink. “Understood, Commander.”

You sigh from across the room. “not even one day of peace for mommy”

She stuck her tongue out at you.

Caleb leaned in and whispered, “Operation: never exclude mommy.”

—

They twirled.

Caleb, dancing with perfect, stoic elegance, gently lifted her and spun her like she was a moon orbiting his gravity core.

The other parents were stunned.

Someone muttered, “Is that guy in the military or—?”

You didn’t correct them.

You did take a video.

—

Later, she napped on his shoulder while he stood guard by the door.

A teacher approached and asked if he wanted a picture printed for the school’s bulletin board.

He said flatly, “Only if it goes in the tactical archive as well.”

You snorted. “The what?”

He looked at you over her tiara. “The black vault. Where I store everything precious.”

You melted.

She snored softly.

Caleb didn’t move an inch.

166 notes · View notes

seospicybin · 8 months ago

Text

INCISION.

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: In a bustling hospital, you and Jeongin are two doctors trying to navigate the fine line between professionalism and desire. (11,2k words)

Author's note: I'm obviously not a doctor but I've done my research so apologies in advance if you find any inaccuracies. Nevertheless, pls enjoy my first medical au!

The sound of surgical instruments clinking fills the operating room as the soft hum of machines keeps a steady rhythm in the background. You focus on the task at hand, making precise movements as you and Jeongin work side by side.

The tension is palpable, though, even beneath the masks you both wear. The nurses and assistants know this is nothing new.

"You're not positioning the clamp right," Jeongin says, his tone clipped but quiet enough to stay professional.

You shoot him a sharp glance from behind your mask, but hold back from snapping. "I know what I’m doing," you mutter under your breath, trying to stay calm as the situation intensifies.

He glances at the monitor, his eyes flicking between the patient’s stats and your work. "The tissue is too delicate for that much pressure. You’ll cause excessive bleeding if you keep going like this."

You feel the heat rising, frustration bubbling up. "I've done this procedure before, and I know the limits. This is—"

"Stop," Jeongin interrupts, his voice firm but composed, "We’re not here to debate. Just adjust the clamp."

There’s a pause in the room. You don’t miss the way the others subtly glance at each other, wondering if they’ll witness another argument. Reluctantly, you adjust the clamp the way he suggested. Moments pass, and the bleeding stops.

Damn it. He’s right.

Jeongin doesn’t say anything further, just resumes the surgery without acknowledging the tension in the air. Your irritation simmers quietly as you continue, but it doesn’t escape you that he’s proved you wrong in front of the entire team.

It's excepted of you to storm off once the operation is finished, he scoff under his breath as you leave him behind to deal with the post-op responsibilities. He rolls his eyes, tugging off his mask and gloves as he makes his way to the waiting area.

As soon as he steps out, he’s met with anxious eyes—the patient’s family, clinging to each other for support, waiting for any news.

He clears his throat, slipping effortlessly into his professional persona. "The surgery went well," he announces, offering them a reassuring smile.

There’s an immediate sigh of relief from the family. The wife’s eyes well up with tears, her hands shaking as she clutches her husband’s.

"Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much," she whispers, voice cracking with emotion.

"The team will keep monitoring him closely, but everything went as expected," he replies with practiced humility. "Don't worry. Your loved one is in good hands."

The gratitude they shower him with is met with his usual calm professionalism, nodding politely as they thank him profusely. Despite the warmth of the moment, a part of his mind lingers on you, and the irritation bubbles back up.

When the surgery is over, and the patient is stable, you storm out of the operating room, ripping off your mask, gloves and surgical gown in one swift motion, crumpling them before tossing them into the bin with a sharp flick of your wrist.

Everyone around you barely spares a glance—it only takes one look to know you and Jeongin are at it again. Good. Let them know. That way, they’ll stay out of your way.

People might think you’re pissed at Jeongin for what happened in the OR, but the truth stings deeper than that—you’re mad because he was right. Again. And you hate that. You hate him, not for what he does, but for always proving you wrong. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you’ve been pissed at Jeongin for no real reason since the day you started working together.

You head straight to the locker room, blessedly empty since not many staff are working the night shift. The irritation gnawing at your insides pushes you to undress quickly, stepping into the shower.

The water hits your skin, warm and soothing, the perfect antidote to the storm brewing inside you. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, letting the water stream down your face. It’s a temporary release, but it helps. Slowly, the anger ebbs away, replaced by the calming rhythm of the water.

The creak of the locker room door breaks the silence, but you don’t pay it much mind. People come and go—it’s part of the routine. You brush your wet hair back, tilting your head again, letting the warmth wash over you.

Then the shower curtain pulls open, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

Jeongin steps in behind you, the heat of his body unmistakable as he presses against your back, his arms wrapping around your waist. Without hesitation, he pulls you close, his firm chest pressing into your skin, his breath hot against your neck. You can feel every inch of him, including the unmistakable hardness that pokes against your lower back.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does. Instead, he leans down, licking the droplets of water from your neck before placing soft kisses there, each one more deliberate than the last. You tilt your head to the side, giving him better access, and he takes it, his lips moving to capture yours in a deep, consuming kiss.

His hands trail down your sides, slow and teasing, until they reach your breasts. His fingers curl around them, squeezing lightly, and you glance down to see your nipples harden under his touch.

You bite back a moan, your body betraying you as your hand snakes its way behind you, finding his cock. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly at first, and then with more intent as he groans softly against your ear.

Jeongin responds in kind, his hand slipping between your legs, finding your most sensitive spot with ease. His fingertips circle your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through you, and the tension between you builds, the steam from the shower doing nothing to cool it down.

It’s not long before Jeongin can’t take it anymore. He spins you around, pinning you against the cold tiled wall, his body pressing urgently into yours. One of your legs hooks around his waist as he positions himself, his eyes focused as he pushes into you with a low growl. You whimper, feeling the stretch as he fills you completely, his hard length fitting perfectly inside you.

His lips part as he looks down, watching himself enter you before his gaze flicks back to your face. His hands grip the back of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your feet are off the floor. The new angle sends him deeper, and you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he thrusts into you, setting a steady, unrelenting pace.

Every movement, every grunt, every gasp is a channel for the frustration you’ve been carrying. You’ve been doing this with Jeongin for weeks now—fucking to release whatever tension builds between you during the day. It’s twisted, getting off on the mutual annoyance and frustration, but it works. For both of you.

You don’t want to admit that you’ve already cum once, and you’re not sure if he realizes, but your body is already building towards another. You clutch his shoulders harder as he speeds up, his hips snapping against yours as water cascades down his flushed skin.

He looks damn good, and you hate him for it. His dark hair slicked back, lips swollen and red from your kisses, his ears tinged pink. You hate that you can’t help but kiss him again, because despite everything, he’s good at this. He knows how to unravel you.

The contradicting emotions swirl inside you, and before you know it, you’re coming undone for the second time, your body tightening around him as you moan into his mouth. The intensity of it has you seeing stars, and Jeongin grunts as he continues thrusting into you, chasing his own release.

He pulls out just in time, his hot release spilling over your thigh, marking you in the process. Neither of you speaks, just panting against each other as you come down from the high.

No words are needed—there’s never a conversation about this. No being civil, no apologies. Just this. Just sex. Nothing more.

Jeongin stretches his neck, feeling the stiffness from working for eleven hours straight finally ease after his short nap. The break helped reset his brain, and after washing up and throwing on his coat, he heads to the breakroom to make himself a much-needed cup of coffee.

Inside the lounge, a handful of doctors and nurses are scattered around, grabbing a quick bite or drink between shifts. Jeongin grabs a mug, pouring coffee into it when a nurse glances his way.

"So, Dr. Yang, what do you think of our new director?" she asks casually.

Jeongin pauses mid-pour, eyebrows raised. “What new director?”

“The new hospital director," she repeats with a slight smile, pulling up a stool across the table from him. “You didn’t come to the announcement earlier?”

He shakes his head. "I was taking a nap."

"Ah, that explains it," she laughs softly, taking a sip of her own coffee.

Jeongin adds a teaspoon of sugar into his cup, curiosity starting to creep in. “So, who is he?”

"He’s the grandson of the chairman," she answers, setting her cup down.

Jeongin lets out a quiet sigh, stirring his coffee. "As expected."

"And," she leans in slightly, lowering her voice, "he’s one beautiful man."

He snorts, shaking his head and then jokingly says, "Be careful, or HR’s going to call you in for that.”

As much as the thought of a "beautiful" new director amuses him, the fact that he got the position through family connections—nepotism—already has Jeongin losing a bit of respect for him. Still, he pushes the thought aside as he finishes his coffee and heads off to do his patient rounds.

After checking on everyone under his care, Jeongin makes his way to his shared office, eager to update patient records in peace. As he steps inside, he spots you already there, seated at the desk. But what catches his attention isn’t just you—it’s the man sitting across from you, the two of you deep in conversation.

The moment Jeongin walks in, the talking stops, and both of you glance his way.

The man sitting across from you turns in his chair, revealing himself to Jeongin. He looks like he’s around the same age, but he's dressed in a sharply tailored pinstripe suit, hair slicked back like he walked straight out of a magazine.

"May I know who’s this?" the man asks, his voice low and smooth, the kind that commands attention.

"That’s Dr. Yang Jeongin, also a general surgeon," you introduce him politely. "We’re sharing the office."

"Ah..." The man lets out a soft, amused sound, standing up from his seat and extending his hand toward Jeongin. "I’m Felix. Nice to meet you."

Jeongin’s eyes flick over Felix briefly, sizing him up. After a beat, he takes Felix’s hand for a quick shake.

“Jeongin,” he says, offering a terse introduction.

The handshake doesn’t last long, but he catches Felix studying him for a moment longer than necessary. There's an air of appraisal in his gaze, one that makes Jeongin immediately wary.

"He’s the new hospital director," you mention, glancing between them.

Oh. So this is the infamous new director—the chairman’s grandson, the "beautiful man." Jeongin internally rolls his eyes but keeps his expression neutral.

"Nice to meet you, Director," Jeongin says, offering the obligatory respect he assumes Felix expects.

Felix waves his hand dismissively. “Just call me Felix, like your office mate here does.” He gestures toward you with a friendly smile.

Jeongin raises an eyebrow. You, of all people, referring to the new director by his first name? The same you who’s earned the nickname "Ice Princess" because you keep a cold expression, even for patients?

Felix notices the curious look in Jeongin’s eyes and quickly adds, "We went to the same university, but unlike her, I didn’t finish my medical studies."

"But you now you’re directing the hospital I work in," You chime in playfully.

Felix chuckles, clearly enjoying the banter. "Anyway, we’re going for lunch. Care to join us?"

Jeongin glances at you. There’s an ease in your body language that makes it clear you’re comfortable around Felix—more comfortable than Jeongin has ever seen you, especially in his presence. Deciding not to intrude, Jeongin shakes his head.

"I’ve got to update some patient records," he says, keeping his tone light.

Felix nods, flashing him a quick smile. "No problem. Maybe next time."

With that, the two of you gather your things and leave the office together, leaving Jeongin alone. He watches the door close behind you, his mind swirling with thoughts.

So, not only is Felix the hospital director thanks to his family connections, but he’s also an old friend of yours—and he must admit that he's indeed a "beautiful man."

Jeongin wouldn’t call it luck that no one in the hospital has caught the two of you yet. It’s more about timing—and the fact that people know better than to hang around when you’re both in the same room. They all think it’s just the constant tension, the arguing. If only they knew what happens when the doors are closed.

However, Jeongin doesn’t take their obliviousness for granted.

When the urge strikes, he doesn’t risk anything at work. He knows exactly where to go. You both live in the same apartment building, which makes things much easier.

Now, after a grueling seventeen-hour shift, he stands outside your door, balancing a bag of food in one hand as he presses the doorbell.

A few moments later, the door swings open. There you are, dressed in a simple nightdress, your hair slightly tousled, as if you’ve just crawled out of bed. The soft fabric clings to your figure, and he knows right away that the food isn’t what this visit is really about.

“Food,” he says, holding up the bag as if it’s some peace offering.

You give him a look that says you’re not fooled. You know exactly why he’s here, and it’s not for a meal.

