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Yoon Jeonghan had been shot before.
He'd been stabbed, thrown from a moving vehicle, and once bitten by a feral raccoon in Daegu (long story). But nothing—not even boot camp, battlefield wounds, or his hellish former squad captain prepared him for the absolute humiliation of being wheeled into a civilian hospital for a busted ankle.
“It’s fractured, Captain. You need to stay off it for a few days.”
Yeah, well, good luck saying that to someone who barely knows how to sit still without violently tapping their feet.
His internal monologue was dramatically interrupted by the sound of a door swinging open.
And in walked the kind of man Jeonghan absolutely should not be trusted alone in a room with.
White scrubs. Slightly broad shoulders. A white coat worn with the casual arrogance of someone who knew damn well he looked good in it. His hair was a little messy—like he’d run his hand through it too many times, and his cherry-plump lips were doing things