"Come in," you say, stepping aside to let him enter.

Jeongin strides in with the ease of someone familiar with the space. It’s not his first time here. He knows where everything is, where your bedroom is—everything. You gesture toward the dining table, where an open book and laptop suggest you’ve been studying a procedure for an upcoming surgery.

“You can put it there,” you say, nodding toward the table.

He sets the bag down, but his mind is already elsewhere. His gaze turns back to you, and he finds you standing in the doorway of your bedroom, leaning against the frame with a calm, collected air.

“We better make it quick,” you say, voice steady, “I have to be back at the hospital by four.”

Jeongin glances at his watch. There’s time. More than enough to do a few things. Without another word, he follows you into the bedroom. His eyes track your hands as they reach for the hem of your nightdress, and in one fluid motion, you pull it over your head and let it drop to the floor.

You stand there, nearly bare, save for the low-cut white underwear that clings to your hips. The silky fabric leaves little to the imagination, hugging the curves he knows all too well. He watches the way your body moves as you climb onto the bed, the way your legs cross beneath you as you sit there, waiting.

Your gaze is expectant, eyes smoldering as they meet his. You don’t need to say anything—the look is enough. Jeongin knows what’s required of him.

Without hesitation, he begins to undress. One item after another is discarded until there’s nothing between the two of you. He stands before you, unashamed, fully aware of your eyes roving over his body, taking in every inch.

You don’t hide your interest. Your eyes travel down his chest, lingering for a moment before settling lower. It’s clear in the way you’re watching him that you like what you see, and Jeongin feels the tension building, the air thick with unspoken desire.

This—what you have—is simple. It’s physical. You both know what to expect, and right now, there’s nothing more on either of your minds than satisfying the need you both feel.

Jeongin climbs onto the bed, crawling over you with a swift urgency that sends your head sinking into the pillow. His lips crash into yours in a deep kiss, tongues tangling as the tension between you shifts, blending desire with need. His hands, quick and sure, glide down your body, finding the heat between your legs.

His dainty fingers trace your wetness with a familiar intensity—gentle yet deliberate, coaxing every reaction he knows so well. But when his touch isn’t enough, he moves lower, his mouth replacing his fingers, tongue stroking along your slit before teasing your entrance. The wet warmth of his mouth, the firm pressure of his tongue, sends shivers up your spine.

He slips one arm beneath you, lifting your hips from the bed to give him the angle he needs. His mouth moves deeper, his tongue diving in as he devours you, the sound of your breathless moans fueling his efforts.

It doesn’t take long before you’re falling apart against his mouth, your release coating his tongue, and he revels in the taste of his triumph.

Off the bed, you clash. Your egos, your tempers—always fighting, always biting. But here, now, everything is fair game. No power struggles, just raw, shared pleasure.

Without wasting a second, you shift, getting on all fours, and take him into your mouth, returning the favor. Jeongin groans as you work him with expert ease, not stopping until you taste him—his release filling your mouth as he lets out a low, guttural sound, his body trembling under your touch.

It doesn’t end there.

The final round comes quick, an unspoken understanding between you. You lie on your stomach, and he positions himself over you, sliding into you from behind with relentless thrusts. You cross your legs, creating an extra tightness around him, and it drives him mad.

This is Jeongin’s favorite part. The way your mouth parts with nothing but moans spilling out, no words to bite at him, no comebacks to cut him down—just your breathless sounds of pleasure, your hands fisting the sheets as he takes you deeper, harder.

It’s all because of him, and he watches you, mesmerized by the way you slowly fall apart under him. He likes you like this. Fucked out of your mind, nothing left but the pleasure he gives you.

It’s almost too much, the sight of you, the tight heat surrounding him. It pushes him closer to his edge. His thrusts grow faster, more erratic as he chases his high, and you’re right there with him, your body trembling beneath his as you reach for your own release.

You both come undone at nearly the same time, Jeongin’s head falling into the crook of your neck as he breathes heavily, his lips pressing against your damp skin. He licks a stray droplet of sweat before planting a soft kiss on your neck.

Maybe, after all, hate and desire aren’t so different. Whatever it is that fuels your tension off the bed arouses him just as much on it.

Jeongin stirs, sensing the sunlight filtering through the blinds. His eyes flutter open, and for a second, he’s disoriented—until he realizes he’s still at your place. He hadn’t meant to stay the night. Turning his head, he sees your side of the bed empty, a small reminder that you had left early for work, as you’d mentioned last night.

He should be grateful that he doesn’t have to deal with the awkward morning after—small talk, avoiding eye contact—but something nags at him. Maybe it's the quietness of your absence, a hollow feeling he can’t quite place.

Jeongin gets up, slipping on his clothes and heading to the living room to grab his bag. He notices your books and laptop still scattered across the dining table, where you'd been working last night. But the food he brought is gone, an empty container in its place.

Later that day, he enters the shared office at the hospital, finding you lying on the sofa, fast asleep, the fatigue evident in the way your body is curled up under a blanket that drapes down the floor.

He knows you’ve had a long morning with a surgery, maybe even more work after that so as a professional courtesy, he quietly adjusts the blanket over your sleeping form, making sure you’re comfortable before moving silently to his desk.

For a while, he successfully works in peace, checking emails and looking over his schedule without waking you. But the silence shatters when the door suddenly swings open.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Felix says, freezing when he sees you stirring awake. “I didn’t know you were—”

“It’s okay,” you croak, rubbing your eyes and sitting up, still drowsy. “It’s time for me to wake up anyway.”

Felix walks in, flashing a smile at Jeongin when he walks past his desk. He sits on your office chair and quickly offer you one of the drinks with a sheepish smile.

“I brought us food,” he announces, setting a bag down on the table. You take the coffee with a grateful gasp, sipping it as though it's bringing you back to life.

“Feeling better already?” Felix teases, watching as you take another long sip.

You nod with a small smile. “Much better.”

Felix turns to Jeongin, a friendly smile on his face. “Dr. Yang, please join us. I brought enough for the three of us.”

Jeongin glances at you, sensing the tension, knowing how you both are. He can see you’re not exactly eager for his company, and he has work waiting for him.

With a thin, polite smile, he declines. “I’m sorry, but I have to check on my patients.”

“Okay,” Felix says, nodding in understanding.

But just as Jeongin thinks the conversation is over, Felix calls back with a playful grin, “Next time, you don’t get to refuse.”

Jeongin’s lips twitch into a half-smile, but as he walks out, he can’t help but glance back at you, sitting with Felix, looking more comfortable with him than Jeongin’s seen you in a long time.

Jeongin's eyes follow you across the room as you chat with Felix, your conversation too friendly for his liking. The two of you have been growing closer with each passing day, and it’s starting to grate on his nerves. He knows what everyone else is thinking—that he's jealous because you're spending time with the new hospital director. But it's deeper than that. He isn’t just annoyed at Felix; it’s you, too. He doesn't like seeing you laughing and being comfortable with someone who isn't him.

Jeongin tries to shake it off, throwing himself into his work, but it's impossible to ignore how often Felix finds a way to be around you. When Felix touches your arm casually during a conversation, something snaps inside Jeongin.

Later that day, the two of you are assigned to the same case, but the tension is palpable. You're standing on opposite sides of the patient’s bed, discussing the best treatment option when the argument starts.

"I think we need to go with a more conservative approach," you insist, your voice sharp, clearly not in the mood to back down.

Jeongin scoffs, shaking his head. "Conservative? This is an emergency. We don’t have time to wait around!"

"And rushing into surgery without considering alternatives could be reckless. Are you even thinking this through?" You argue, insisting that he thinks all these options through.

The nurses and doctors in the room glance at each other, exchanging awkward looks. They’re used to seeing the two of you argue, but today feels different. The tension is thicker, and no one dares intervene.

The argument escalates as you both exit the emergency room, the heated words continuing to fly between you. Neither of you backs down until you're alone in a narrow hallway near the storage closets.

"You never listen to anyone, do you?" you snap, your voice low and laced with frustration.

"And you never stop acting like you’re always right," Jeongin retorts, stepping closer to you, his eyes burning with unspoken frustration—frustration that’s been building not just over the patient but everything between the two of you.

Without thinking, the two of you back into the nearest closet. The door closes behind you, and before you can say another word, Jeongin pulls you to him. The next second, his lips are on yours, the argument forgotten as the two of you collide in a desperate, breathless kiss.

The cramped space of the closet doesn’t stop either of you from tearing into each other. His hands are already under your coat, fingers brushing your skin, while you tug at his scrubs, wanting more.

It's a dangerous game you're playing—this secret, reckless connection between the two of you—but right now, it’s the only thing that makes sense. You don’t need words. You both know how this ends.

Jeongin’s hands grip your hips tightly, his thrusts deep and relentless, but there’s something off. The usual fire between you two, the mix of anger and lust that always brings you back to each other, is there, but it feels different—colder, harsher.

You try to steady your breath, but Jeongin’s movements are growing more erratic. It’s almost as if he’s punishing you, though you don’t know why.

Then, suddenly, he pulls back just slightly, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are darker than usual, and there’s something new in them—a flicker of doubt, maybe even insecurity.

“You’ve been... busy lately,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “Not around much. Guess you’re spending time with the director now, huh?”

The question stuns you for a second. His tone is cool, but there’s an edge to it. Jeongin never talks like this, not when you’re in bed—or, well, in a closet like now. Heck! He doesn't even talk at all.

“What?” you manage to say, confused and still trying to catch your breath.

He lets out a small, sharp laugh, but it feels wrong—forced. “Just saying. You’ve been with him a lot lately.”

His thrusts slow, almost like he’s making a point, and it’s more uncomfortable than pleasurable now. “Guess you’ve found someone else to keep you company.”

The words hit harder than his body does, and it’s not the physical tension that bothers you—it’s his tone, his insinuations.

You push against his chest, trying to get him to stop, to look at you properly, “What are you trying to say?" you ask, more firmly now.

A bitter scoff escaping his lips. “Sure. You’re just spending all that extra time with him for fun, right?”

The accusation is clear now. He’s not just upset; he sounds like he's... jealous, even if he won’t admit it outright. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, but it doesn’t feel good anymore. It feels like he’s trying to prove something—to himself or to you, you’re not sure.

“I’m not sleeping with him if that's what you're asking,” you say, pushing back again, harder this time. You need him to hear you, to actually listen.

For a moment, he freezes. His gaze locks with yours, and you can see the conflict in his eyes. He wants to believe you, but the jealousy still lingers in his expression, even as his grip softens slightly. He lowers his gaze, shaking his head as if he’s trying to shake off whatever is gnawing at him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. “You do what you want.”

But you can feel it—it does matter to him. He just won’t admit it. The tension in his body tells you more than his words ever could.

The air between you and Jeongin hangs thick with unspoken words, tension tightening every second. His eyes avoid yours, and you're just about to try and say something—anything to cut through this haze—when a shrill ring echoes from your coat pocket.

The sound slices through the moment, making both of you freeze. Your phone. You quickly reach for it, glancing at the screen as you slip out of Jeongin’s grip. The caller ID shows the hospital’s emergency line. Instinct takes over.

“Hello?” you answer, already feeling the shift from personal to professional.

The voice on the other end is urgent. “Doctor, we’ve got a mass casualty event coming in. Multiple vehicle collision on the highway—victims en route. We need you in the ER as soon as possible.”

You swallow, pushing the knot of emotions down. "I’ll be there in five."

Hanging up, you slide the phone back into your coat pocket and look at Jeongin, whose expression has already shifted into the same clinical mask. His jaw tightens slightly, but his eyes don’t meet yours. He knows what the call means.

“We have to go,” you say, breaking the silence. You grab your coat, quickly throwing it on.

Jeongin nods, his face unreadable now. “Yeah. I figured.”

There’s a moment where neither of you moves, standing in the cramped closet, the weight of unfinished business hanging between you. But the urgency of the call pushes it all aside. You decide to be the first to leave, stepping toward the door, pausing briefly, almost waiting for him to say something. Maybe to clear the air or soften whatever this was.

But Jeongin stays silent.

“I’ll see you in the ER,” you say, pulling the door open and stepping out into the hall.

The emergency room has quieted significantly after the initial rush, the chaos giving way to a somber stillness.

You check on the elderly couple occupying one of the beds in the ER. The husband is lying on the bed, looking weak but stable, while his wife holds his hand, worry etched on her face.

"Are you still having difficulty breathing?" you ask with a polite smile.

"It's gotten a lot better now," he answers, giving a weak smile.

"That’s good to hear," you reply, glancing at the monitor for his health status.

"Oh, how things turned out," he says with a sigh, "we were just on our way to our little cabin to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary."

You can’t help but smile at the shared information. "You've been married for forty years?"

"Yes," he confirms, his smile brightening his pale face.

"Stop it," his wife gently scolds, patting his arm for oversharing. "Just let the doctor do her job."

You sheepishly smile, pulling your stethoscope around your neck. "Take a deep breath for me," you instruct.

You place the stethoscope against his chest, listening carefully. His breathing sounds better, more stable. Still, you decide it’s best to put more oxygen in his system.

"Let’s get you some more oxygen through respiratory treatment," you suggest.

With him settled, you turn your attention to his wife. "How about you? Are you hurt? Are you experiencing any pain?"

"No, no," she says, shaking her head. "But my heart is beating so fast."

"May I have your hand?" you ask, gently taking it to check her pulse. It’s elevated, her heart rate quick and uneven.

"You do have a rapid pulse," you confirm, handing her back her hand. "Do you feel any heaviness in your chest or pain anywhere else?"

She waves you off with a shy smile. "I think it’s just shock. Please, focus on my husband."

You warn her nonetheless. "Please tell me if you start feeling anything unusual."

"Of course. Thank you, doctor," she says gratefully, echoed by her husband.

You leave them to rest, taking one last glance at them. The wife rests her head on her husband’s arm, their hands still intertwined. It’s a sweet sight, and for a moment, it feels like everything might be okay. But that moment doesn’t last long.

A nurse calls out to you. "Doctor, patient on bed eight went into arrest."

Without hesitation, you dash to the bed, assuming it’s the husband. But when you get there, it’s his wife—unresponsive, her husband frantically calling her name.

"Doctor, please, she’s not breathing," he cries, his voice trembling.

You act fast, checking her pulse—weak, barely there. "No pulse, unresponsive. I need her on a bed, now!" you shout, nurses rushing to help move her.

As soon as she’s laid on the bed, you rip open her shirt, connecting her to the monitor. "Prepare for intubation," you order, before jumping onto the bed to start chest compressions.

The room is tense as you pump her chest, determined to bring her back. "Get the defibrillator, now!" you yell between compressions, sweat beginning to bead on your forehead.

But then, the husband’s voice cuts through the urgency. "Doctor, stop!"

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. You keep pressing down on her chest, counting in your head, willing her heart to start again.

But his voice grows louder. "Doctor! Please, stop!"

"What?" You accidentally snap and looking at him in disbelief. You’re trying to save her—why would he want you to stop?

He steps closer, his face pale with grief. "We decided to do it. We signed the papers. A DNR. We don’t want resuscitation."

A Do Not Resuscitate order. As a doctor, you know what it means and you should respect the patient’s wish but you can't bring yourself to do it. You glance at the nurses, who nod in understanding. You should stop, but everything in you screams to keep trying, to save her.

"Sir, please—" you begin, your voice shaking, refusing to stop. Refusing to fail.

"It’s okay," he whispers, placing a hand on yours. "It’s what she wanted."

With a heavy sigh, you stop the compressions and step down from the bed. As soon as you let go, the monitor flatlines, the piercing sound filling the somber stillness in the room.

The husband pulls a chair next to her bed, taking her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Happy anniversary, my love," he whispers.

You stand there, frozen, tears welling in your eyes. You feel tired and angry and... helpless.

A nurse gently touches your elbow and softly mutters, "Doctor, we need to call it."

You glance at the digital clock on the wall, aware of the time but you can't bring yourself to say it. After a while, you manage to finally announce with a trembling voice, "Time of death: 22:02 p.m."

The moment the words leave your lips, you turn and walk out of the ER, needing air, needing space. You find your way to the balcony, the cold night air hitting your face as you pace back and forth, trying to process everything. The helplessness, the failure—it all crashes down on you.

Suddenly, you feel a hand on your shoulder. Jeongin turns you around and pulls you into his arms, and that’s when you break. You sob into his chest, the weight of everything spilling out as he holds you tightly.

"It’s okay," he murmurs softly, his hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing circles on your back. "You’re okay."

Gosh! You want to believe him, but it never feels okay. Death never feels okay.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, breaking the moment. You pull away from Jeongin, checking the screen. It’s a call for work. You reject it, wiping your tears away, trying to compose yourself.

"I have to get back," you croak, your voice barely steady.

Jeongin nods, watching as you force yourself to wipe your cheeks and steel yourself for the rest of the night. You have to keep going, no matter how much it hurts. With one last deep breath, you head back inside, ready to face whatever comes next.

It’s an exceptionally peaceful afternoon at the ER. Jeongin leans on the nurse station, typing away at the computer as he reviews his patient's health records. In the distance, he catches sight of you speaking to one of the patients.

"I checked your blood test, and it came out well," you announce to the elderly woman lying in the bed.

"Oh, what a relief!" The lady clasps her chest, the worry on her face melting away in a second.

"Since there's nothing you need to worry about, you can go home tonight," you add with a small smile.

"Thank you, doctor!" The lady beams at you, gratitude in her wide grin.

"The nurse will come by shortly to remove the IV and provide you with your prescription," you inform her before starting to step away.

But then, the lady grabs your hand unexpectedly. "Doctor, you’re not married, are you?" she asks, eyes twinkling with a mischievous curiosity.

Jeongin raises an eyebrow, watching your expression shift into that familiar, polite awkwardness.

You give a small, tight-lipped smile. "No, I’m not."

"My son here..." she pats her son’s shoulder, clearly proud, "he’s still single too. I think the two of you would—"

"Mom!" The son groans, his face flushing red as he glares at his mother.

"What? I think she’s the same age as you," she insists, smiling brightly at you, undeterred.

"You can’t just do that," the son mutters in embarrassment.

"He works at a start-up company," the woman continues, trying to sell her son like a prized item. "He makes—"

"Doctor, you can ignore my mother," the son quickly interjects, his eyes awkwardly avoiding yours. "But thank you for your help."

You offer a polite nod, trying not to laugh at the awkwardness. "Please take care of yourself, ma'am," you say gently, making a graceful exit.

As you walk back to the nurse station, you take the seat next to Jeongin to input some notes into the system. You sign the discharge form and tuck the pen back into your coat pocket.

"I think that's it. I’m done for the day," you mention.

For a second, Jeongin thinks you're talking to him, but then you address the nurses gathered nearby.

"Have a great night, everyone," you say before leaving the station with your hands deep in your coat pockets.

Jeongin watches you leave, something unsettling nagging at him. He can't quite place it. Maybe it's the conversation from earlier in the storage closet that lingers in the back of his mind. Or maybe it’s the strange peace that’s settled between the two of you today, the lack of bickering or tension. It feels... off.

The two of you rarely talk about anything beyond work. You’ve both learned how to be civil by not saying much at all. But tonight, Jeongin senses there’s more to it, though he brushes the thought away, convincing himself it’s best to let things stay as they are.

Later, as he heads to the office to change, he finds you already there, seated on the sofa and scrolling through your phone. You’ve changed out of your scrubs and into casual clothes, but you glance up when you hear him enter.

"Aren’t you going home?" Jeongin asks casually as he drops into his chair.

"I was waiting for you," you respond simply.

Something stirs in his chest, but he keeps his face neutral. "Why?"

"I figured we could have dinner together," you reply, as if it’s no big deal—like it’s not the first time you’ve ever asked him for something beyond work.

Jeongin raises a brow, suspicion lacing his tone. "What’s the occasion?"

"Why? We can’t have dinner together?" You challenge him, deflecting his question.

Jeongin sees this as an opening to address the unresolved tension between you, but he plays it cool, pretending to think over your offer just to make you wait.

"Okay," he finally agrees.

You stand, grabbing your bag from your desk. "I’ll be waiting in my car," you say, already moving toward the door, the usual privacy shield between the two of you slipping back into place.

Jeongin watches you leave, a faint smile tugging at his lips. There you are—the guarded, reserved you he knows so well, unwilling to be seen with him in any context outside of work. But there’s something about it that makes him smile, a sign that maybe, just maybe, you're starting to warm up to him after all.

The silence in the car is almost unbearable. Jeongin taps his fingers lightly against his knee, trying to think of something—anything—to say. You’re the one driving, which leaves him with nothing to do but sit and awkwardly glance out the window. Small talk has never been his strong suit, and right now, it feels like the weight of everything unsaid between you is pressing down on him.

"So... dinner, huh?" Jeongin mumbles, feeling awkward as he tries to break the quiet.

"Yeah." Your response is short, almost too casual, but you don’t elaborate.

Jeongin notices you haven’t mentioned where the idea for dinner came from. Not that he minds—it’s just… unexpected. He rests an arm against the window as he glances out at the city lights passing by.

There’s a weight in his chest he hasn’t quite figured out. He wonders if it’s because of the conversation you two didn’t finish in the closet or the fact that things between you feel a little off lately.

"So… where did you find this place?" he asks, trying to push past the awkwardness. He doesn’t even know what restaurant you’re heading to, but he feels like he should say something else.

"A friend recommended it," you reply, again leaving little room for more conversation.

Jeongin shifts in his seat, feeling every second stretch out. He’s not used to this—the awkwardness between you. There was a time when your conversations flowed effortlessly, even if they were mostly about work. Now, every word feels like it has a double meaning, every pause filled with things neither of you are willing to say.

When you finally pull up to the restaurant, Jeongin is relieved to have something else to focus on. He watches as you park the car, then unbuckle his seatbelt and step out into the cool evening air. He follows you inside, glancing around the cozy, dimly lit space.

The atmosphere is intimate, not exactly what he was expecting, but maybe this could work. Maybe it’s the kind of setting where you could finally talk. But as soon as you turn the corner toward your reserved table, Jeongin feels his stomach drop.

Felix is already there. He’s seated at the table, smiling brightly like this is completely normal, like he’s supposed to be there.

Jeongin’s steps falter for a moment, shock hitting him first, followed by a wave of disappointment that sinks deeper than he wants to admit. He thought this dinner would be just the two of you.

"Hey!" Felix greets, waving both of you over. His energy is infectious, but it feels entirely misplaced in this moment. "Glad you two could make it!"

Jeongin’s gaze flickers to you, waiting for an explanation. Did you know Felix would be here? Of course you did. The pieces click into place, and disappointment creeps in. You didn’t tell him because you knew he wouldn’t have come if you did. He tries not to let it show, but it stings. He thought it’d just be the two of you tonight, that maybe you’d get a chance to talk.

"You didn’t say Felix invited us," Jeongin says quietly, trying to keep his tone neutral, though a flicker of something bitter curls inside him.

You glance at him, then shrug lightly. "Figured you wouldn’t come if I told you."

He clenches his jaw, forcing a small, tight smile. You’re right. He wouldn’t have. But now that he’s here, it feels like everything he was hoping to get out of this dinner has been thrown off course.

Felix beams at both of you, completely unaware of the tension settling between you and Jeongin. "Come on, sit down! I already ordered drinks."

Jeongin slides into his seat, feeling more deflated than before. Instead of a quiet dinner, where maybe—just maybe—he could have figured out what’s been going on between you two, he now has Felix sitting across from him. He can’t even be mad at Felix; it’s not his fault. But the disappointment still weighs heavy, gnawing at the back of his mind.

"So," Felix starts, completely oblivious, "what should we order for dinner?"

Jeongin feels the weight of being the third wheel settle over him like a suffocating blanket as the dinner progresses.

Felix, sitting across from him, effortlessly commands your attention. You both laugh about some story from work, and Jeongin just sits there, chewing absentmindedly on his food, nodding when needed but otherwise silent.

It’s not like he hates Felix—not even close. But tonight, with the way things are playing out, he can’t help feeling a little out of place.

Felix turns to Jeongin, probably noticing his silence, and asks, “So, Jeongin, how’ve things been at the hospital? Busy?”

Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. He doesn’t particularly feel like talking, so he mutters, “Yeah, busy.”

Felix waits a beat, expecting more, but when Jeongin doesn’t continue, Felix’s gaze flickers to you as if asking for help. You don’t miss a beat, jumping in seamlessly.

"He’s been pulling back-to-back shifts," you explain, glancing at Jeongin as you speak. "Somehow still manages to stay sharp during surgeries. We were just handling a rough case earlier, actually."

Jeongin freezes, surprised by how easily you talk about his work. You even mention the kind of stuff he doesn’t usually share, not because he’s hiding it, but because he didn’t think you’d notice. But you do.

It’s a strange feeling—being known like this. He tries to brush it off, but it stays with him, lingering in his chest.

Felix nods along, smiling warmly. "That’s impressive. I’ve heard you’re pretty sharp in the OR."

Jeongin shrugs, keeping his reply short again. "Just doing my job."

Once more, the conversation starts slipping away from him, with you and Felix talking like old friends. Jeongin isn’t sure if it’s because Felix is easy to talk to, or if it’s just that the two of you seem to have this natural flow. Either way, Jeongin feels more like a spectator than a participant.

“Jeongin, you’re pretty athletic too, right?” Felix asks after a pause, trying to loop him back into the conversation.

“Yeah. A bit,” Jeongin answers, glancing at his plate. He’s tempted to shut down completely, but something in the way Felix keeps trying to engage him makes him feel slightly guilty.

Still, it’s hard to focus when Felix’s attention keeps drifting back to you. Every joke, every story feels like another reminder of how well you and Felix click. And that doesn’t sit well with him.

You’re both laughing at something Felix said, and Jeongin’s jaw clenches ever so slightly. He’s tempted—so tempted—to say something. Maybe drop a line about how you and Felix don’t match, or make some sarcastic comment about Felix’s efforts to befriend him. But he holds back. It wouldn’t be right.

Just as Jeongin feels the tension boiling in his chest, your phone buzzes on the table. You glance at the screen, your brows furrowing.

“Sorry, I need to take this,” you say, standing up and excusing yourself. "I’ll be back in a minute."

Jeongin watches you leave, his thoughts racing. Alone with Felix, he feels exposed. There’s no buffer now, and he’s not sure if he can handle more forced conversation.

Felix, still smiling, leans back in his chair. “So... the two of you. What’s the story there?” His tone is casual, but Jeongin can sense there’s more to the question.

Jeongin’s grip on his fork tightens, and for a second, he considers telling Felix exactly how he feels. About the tension, the confusion, the frustration of trying to figure out what the hell is going on between the two of you. But instead, he stays silent.

Felix chuckles lightly, mistaking Jeongin’s silence for shyness. “I can see that the two of you are close.”

Jeongin finally meets Felix’s eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line. He’s tempted to say something—anything—to throw Felix off.

Maybe something along the lines of, *You two don’t even look good together*. But he knows it’s pointless. He doesn’t even know what kind of relationship *he* has with you, let alone how you and Felix fit into the picture.

Before Jeongin can say anything, you come back to the table, phone still in hand, looking a little flustered.

“I’ve got to head back to the hospital,” you announce, already grabbing your things. “Emergency surgery. I’m really sorry.”

Felix waves it off with a grin. “Don’t worry about it. Go save some lives.”

Jeongin’s gaze flickers to you, a sudden pang of disappointment hitting him. Not because you’re leaving, but because he thought this dinner—awkward as it was—might have been a chance to get somewhere.

You shoot Jeongin an apologetic look. "Please, continue with the dinner!"

Before he can respond, you’re already gone, rushing out of the restaurant and leaving him alone with Felix.

Since Jeongin rode with you earlier, and Felix insisted on giving him a lift home, Jeongin finds himself with no other option but to accept the offer. He slides into the passenger seat, the quiet hum of the car engine filling the space.

"So, where do you live?" Felix asks, his deep voice carrying easily in the enclosed space.

"Uh... actually, can you drop me off at the hospital? I need to get my car," he replies, keeping his tone polite. After all, Felix is the director of the hospital, and it’s best to maintain a sense of professionalism.

Felix gives him a kind smile, his eyes briefly flicking from the road to Jeongin. "It’s fine, I can drive you home. You can always pick up your car tomorrow."

Jeongin’s jaw tightens slightly. Something about Felix always makes it hard to refuse, no matter how much Jeongin wants to. "It’s just that I... I need to grab something from my car," he lies, feeling the tension creep up his spine.

Felix eyes him for a moment, then nods slowly. "Alright. I’ll take you to the hospital."

They drive in relative silence, the weight of Jeongin’s unease hanging between them. When they finally reach the hospital entrance, Jeongin quickly unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door.

"Thanks again. For the dinner... and the ride," Jeongin says, forcing a smile as he steps out.

Felix waves it off with a warm smile of his own. "Please, don’t mention it."

That smile, so genuine, makes Jeongin feel worse for how bitter he had been during dinner. He watches as Felix’s car pulls away, the taillights fading into the distance before he turns and heads inside.

At the nurse’s station, Jeongin gathers the information he needs, quietly asking for your whereabouts. As soon as he hears you're in the operating room, he makes his way to the observational deck of OR 2.

From behind the glass, Jeongin watches you work. You're in the middle of a liver transplant, your movements precise, focused, and deliberate. It's clear that your approach to surgery differs from his. While Jeongin relies on his instincts, going with his gut and adjusting as the situation unfolds, you’re methodical—each step planned and calculated, every possible complication considered before it even happens.

Yet, despite these differences, Jeongin knows that you share the same ultimate goal: saving lives. It’s what both of you swore to do when you took the Hippocratic oath. And even though your methods diverge, your dedication is something Jeongin has always admired.

Looking down from the observational deck, Jeongin enjoys watching you like this—in your element, calm and collected. Here, in the operating room, it’s like you belong, completely immersed in the task at hand, leaving no room for error.

He watches as you instruct your team, your focus unwavering, and he feels a pang in his chest. He likes that you give everything to your work, pouring yourself into every surgery as if it’s the only thing that matters in the world. But he hates how you don’t give yourself that same care, how you don’t seem to see just how incredible you are, how all the lives you've saved are a testament to your brilliance.

Jeongin leans back, his arms crossed over his chest, a quiet smile playing on his lips. He likes that he knows someone as dedicated as you, someone who can match him in passion and skill. But more than that, he likes you. And that’s something he’s been trying to come to terms with for a while now.

It’s always a relief to know the operation went well, but there’s nothing quite like the satisfaction of seeing it go exactly as you anticipated. You peel off your gloves, discard the mask, and shed the surgical scrubs, taking a moment to make yourself presentable before facing the patient’s family. They’re waiting for you, their eyes full of worry and hope.

"The operation went well," you tell them immediately, knowing it’s what they need to hear most.

One of them nearly buckles with relief, her knees giving way as she clutches her chest. "Oh, goodness..."

You keep your tone calm but clear as you explain further, "We’ll be monitoring closely to ensure the body accepts the transplant, but so far, everything looks good."

"Thank you so much, doctor!" another family member exclaims, gripping your hand tightly, her gratitude palpable.

"You shouldn’t thank me. You should be thanking the donor." you say gently, reminding them of where their gratefulness should be delivered to.

With that, you excuse yourself and head back inside, the echoes of their thanks fading behind you. Once you reach the locker room, you allow yourself a moment to decompress. Sitting on the bench, you let your body relax, the weight of the day finally starting to lift from your shoulders.

After taking the time to unwind, you wash up and change into fresh scrubs. It’s late, too late to head home, so you decide to spend the night in your office.

When you enter, you’re surprised to find Jeongin sitting on the sofa. The room is dim, the only light coming from the small lamp on your desk. He’s sitting there quietly, his face partially hidden in the shadows.

"Why are you here?" you ask as you move closer and sit down beside him on the couch.

"I just want to," he replies, his tone casual, as if that’s all the explanation you need. Typical Jeongin.

You open a bottle of water and take a long sip, letting the silence stretch for a moment.

"How was the rest of the dinner?" you ask, trying to fill the quiet.

"It was alright," he says vaguely, and it’s just like him to be frustratingly noncommittal. It bothers you a little, but you’ve grown used to it by now.

"He likes you, you know," you say, wanting to clear up any misunderstanding about the dinner with Felix.

Jeongin frowns, clearly confused. "Who?"

"Felix," you answer, watching his expression carefully.

"If he likes me, he should raise my salary and give me a new car," Jeongin jokes, and you can’t help but laugh at his obliviousness. He doesn’t see the difference between being someone’s favorite colleague and being their romantic interest.

You take another sip of water, then put the cap back on the bottle and set it aside. "He likes you as in he wants to date you."

That seems to catch him off guard. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, clearly trying to process the information.

"But I don’t like him," he says after a long pause, his voice colder than you expect.

"Why?" you ask, turning to look at him. "He’s a great guy."

His eyes meet yours in the dim light, dark and unreadable. He’s quiet for a moment, and then, in a low voice, he says, "Because he’s not you."

The words hit you harder than you expect, lingering in the quiet room like a confession you weren’t prepared to hear.

Jeongin doesn’t know whether to feel relieved that Felix wasn’t interested in you or uneasy at the idea that Felix wants to date him. Either way, the misunderstanding settles heavily on him, and now that everything is clear, it feels like the right time to speak his truth. He knows it could change things between you, but he’s never been one to hold back when something matters.

"But I don’t like him," Jeongin states, his voice firm, filled with certainty.

"Why? He’s a great guy," you reply, seemingly unaware of the tension in his eyes, the kind of tension that only exists when someone is holding something back.

"Because he’s not you," he finally reveals, the words falling from his lips before he has a chance to second-guess them.

Your eyes lock with his, and instead of brushing it off or retreating, you hold his gaze, searching. You’re looking for any hint that he’s just toying with you, but there’s nothing in his eyes except sincerity.

"I like you," Jeongin admits, his voice softer now, vulnerable. He keeps his eyes on you, giving you the chance to look right into him, to see that he means every word.

"And what are you going to do about it?" you challenge, your voice edged with doubt. "We’re not exactly what people call a match made in heaven."

You laugh, but it’s a bitter sound as you add, "a match made in hell more like."

Jeongin shakes his head, brushing away your cynicism like it doesn’t matter to him in the slightest.

"I don’t care what people think," he says, his voice filled with the quiet confidence that defines him. He never has cared about others' opinions, especially not now, when something real is at stake.

Before you can say anything else, before you can retreat back into doubt or second-guess his intentions, he cups your face in his hand and pulls you toward him. His lips meet yours in a kiss that leaves no room for misinterpretation. It’s not rushed, not hesitant—just honest, as if he’s pouring every unspoken word into that moment. If words weren’t enough to convince you, maybe this will.

The room is dim, shadows pooling around the edges, but the quiet has dissolved into a symphony of shared moans and the sound of skin meeting skin.

Your naked bodies are entwined on the sofa, Jeongin’s weight pressing you firmly beneath him. Your legs are wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer with each steady thrust.

His movements are deliberate, each one more intense than the last, as if he’s letting you know with his body that every touch, every motion, has meaning behind it. His lips are locked onto yours, claiming you with kisses that steal your breath, each one deep and consuming.

The occasional moan escapes from you, slipping into his mouth between kisses, but it’s not just the physical that overwhelms you this time. It’s the rawness, the intensity, the vulnerability.

This is more than just lust, more than just pleasure—this feels personal, like every inch of him is offering something deeper.

It becomes too much, emotions stirring within you in ways you can’t control. You need more than just the moment—you need certainty. Your hand moves to his chest, gently pressing him back.

"Jeongin, I want you," you say, your voice soft but resolute.

He halts, his brow furrowed, puzzled by your words. You’re having him right now, aren’t you? His breath is shallow as he props himself up, confusion flickering in his eyes.

"And I want you," he mutters back, bracing himself against the sofa, trying to make sense of the moment.

You push him a little further, enough that his body reluctantly pulls out of yours. "If you want me..." you whisper, your fingers wrapping around the base of the condom, peeling it away with slow intent until it snaps. You look into his eyes, guiding him back toward you, but this time, without any lay of protection between you.

"... Then I want you to show me," you continue, bringing him to your entrance once more, your body inviting him back inside, bare and exposed.

His cock sinks into you, filling you completely, and a shudder courses through both of you as you take him all in. You grip his shoulders, pulling him down until your bodies are flush together again, the heat between you almost unbearable.

You kiss him hastily, dragging your lips to his ear, whispering words that send a pulse of need through him, "Cum inside me. Claim me. Make me yours."

There’s a shift in Jeongin then, something both primal and tender. He knows what this means, the weight of responsibility, the choice he’s making. But more than anything, he’s ready—ready for you, for this, for wherever this takes him.

His lips brush against yours, lingering for a moment before he pulls back just enough to say, "You’re already mine."

And then he’s moving again, thrusting into you with more conviction, more purpose, every stroke filled with the warmth of his feelings for you. This isn’t just about lust or release—this is him claiming you, and in turn, letting himself be claimed by you.

As he continues, his pace growing more fervent, you can feel the connection deepening, the lines between colleagues, friends, and now lovers, blurring into something more.

Jeongin has you now, in every way he’s ever wanted, and nothing feels more right.

The tension in the room is palpable as Jeongin stalks toward you, eyes narrowed in frustration. You can see the confusion on the faces of the nurses and residents around you, everyone wondering why the two of you can’t ever seem to get along. If only they knew.

"Next time, think before you act," Jeongin snaps, arms crossed over his chest as he stares you down. "You’re not the only doctor here."

You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. "I’ll try, but not all of us can make every decision like you, Doctor Perfect."

There’s an audible gasp from one of the nurses, and you feel the tension in the room skyrocket. But instead of getting angrier, you catch the slightest smirk on Jeongin’s lips, just for you.

He steps closer, his voice lowering just enough that only you can hear. "You’re pushing it," he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing.

You glance up at him, your heart racing. "And you love it," you say under your breath.

The others in the room think you’re at each other’s throats again, but beneath the surface, your teasing exchanges carry a completely different meaning. Jeongin’s eyes flash with that familiar mix of frustration and something else, something that always leaves you feeling on edge.

"You keep acting like this, and people are going to start thinking I actually hate you," he says, his voice low but filled with amusement.

"Maybe you do," you shoot back, but your lips twitch as if fighting a smile.

The argument seems heated enough to the others, but you know the truth. This is just a game, one you’ve both gotten dangerously good at. To the outside world, you’re bitter colleagues who can’t agree on anything. But in private…

Jeongin steps even closer, brushing past you as if he’s done with the conversation. His fingers briefly graze your hand, and your heart skips a beat. As he walks away, his voice drops so low it sends a shiver down your spine.

"Meet me in the supply closet in five."

Your pulse quickens, and as he leaves the room, you can’t help but smirk. Everyone else in the room is left awkwardly silent, confused by the ongoing tension, while you’re counting the minutes until you can slip away.

Soon enough, you find each other in the enclosed space. The tension from earlier still clings to the air, but there’s an underlying current of something else now—something electric.

"You know," Jeongin says, standing so close facing you, "for two people who supposedly can’t stand each other, we end up in situations like this a lot."

You arch an eyebrow, trying to keep your tone light despite the weight between you. "Maybe we’re just bad at pretending."

He smirks, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "Or maybe we’re just bad at staying away."

There’s a charged silence, the kind that always seems to follow you both around—like you’re constantly on the verge of either fighting or… something else.

"You frustrate me," you admit, meeting his gaze head-on.

Jeongin chuckles, stepping closer. "The feeling’s mutual."

But there’s no malice in his voice, just something warmer, something deeper. His foxy eyes, usually sharp and guarded, soften just a little as he looks at you. You can tell he’s thinking, deciding whether to break the unspoken rules you’ve both built around this secret.

"Why do we keep doing this?" you ask, your voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

Jeongin steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

"Because we don’t know how to stop," he says softly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin. His touch is gentle, contrasting with the fiery arguments and clashing wills that define so much of your time together.

"Jeongin…" you murmur, but whatever you were going to say gets lost as his lips press against yours.

The kiss is slow at first, almost testing, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into it, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss. It’s not rushed or frantic, but it’s full of everything that’s been bubbling beneath the surface for so long—the frustration, the tension, the unspoken feelings.

His hands settle on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. But you’re not going anywhere. Not now.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

"We’re a mess," he mutters, but there’s a smile on his lips, a warmth in his voice that wasn’t there before.

"Yeah," you agree, your voice soft but teasing. "But we work, don’t we?"

Jeongin chuckles, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Somehow, we do."

You smile, pulling him down for another kiss, this one more playful, as if to remind him that no matter how many arguments or misunderstandings there are, you always come back to this—to each other.

"You know," you murmur against his lips, "we’re going to keep arguing in front of everyone."

Jeongin laughs, his breath warm against your skin. "Let them think what they want," he whispers, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "They’ll never know."

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, standing there in the quiet. No arguments, no pretense. Just you, Jeongin, and the unspoken understanding that whatever this is between you—it’s real. Messy, complicated, and maybe even a little dysfunctional. But it’s yours.

And maybe that’s enough.

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tipsynight0 · 8 months ago

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Anatomy of affection

Parings - eyeless Jack x female reader

Word count - 1.1k

TRIGGER WARNINGS - medical procedures, surgery, graphic descriptions of blood and organs, use of paralytics, body horror, gore, blood, cannibalism, descriptions of anatomy and dissection.

Summary - (y/n) is giving Jack a snack.

Author's Note: Not sure why I enjoyed writing this so much, but explaining it to my boyfriend and watching him look at me like I'm the freakiest thing he's ever seen was... interesting. Anyway, if you're squeamish about organs or cannibalism, maybe skip this one! <3

The cold metal table pressed unyieldingly against (Y/N)'s back, its chill seeping through her skin, heightening her awareness of her immobility. She lay paralyzed, her gaze locked on her lover, Jack, who moved with deliberate, practiced grace across the dimly lit room. The acrid scent of alcohol hung thick in the air, a hasty attempt at sterilization given his scarce supplies. Beside an operating tray, Jack's hands skimmed over his instruments, lingering briefly before selecting each one, his fingers brushing the tools with an expert's familiarity. He listened intently to the rhythmic pulse in (Y/N)'s neck, sensing her heart beating faster.

He leaned close, his calloused fingers tracing a gentle path over her stomach, claws lightly grazing her skin. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice soft yet intense, "I know what I’m doing." Despite herself, (Y/N) let out a nervous laugh, nodding ever so slightly. She attempted to wiggle her toes, flex her hands—anything—but her body remained numb, just as Jack had planned with the precise dose of vecuronium. This moment was one they'd prepared for, an experience she had willingly chosen.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she took in her surroundings—the familiar concrete walls lined with shelves of carefully arranged medical supplies and the slight glint of tools on the nearby tray. Jack seemed engrossed in his setup, double-checking every item with a meticulousness she recognized and loved. He finally pulled off his mask, revealing his grey skin and the unmistakable gleam in his eyes. One of his many tongues darted out to moisten his lips, a glint of hunger flashing across his face. She watched, captivated, as he inspected the monitor, satisfied that her vitals remained steady. Just in case, he had an Ambu bag at the ready, a trophy from one of their nighttime scavenging trips to abandoned clinics. They had both invested in this, carefully planning each aspect of this night.

Jack leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering briefly before he grasped his scalpel. "Alright, baby," he said with a smile that, despite its toothy sharpness, held a tenderness she trusted, "it’s time." His hand moved to her face, cupping it gently. His surgical gloves snapped into place, and his fingers began to trace a path down her abdomen, a silent promise of care. When he made the first incision, (Y/N) could only assume it had happened; her body remained numb, yet she could sense his excitement. Jack’s tongue flicked out, practically salivating as he worked, pausing only to press gauze to the incision and lap up the blood with reverence.

"Everything going good down there?" (Y/N) asked, her voice wavering but full of curiosity.

Jack nodded, casting her a reassuring glance. "Yes, darling. You’re doing great." For a rare moment, a look of genuine expression crossed his face—a mix of pride and fascination.

"Did you enjoy being a medical student?" she asked quietly, trying to break the silence that seemed to press down on them.

He chuckled softly, the sound rolling through the room as he continued to focus on removing layers of fat and tissue with precise, careful cuts. "It was… fine," he murmured, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. "I just wanted to help people." For a moment, his mind drifted to those less careful procedures he'd performed in the past, crude and impersonal compared to this. This was different; this was for her. Every detail mattered, every movement was intentional. She was his priority, and he’d take hours to ensure her recovery.

The procedure continued, his hands working methodically as he navigated around muscles, vessels, and organs. With skilled precision, he reached the ureter and blood vessels before finally removing the kidney. Holding it up triumphantly, he allowed himself a brief, reverent pause, admiring its color and texture. (Y/N) felt a shiver race up her spine, offering him a shy, almost giddy smile.

"It’s beautiful," he breathed, his voice filled with admiration. "The scent is… intoxicating." He placed the kidney into a basin of ice, his attention undivided as he resumed his work. The following hours passed in quiet conversation and careful stitching. His words were soothing, his lips occasionally grazing her forehead as he worked his way through the final sutures. "Almost done, darling," he whispered, his voice rich with affection.

At last, with a sigh of satisfaction, Jack pulled off his gloves, his fingers finding her face as he leaned down, pressing soft kisses along her cheeks, forehead, and neck. "Alright, alright, go eat," she laughed, flushed from his touch.

Jack sighed, nodding, but his gaze shifted to the basin, where her kidney lay on ice. Slowly, he lifted it, placing it in a pristine white bowl, adding a dash of salt and pepper. Seated near her, he picked up his scalpel and fork, slicing through the jelly-like texture. She watched, utterly fascinated as he lifted the fork, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of iron and freshness. This was not just any organ—it was hers, a part of her.

He tilted his head back slightly, letting the first bite linger on his tongue, savoring it fully. A low, appreciative groan escaped him. "You taste… perfect," he whispered, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

(Y/N) bit her lip, captivated by his enjoyment, as he tried to maintain some semblance of decorum while eating but couldn’t help himself. Each bite was savored as though he were tasting something divine. Once finished, he leaned over her, his tongues intertwining with hers, the taste of iron and warmth flooding her senses. She gripped his sweater, pulling him closer.

Pulling back, he whispered, "I love you," his hands cradling her face as he pressed his forehead against hers. "Don’t worry; I’m going to take good care of you for the next few weeks."

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omiomi · 4 months ago

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Master list

Part 3

Code Red: Unfinished Sutures (Part 4)

Baek Kang-Hyuk x Fem!Reader

Baek Kang-Hyuk first met Y/N over the open chest of a dying man.

The surgical tent was sweltering, the air thick with sweat and blood. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors battled against the panicked voices of medics, but Baek only focused on one thing—the exposed heart beneath his hands.

“Clamp,” he barked, not looking up.

The instrument was placed into his palm with practiced efficiency, but the fingers that handed it to him weren’t familiar. They were steady, firm, purposeful.

“You’re doing it wrong,” a voice cut through the noise.

Baek’s eyes snapped up, locking onto Y/N’s for the first time.

She was calm, too calm for the chaos around them, her mask pulled up just enough that he could only see the sharpness of her gaze.

Baek clenched his jaw. “Excuse me?”

Y/N motioned toward the incision. “The pressure needs to be redistributed. You’re sealing the rupture, but if you don’t account for the surrounding tissue, you’ll compromise circulation.”

Baek scoffed. “I know what I’m doing.”

Y/N didn’t back down. “Then prove it.”

A challenge.

He held her gaze for a fraction of a second before turning back to his patient.

She was right.

The tension in the surrounding tissue would have collapsed the artery within the hour.

Without another word, Baek adjusted the suture, making the precise change she suggested.

Y/N handed him the next tool before he even asked for it.

Their first surgery together was performed in silence, their hands moving in harmony as if they had been doing this for years.

When it was over, Baek removed his gloves and finally looked at her.

Y/N was already pulling off her mask, the barest smirk on her lips. “You’re welcome.”

Baek exhaled. “Cocky.”

“Efficient.”

She walked away before he could respond.

Baek watched her go, exhaling sharply.

He already knew she was going to be a problem.

—

Weeks passed, and Baek learned three things about Y/N.

One: She was brilliant. Infuriatingly so.

Two: She had no patience for incompetence.

Three: She never let anyone take care of her.

The third one, he learned the hard way.

It happened on a night thick with rain, the kind that made the tents leak and turned the dirt beneath their boots into sludge. They had been running on fumes for 32 hours straight, treating soldiers who kept coming in faster than they could keep up.

Baek barely noticed when Y/N went quiet.

Didn’t register how she pressed a hand to her ribs every time she moved.

Until she nearly collapsed beside the operating table.

Baek was at her side in an instant, steadying her before she hit the ground.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered, gripping her wrist to check her pulse.

She tried to push him away. “I’m fine.”

His grip tightened. “You just passed out, Malaika.”

The nickname slipped out without thought. He saw the way her expression flickered, just for a second, before she forced it back into something unreadable.

Baek ignored it. “Where are you hurt?”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing.”

Baek didn’t believe her. He hooked his fingers into the hem of her shirt, lifting it just enough to see—

A deep gash across her side.

Baek went still.

His fingers grazed the bruised skin around the wound, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. “How long?”

Y/N sighed. “Since the last bombing.”

Baek’s jaw clenched. That was four days ago.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

Y/N smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

Baek didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk back.

Instead, he reached for the medical kit and said, “Let me.”

And for the first time since he met her, she didn’t argue.

—

Baek never let himself stare at Y/N for too long.

Not in the surgical tent, where they worked in perfect sync.

Not in the rare quiet moments, when exhaustion softened the sharp edges of her.

Not even now, when the flickering lantern light caught on the strands of hair she hadn’t bothered to tie back, making her look softer than she ever let herself be.

And yet, he was staring.

Y/N was seated across from him, rolling her shoulder with a quiet grimace. The day had been brutal—too many patients, too little time—but she still moved like she could take on another 12 hours if she had to.

Baek scoffed. “You should rest.”

Y/N arched a brow. “So should you.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t look away, either.

She exhaled, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I used to think you were insufferable.”

Baek huffed. “You still think that.”

“True.” A smirk. “But now I also think you care more than you let on.”

His jaw tightened, fingers curling against his knee. “I care about the job.”

Y/N hummed. “Right. The job.”

Baek should have left it at that. Should have shut down the conversation before it turned into something he wasn’t ready for.

But then Y/N tilted her head, watching him with that sharp gaze of hers—the one that made him feel like she saw past the walls he built.

“You hesitate sometimes,” she murmured.

Baek’s breath caught. “I don’t.”

She smiled, just barely. “You do. Not when you’re operating. But when it comes to me.”

Silence.

Baek felt it in his ribs, pressing against something he refused to name.

Y/N leaned forward slightly, her voice quieter now. “Why?”

Baek swallowed. He had no answer—none that he was willing to say out loud.

So he did what he always did. He stood.

“Get some sleep, Y/N.” His voice was rougher than intended.

Y/N watched him for a second longer, then leaned back with a knowing smile.

“Goodnight, Baek.”

He walked away before he could do something reckless. Before he could say something irreversible.

Because the truth was—

He did hesitate.

—

Baek Kang Hyuk didn’t know why he stopped walking.

It had been a long day—one of the worst. The kind where bodies kept piling up, where every patient that survived felt like a miracle, and every one they lost felt like a personal failure. He should have been in his tent, closing his eyes for what little rest he could steal before the next emergency.

But then he saw her.

Y/N was sitting by the supply tent, head tilted up to the sky. The moonlight softened her features, casting a glow over the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes. Her hands rested loosely on her lap, but he could tell—she was tense. Holding it all in, the way she always did.

Baek exhaled. His feet moved before his mind made the decision.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was quieter than usual.

Y/N startled slightly but didn’t turn. “Not really.”

He hesitated before sitting down next to her. Close, but not too close. He could still smell the lingering scent of antiseptic on her clothes, mixed with something undeniably her.

Neither of them spoke.

For once, there was no competition, no bickering, no sharp words to cover up something softer. Just silence. And in that silence, something settled between them—something fragile, something dangerous.

“You did good today,” Baek said finally.

Y/N let out a dry chuckle. “We lost four people.”

“And saved twenty.”

She glanced at him, searching his face like she was looking for something. Maybe reassurance. Maybe something else.

Baek didn’t look away.

A breeze drifted between them, cool against the lingering heat of the day. Y/N sighed and, before she could think better of it, leaned her head against his shoulder.

He stiffened.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because he did.

Too much.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to relax. “You’re heavier than you look.”

Y/N huffed a laugh, but she didn’t move. “Shut up, Malak.”

He did.

And for the first time in a long time, Baek Kang Hyuk let himself stay.

—

It was raining.

The storm rolled in fast, turning the dirt paths to mud, hammering against the tent fabric like it wanted to break through. It smelled like wet earth and blood.

Y/N was already drenched when Baek caught up to her.

“Are you insane?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the downpour. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

Y/N turned, her soaked clothes clinging to her, hair sticking to her forehead. Her eyes burned. “Neither should you.”

Baek let out a sharp breath, stepping closer. “What the hell were you thinking, running into that crossfire?”

“I was saving people.”

“You almost got yourself killed.”

Y/N scoffed. “Like you wouldn’t have done the same.”

Baek clenched his jaw. That wasn’t the point. That was never the point.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was rough, raw. “I don’t—” He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his rain-drenched hair. “I can’t—”

Y/N stared at him.

Oh.

“Baek—”

And then his hands were on her.

Not rough, not forceful—just there. Gripping her arms like he needed to ground himself, like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth. His breath was uneven, lips parted, eyes dark with something unspoken.

She shivered—not from the cold.

Baek hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to pull away.

But she didn’t.

So he kissed her.

It was desperate, messy, full of frustration and something deeper that neither of them wanted to name. The rain soaked through everything, but they both didn’t care. His hand moved up to cup her jaw, tilting her face to deepen the kiss, like he was trying to commit the shape of her to memory.

Y/N gasped against his lips, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt.

And for the first time, they weren’t just fighting for someone else.

For the first time, they chose this—chose each other.

Part 5

This was a challenge to make! i really wanted to give you guys a glimpse of their past relationship, i hope i did well. lmk what you guys think about this!

taglist: @study-with-reine234 @redhoodedtoad @celestialstar111 @ryujinxzyy

#baek kang hyuk #baek kang hyuk x you #baek kang hyuk x reader #baek kang-hyuk #kdrama #netflix #the trauma code: heroes on call #x reader #reader insert #light angst

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inmyheaddd · 9 months ago

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can i call you tonight? - xander hawthorne x reader

a/n: i adore autumn with my whole heart but i’m missing those carefree summer romance vibes soo bad 😖 wc: 1.8k warnings: kissing, mild language, verryyy fluffy ur teeth might fall out masterlist

the sun was just beginning to set, the sky looking like something out of a painting, and you and xander had spent the whole day at the beach together — swimming, laughing, and, of course, getting covered in sand.

now, still giggling from the ‘sand ball’ fight you had with him earlier, you both stumbled toward the beach shower, desperate to wash the sand off of you.

the water came out freezing at first, eliciting a yelp from you as you stumbled back — in turn making xander laugh, before you adjusted the temperature perfectly to your liking.

which, according to xander, was: very, very, hot.

“are you trying to boil us alive?” his eyes were comically wide, furrowing his brows after he stood under it for half a second, jumping back with a shout.

you simply stood under the shower head calmly, attempting to get the sand out of your hair.

you huffed a laugh through your nose, “xander, it’s not even that hot, i—“

“—were the hours under the scorching sun not enough? you also need to stand under water that’s practically a few degrees away from turning you into a boiled lobster?” he rambled on.

atleast he was so chill and normal about the temperature, so very calmly expressing his dislike!

you stifled a laugh as he continued, unbotheredly wringing water out of your hair as you watched him complain. “i’m just saying, there’s a fine line between a shower and a chemical peel.” he said, pointing at the shower with a shake of his head.

“that water is hot enough to sterilize surgical instruments.” he crossed his arms over his bare chest, as you watched him watch you, a slightly confused furrow in your brows and intrigued smile growing on your face.

a slow grin grew on his face as he raked his eyes over you, taking in your slightly sunburned nose, wet hair, and bathing suit you had picked out with him a few weeks back.

he lolled his head to the side before he spoke, “i’m sorry— why was i mad again?”

you laughed at his quick demeanor change, playfully rolling your eyes and sighing dramatically before making the temperature colder and motioning for him to step in. “just get in, you big baby.”

“oh, thankyou very much, i appreciate your willingness.” he responded, bowing his head jokingly as he stepped under the water, his hands finding your lower back instantly.

but of course, xander being xander, couldn’t just stand there like a regular person.

no, he shook his head, like some sort of dog sending water droplets and little sand particles everywhere.

“xander!” you squealed, shielding your face and taking a step back, but you couldn’t stop laughing.

“oh my god— you’re so annoying!” you squeaked out, still laughing.

he chuckled, taking a step closer to you and placing his hands where they just were, eyes sparkling with mischief as water dripped down his hair. “and you’re so easy to annoy.”

he reached out, gently brushing sand off your cheek, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “that wasn’t funny.” you said, biting back a smile.

it was funny, but he didn’t have to know that.

“i’m sorry,” he faux pouted at you. he didn’t sound sorry, in fact, he sounded a little amused.

you felt your stomach do a little flip, but before you could say anything, his eyebrows raised like a lightbulb went off in his head, and he grabbed the shampoo bottle from your beach bag on the ledge.

“here, let me do this right.” he turned to stand behind you, pouring an adequate amount into his hand and then started working his fingers into your scalp.

you tried to turn your head to ask him what he was doing, but it did feel a little nice to stand there and feel his hands run through your hair. okay, maybe not just a little.

he gently guided your head back forward. "hold still," he said, his voice lower, but with a little hint of that teasing edge remaining.

when he noticed you weren’t saying anything back, and that if anything you were feeling relaxed, he spoke again.

“see, would you look at that?" he said softly, "i can be helpful too."

you could practically hear the grin in his voice, but it was hard to focus on that with the way you felt like you were buzzing under his touch.

you hummed, “yeah, only when you want to be.” you let your eyes close for a moment, and then he spoke again.

“i want to be helpful with you all the time.” you could hear the fake pout in his voice, then it flipped completely, and you heard that grin in what he said next.

“i’d make an excellent stay at home husband for you, yeah?” he joked with his voice all breathy-like.

“you wouldn’t have to worry about me complaining…” he trailed off, “you know, except about the shower temperature.”

you let out a little chuckle, and opened your mouth to remind him about the time he somehow burnt instant noodles, and that maybe being a stay-at-home husband wasn’t the right path.

you didn’t get the chance to say anything, though, because he swiftly grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, standing you under the shower head.

your eyelids immediately squeezed shut, squealing a little with your whole face scrunched up as the shampoo-y water ran down your hair. you were careful not to get it in your eyes, laughing as xander stepped infront of you and gently moved your hair out of your face.

you opened your eyes, still squinting a little as you looked up at him. “that also wasn’t funny.” you remarked. “not in the slightest.”

he quirked a brow up, looking like he was biting back a grin, “it wasn’t?” he asked, cocking his head to the side in question.

“no.”

then a roguish smile started to spread on his face, and you began to deeply regret your words.

“well then, would you like to see,” he paused for dramatic effect and raised his eyebrows, “something funny?”

you were the one biting back a smile now, taking a step back from xander as you shook your head, already anticipating what he was going to do.

“…no.”

he rendered the step you took back obsolete as he stepped right on forward, his smile turning into a chuckle as you shook your head.

there were about three things you were afraid of in this world, 1: a bug getting in your food and you eating it, 2: getting kidnapped and held hostage, and 3: xander blackwood hawthorne’s tickles.

“xander, i was kidding, i swear.” you rambled with your voice dropping lower, trying to get out of this situation, but xander’s face only scrunched up in laughter as he gave you about 5 seconds to make your case.

“you’re like, the funniest person i’ve ever met! you’re so charming and hilarious, and —“

your time was over, it seemed, because xander bent down and picked you up over his shoulder, his laughs increasing in volume as you squealed in the secluded beach. “xander! it was a joke, i promise! put me down!”

as if he was on a quest to become even more annoying he began running to the beach beds, regardless of your protests which were now coming out more as laughs.

he placed you on a beach bed breathlessly, his hands coming to cup your face as he basically climbed on top of you, then leant down to kiss you.

oh, you weren’t expecting that.

granted, you were both still breathless, and the two of you were smiling and laughing against each other so much, that you weren’t sure whatever you were doing could be considered a kiss.

then it came. xander pulled back ever so slightly and his hands moved down and jabbed at your neck, then your sides, your arms, anywhere you were ticklish, and you were both equally a laughing wreck.

you tried to peel his hands off of you as you writhed under him, repeating his name surely over 20 times in between giggles.

after what seemed like forever, he stopped, putting his hands up in the air as he sat up, and your chest heaved as you caught your breath.

“now,” he said, “was that funny?” he raised an eyebrow, “choose your answer very wisely.”

“fine,” you huffed, “it was a little funny.”

his other brow joined the raised one at the top of his forehead, “that was not the wise answer i thought of,” he muttered, as he slowly started put his hands back down towards you, your eyes darting between his face and his hands.

“okay. okay, yes!” you scrambled before he could literally attack you again, “i lied, it was funny, and not just a little.”

his hands retreated, “brilliant. very wise answer,” he commented, “well done.”

he brought his hands up to your jaw and only your jaw this time, cradling your face like he did earlier as he placed a short peck on your lips, but you pulled him in for a longer one.

he smiled at that— you felt it, and he reciprocated the kiss 10x harder.

as he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, he murmured with his voice low. “question,”

“what is it?” you breathed out, still catching your breath.

“does it genuinely annoy you when i tickle you like that?” he asked, his voice bare of any teasing, “don’t lie, please.” he added on.

“besides, i can be very perceptive of micro-expressions, and i can feel your heartbeat against me right now.”

you let out a little laugh, even though your heart was doing somersaults in that moment. xander was possibly the most caring person you’d ever met —he was a deeply empathetic person underneath his rube goldberg obsessions and masks of humor he used so often.

“no,” you said truthfully, “i don’t actually get annoyed, i could never actually get annoyed at you. why?”

you felt his breath hitch against your lips, a very un-xander like manner. “your micro-expressions and heart rate indicate you’re telling me the truth.” he muttered.

how did he sound hot talking about micro expressions and heart rates?

then you realized, he was expertly dodging your question on “why?”.

“because it is the truth.” you muttered back, smiling a little as you watched him pull back too see your eyes better.

he didn’t say anything after that— in lieu of words, he pressed another sweet kiss to your lips. he wasn’t one to expose his worries or be vulnerable very often, and you understood that. he’s opened before about people saying he’s ‘too much’ and how it sometimes gets to him, but in all honesty, you could never get enough of him.

as you felt the warmth of his hands on your face and your lips moved across his in rhythm, a thought crossed your mind:

if that’s what you get for telling him he was funny, you’d start telling him he’s a world class comedian now.

tag list: @charsoamerican @ariabedumb @x-liv25-jamieswife @wish-i-were-heather @thecircularlibrary

@whatsamongus @littlemissmentallyunstable @anintellectualintellectual @bewitchingkisses @maybxlle

@sheisntyou @emelia07 @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee i love u guys 🙈🙈 if you’d like to be removed or added lmk!!

#xander hawthorne x reader #xander hawthorne #the inheritance games #the grandest game #grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #tig #tgg #tig headcanons #games untold #the brothers hawthorne #the final gambit #❦ jude writes

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visionarymedicare · 1 year ago

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#fine surgical instruments

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redfilledfantasies · 2 months ago

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First Sight (Chapter 1 of 7)

The elevator doors parted with a soft chime, and Dr. Carmella Hill stepped into the hushed domain of her Manhattan cardiology clinic. Her short brown hair with perfectly trimmed bangs framed her face with geometric precision, not a strand out of place despite the morning wind.

Her designer prescription glasses caught the light as she surveyed her territory, the kingdom of clean lines and medical excellence she had built through years of obsessive dedication. Her shoulders squared beneath the pristine white lab coat, its crisp edges a stark contrast to the troubled thoughts that had followed her from home. Six floors above the frenetic energy of Midtown, the clinic was a sanctuary of order.

Morning light streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the reception area where her staff would arrive in precisely forty-two minutes. Carmella preferred these solitary moments before the day began in earnest, when she could lose herself in the ceremony of preparation without watchful eyes or needless conversation.

Her heels clicked against the polished floor, each step an echo of purpose. She unlocked her office door with practiced efficiency, the lock yielding with a satisfying click. Inside, the space was a testament to her exacting standards—diploma and certifications arranged in perfect alignment on the walls, medical journals stacked at right angles on the glass desk, not a single item out of place.

She placed her leather bag in the same spot she did every morning, the corner of the desk nearest the window, its placement a ritual as important as any surgical procedure. From it, she withdrew her personal stethoscope, the weight of it familiar in her hands. It was the latest model, more expensive than necessary, but Carmella demanded excellence in all things, especially those that touched her patients.

The instrument gleamed under the overhead lights as she polished it with a microfiber cloth, her movements deliberate and reverent. Her fingers lingered on the chest piece, tracing its perfect circumference with an attention that transcended mere professional care.

She felt a flutter in her abdomen, a quickening of her pulse that had nothing to do with the morning's exertion and everything to do with what this instrument allowed her to hear—the most intimate rhythm of life itself.

She placed the stethoscope around her neck, adjusting it with unusual deliberation. The cool metal settled against her skin, and she closed her eyes briefly, savoring the sensation. When she opened them again, her reflection in the small desk mirror caught her attention, and she paused to study herself.

The woman who stared back was the picture of professional composure—high cheekbones accentuated by the angles of her glasses, lips pressed into a disciplined line. But beneath the clinical detachment, she recognized the telltale signs of her private fascination: the slight dilation of her pupils, the faint flush along her collarbanes.

Carmella shrugged off her lab coat and hung it temporarily, taking a moment to assess her physical form in the full-length mirror on the back of her door. Years of rigorous dedication to fitness had sculpted her body into something extraordinary. Her silk blouse clung to her large breasts, their perfect roundness defying gravity with the help of an expensive, architectural bra. The tailored slacks sat low on her hips, revealing the ridges of her enviable six-pack abs when she turned to the side.

She flexed slightly, watching the definition of her muscular thighs press against the fine fabric. The body was a machine, she reminded herself. Her own was simply better maintained than most. Still, she couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride at the exceptional vessel she had crafted through unrelenting discipline.

She donned her lab coat again, the white garment settling over her curves with professional neutrality, though it did little to conceal the remarkable physicality beneath. One by one, she checked each examination room, arranging instruments with obsessive precision. Blood pressure cuffs were coiled with mathematical exactness, cotton swabs aligned in perfect rows, vials organized by size and purpose.

In the central examination room, she paused, her attention caught by the gleaming array of cardiac monitoring equipment. Her fingers skimmed across the surface of the ECG machine, the metal cool against her skin. Her practice had the most advanced technology available, allowing her to capture every nuance of the heart's electrical activity, to see on screen what she could hear through her stethoscope.

She moved to her desk and pulled the day's patient files, spreading them before her in a fan of medical histories and heart conditions. Each folder was color-coded, the contents arranged according to her exacting specifications. She reviewed them methodically, committing key details to memory, noting the two new referrals and their symptoms with particular interest.

The first was a thirty-four-year-old woman with complaints of occasional palpitations during exercise. Carmella studied the preliminary notes, her mind already constructing a sequence of tests to isolate the cause. Her fingers traced the lines of the intake form, lingering on the patient's age and described symptoms. She anticipated the examination with a sharpness that was both professional and something more—an interest that went beyond clinical curiosity.

She returned the stethoscope to her neck, adjusting it once more with precise attention. The weight of it was reassuring, a connection to the rhythm she would soon hear, measure, analyze. She ran her fingertips along the tubing, the sensation triggering a memory of yesterday's examination—the cadence of a particular heartbeat that had stayed with her, replaying in her mind as she had lain awake last night.

The clinic remained silent around her as she completed her preparations. She set out the day's schedule, checked the calibration of the blood pressure monitor, and made one final adjustment to the arrangement of instruments on the examination tray. Each action was performed with meticulous attention, her body moving through the space with the confidence of absolute ownership.

Finally, she stood before the mirror once more, checking her appearance with critical eyes. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and straightened the lapels of her lab coat. The stethoscope hung precisely centered, the silver chest piece catching the light. Her hand rose to it, fingers closing around the metal in a gesture that was almost protective.

Carmella drew a deep breath, tasting the antiseptic cleanness of the air. She was ready for the day, her professional armor intact, her personal fascinations safely concealed beneath layers of clinical expertise. She glanced at her watch—seven minutes until her receptionist would arrive, twenty-three until the first patient.

The day would unfold with the precision she demanded, each heartbeat she listened to cataloged and analyzed with scientific detachment. But beneath the sterile surface of her professionalism, beneath the controlled rhythm of her own heartbeat, ran a current of something unruly and demanding—a fascination with the pulse of life that transcended medical interest and veered into territory more complex, more consuming.

The stethoscope rested against her chest, a constant reminder of the sound she sought, the rhythm that obsessed her. Her fingers brushed against it once more, an unconscious gesture of anticipation, before she turned to her desk to await the arrival of her staff and the day's first heartbeat.

The examination room was a testament to minimalist luxury, all clean lines and subdued tones. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline—a vista that patients often found distracting enough to momentarily forget their cardiac concerns.

Carmella appreciated this effect; a relaxed patient yielded more accurate readings. She arranged the instruments on the silver tray with methodical precision, each item placed at the exact angle she preferred, the metal surfaces gleaming under the recessed lighting. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, sharp and clean, a counterpoint to the faint trace of the patient's perfume that had entered the room before her.

Ms. Chen sat on the edge of the examination table, her silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to allow access for the stethoscope. Early thirties, Carmella estimated, with the lean physique of someone who exercised regularly but not obsessively. Her dark hair fell in an elegant bob that framed an oval face with high cheekbones.

The referral note mentioned occasional heart palpitations during her morning runs, nothing that seemed particularly concerning on paper, but Carmella never dismissed cardiac symptoms, no matter how minor. "So you've been experiencing these palpitations for about three weeks?" Carmella kept her voice professionally neutral as she reviewed the intake form, her eyes scanning the notes with practiced efficiency.

"Yes, usually about ten minutes into my run." Ms. Chen's voice was melodic, with the slight rasp of someone who enjoyed the occasional cigarette despite knowing better. "It's probably nothing, but my GP thought I should see a specialist."

"Palpitations are always worth investigating," Carmella replied, setting down the chart. She moved to the sink and washed her hands with meticulous attention, counting silently as she always did—twenty seconds exactly, no more, no less.

"Even if they turn out to be benign, which is often the case." She dried her hands on a paper towel and turned back to Ms. Chen, her professional mask firmly in place. "I'm going to take your vitals first, then listen to your heart in various positions to see if we can identify any irregularities."

The preliminary checks proceeded with clinical precision. Blood pressure: 118/76. Pulse: 72 beats per minute, regular. Oxygen saturation: 99%. All textbook normal. Carmella noted each value in the chart, her handwriting as precise as her methodology. "Now I'll need to listen to your heart," she said, reaching for the stethoscope that hung around her neck.

Her fingers closed around the chest piece, the metal warming beneath her touch. A subtle flutter stirred in her stomach, a physical anticipation she acknowledged and then attempted to suppress. This was a medical procedure, nothing more. "Could you unbutton your blouse a bit further, please? I need access to several listening points."

Ms. Chen complied without hesitation, the silk parting to reveal a lace-trimmed camisole beneath. Carmella kept her gaze clinical, focused on the anatomical landmarks that would guide her examination, not on the swell of the woman's breasts or the delicate hollow of her throat where a pulse visibly fluttered.

"This might be a bit cold," she warned, a standard phrase that fell from her lips automatically as she placed the stethoscope's disc against Ms. Chen's chest, just to the right of her sternum.

The first heart sound filled Carmella's ears—a clean, strong "lub" followed by the softer "dub" of the closing valves. The rhythm was like a well-conducted orchestra, each beat precise and distinct. Carmella felt her own pulse quicken in response, a pavlovian reaction to the intimate sound. She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to focus entirely on the auditory input.

Ms. Chen's heartbeat was remarkably clear, unusually so. Each component of the cardiac cycle resonated with crystal clarity through the stethoscope's earpieces. Carmella detected no murmurs, no extra sounds, just the pure, perfect rhythm of a healthy heart pushing blood through its chambers with textbook efficiency. She moved the stethoscope incrementally, tracking across the chest to the next auscultation point.

Ms. Chen's skin was warm beneath the cold metal disc, the contrast sending a nearly imperceptible shiver through Carmella's fingers. She noted the patient's even breathing, the slight rise and fall of her chest beneath the stethoscope, a counterpoint to the heart's rhythm.

"Deep breath in, please," Carmella instructed, her voice betraying none of the inappropriate fascination building within her. As Ms. Chen inhaled, her heart rate increased slightly, accelerating in response to the expanded lung capacity. Carmella listened intently, caught in the peculiar intimacy of the moment—privy to the most internal rhythm of another human being, a sound that the woman herself could never hear with such clarity.

Carmella's pupils dilated behind her designer glasses, the clinical part of her brain registering this physiological response even as she continued the examination. Her own breathing had subtly shifted, synchronizing with the patient's unconsciously. The examination room, with its panoramic view and pristine surfaces, seemed to recede, leaving only the connection between her ears and the pulsing heart beneath her hand.

She lingered longer than strictly necessary at the mitral area, telling herself she was being thorough, searching for any hint of a murmur or irregularity. In truth, she was savoring the sound, storing it in her memory like a collector acquiring a particularly fine specimen. Each heartbeat resonated through her, sparking an interest that was far from professional.

"Now I'll need you to lie back," she said, her voice steady despite the inappropriate warmth spreading through her core. "I want to listen with you in a supine position." As Ms. Chen reclined on the examination table, Carmella repositioned the stethoscope, pressing it perhaps a fraction more firmly than required against the soft skin.

The change in position altered the heart sounds slightly, bringing the S3 into clearer focus—that subtle, low-frequency extra sound that followed the main "lub-dub" in some patients. Not a pathological finding in a young, fit woman like Ms. Chen, but its presence added another layer of complexity to the cardiac symphony that now filled Carmella's consciousness.

Time seemed to stretch as she listened, her professional detachment slipping further with each beat. Her hand rested on the examination table beside Ms. Chen's shoulder, and she noticed with distant alarm that her fingers trembled slightly. She curled them into a loose fist, concealing the evidence of her unprofessional response.

"Everything sounds normal so far," she managed, her voice clinical despite the heat that had crept up her neck to flush her cheeks. She hoped the patient would attribute any redness to the room's temperature. "But I'd like to check one more position. Could you turn onto your left side, please?"

Ms. Chen complied, her movements causing a momentary interruption in the cardiac soundtrack. Carmella waited, stethoscope poised, for the woman to settle. When she placed the disc back against skin, the heart sounds were at their most audible, the left lateral position bringing the organ closest to the chest wall.

The beat filled her ears, strong and insistent, and Carmella closed her eyes again, fully absorbed in the forbidden pleasure of listening. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a perilous moment, she feared the patient might notice her inappropriate reaction. But Ms. Chen lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, perfectly unaware of the storm brewing within her cardiologist.

With tremendous effort, Carmella pulled herself back from the brink of complete unprofessionalism. She removed the stethoscope, letting it hang once more around her neck, the chest piece still warm from contact with Ms. Chen's skin.

"You can sit up now," she said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. "I don't hear any abnormalities, which is excellent news." Ms. Chen rebuttoned her blouse, her movements unhurried and graceful. "So the palpitations aren't serious?"

"They're likely benign, possibly related to mild exercise-induced tachycardia," Carmella replied, falling back on medical terminology like a shield. "But I'd like to run an ECG to be certain, and perhaps have you wear a Holter monitor for twenty-four hours to catch any irregularities that might occur during your next run."

Her hands trembled slightly as she made notes in the patient's chart. The pen skittered across the page, leaving marks that were less precise than her usual immaculate script. She pressed down harder, forcing control, but her fingers remained unsteady—betrayers to the last.

"The nurse will set you up with the ECG in a moment," she said, not quite meeting Ms. Chen's eyes. "And we'll schedule the Holter monitor fitting at reception." Ms. Chen nodded, seemingly oblivious to her doctor's internal turmoil. "Thank you, Dr. Hill. Everyone says you're the best, and I can see why."

The compliment cut through Carmella like a blade of ice. If only her patient knew the unprofessional thoughts that had accompanied her examination, the way the sound of her heartbeat would echo in Carmella's mind long after she left the clinic.

The shame of it mingled with the lingering arousal, creating a toxic cocktail of emotion that threatened to crack her professional veneer. "Just doing my job," she replied, the platitude tasting stale on her tongue. She stood, clipboard clutched to her chest like armor. "The nurse will be right in."

She exited the room with measured steps, her outward composure a masterpiece of control, betrayed only by the slight tremor in her hands and the memory of a heartbeat that continued to pulse through her consciousness with inappropriate persistence. Carmella closed her office door with a soft click and leaned against it, finally allowing her composure to fracture in the privacy of her sanctuary.

The stethoscope hung heavy around her neck, still warm from contact with Ms. Chen's skin, the memory of the heartbeat pulsing through her consciousness with merciless clarity. Her own heart raced with inappropriate excitement, its rhythm a mockery of the professional demeanor she had struggled to maintain during the examination.

Her hands, steady enough during medical school surgeries and countless cardiac emergencies, now trembled with the force of her desire, and she felt a flush of shame spread beneath her skin like a fever. She crossed to her desk on unsteady legs, grateful for the solidity of the leather chair that caught her as her knees weakened.

The morning sun still streamed through the windows, the city sprawling below her in its indifferent enormity, but Carmella was blind to everything except the echo of that perfect rhythm in her mind. Her fingers found the stethoscope, lifting it from around her neck with a reverence that bordered on worship.

The metal chest piece retained a whisper of warmth, and she closed her eyes as she held it, replaying the sound that had filled her ears moments ago. The cadence of Ms. Chen's heartbeat—strong, regular, with that subtle S3 presence—had been exquisite, a symphony of life force that resonated through Carmella with nearly unbearable intensity.

She pressed the chest piece to her own sternum, seeking the counterpoint of her racing heart, the comparison between her irregular, desire-quickened pulse and the memory of the patient's perfect rhythm. Her heartbeat sounded shallow and frantic through the instrument, a testament to the unprofessional arousal that now consumed her.

"Control yourself," she whispered, the words sharp in the silence of her office. But even as she issued the command, her mind betrayed her, reconstructing the examination in vivid detail—the warmth of Ms. Chen's skin, the slight rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the way the heart's rhythm had changed subtly when she'd shifted position.

Carmella set the stethoscope on the desk, forcing her hands away from the instrument that had become both her professional tool and the conduit for her most private obsession. She'd chosen cardiology with genuine passion for the science, fascinated by the heart's mechanical perfection, its tireless commitment to sustaining life. When had that academic interest evolved into something so personal, so consuming?

Perhaps it had started during her residency, when a particularly striking patient's heartbeat had caught her attention, its rhythm unusually clear and compelling. Or maybe the seeds had been planted earlier, in the anatomy lab when she'd first held a preserved heart in her hands, marveling at the vessel that contained humanity's most potent metaphor for emotion.

Regardless of its origins, the fascination had grown over the years, intensifying until the sound of a heartbeat—particularly a female heartbeat, with its higher pitch and faster baseline rhythm—could send her spiraling into this state of inappropriate arousal. The professional detachment she maintained with steel discipline was her only defense against the tide of her fixation.

Carmella's cheeks burned as she acknowledged the physical signs of her arousal—the heightened sensitivity of her skin, the tightness in her chest, the unmistakable throb of desire between her legs. Her body's response was as clear as any diagnostic reading on her medical equipment, and it filled her with a tangled knot of shame and excitement.

She was a respected cardiologist, a specialist who had published in prestigious journals and lectured at international conferences. Her professional reputation was impeccable, built on years of dedicated study and practice. Yet beneath the perfect exterior lurked this fascination that threatened to undermine everything she had worked for.

What would her colleagues think if they knew? What would her patients feel if they discovered that their doctor listened to their hearts with more than clinical interest? The potential for scandal was enormous, a career-ending possibility that she couldn't afford to ignore.

Yet the intensity of her response was undeniable, a physiological fact as real as any cardiac condition she diagnosed. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a glass of water, trying to cool the heat that had spread through her body. The liquid did little to extinguish the fire that Ms. Chen's heartbeat had ignited.

Carmella forced herself to breathe deeply, employing the same techniques she recommended to anxious patients. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow, controlled, deliberate. The rhythm of her own breathing became a focus point, a way to anchor herself in the storm of her desires.

She justified her interest with scientific rationale—wasn't the heart the most fascinating organ in the human body? Its ceaseless rhythm, its complex electrical pathways, its crucial role in sustaining life made it worthy of devoted study. Her fascination was merely an extension of her professional dedication, a heightened appreciation for the subject of her expertise.

But the scientific explanation rang hollow, even to her own ears. What she felt when listening to a heart like Ms. Chen's transcended academic interest. It was visceral, primal, and undeniably sexual—an inappropriate response that she struggled to reconcile with her professional identity.

The stethoscope caught the light as it lay on her desk, a silver beacon that both represented her medical authority and embodied her deepest temptation. Carmella stared at it, caught in the contradiction of her feelings—pride in her expertise mingled with shame over her secret arousal.

She squared her shoulders, determination hardening her resolve. This fascination may have a hold on her, but she wouldn't allow it to compromise her professional standards. The line between appreciation and exploitation was clear, and she would never cross it. Her patients deserved a doctor who put their care above all else, regardless of her private struggles.

Rising from her chair, Carmella moved to the small bathroom adjoining her office. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it helping to clear her mind. In the mirror, her reflection showed the evidence of her inner turmoil—dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that spoke of unresolved tension.

She dried her face with methodical care, then reapplied her subtle makeup with practiced precision. Each stroke of the lipstick, each touch of the powder brush was an act of reconstruction, rebuilding the façade that had momentarily cracked.

Her lab coat hung on the back of the door, and she straightened it meticulously, adjusting the lapels until they fell in perfect symmetry. She would not allow her private obsession to undermine the professionalism she had spent a lifetime cultivating.

The stethoscope waited on her desk, and she approached it with newfound determination. She picked it up, wiped it thoroughly with an alcohol swab, eradicating any trace of warmth or memory. When she placed it around her neck once more, it was as a medical instrument only, its purpose reclaimed from the realm of inappropriate fascination.

Carmella checked her appearance one final time in the small mirror on her desk. The woman who looked back at her was the consummate professional—composed, authoritative, in complete control. No one looking at her would see the turmoil that still simmered beneath the surface, the echo of a heartbeat that continued to haunt her thoughts. She straightened her spine, adjusted her glasses, and reached for the intercom.

"Please send in the next patient," she said, her voice steady and confident, betraying none of the conflict that raged within her. The professional mask was firmly back in place, the perfect image of medical expertise restored.

But as she waited for the door to open, her fingers unconsciously brushed against the stethoscope at her chest, a fleeting touch that acknowledged the truth she could never fully escape—that beneath the pristine white coat and years of training beat a heart as susceptible to inappropriate desire as any she had ever examined.

#cardiophile #female heart #cardiophile thoughts #stethoscope #heartbeat kink #cardiology #heartbeat #dr. carmella hill #red filled fantasies

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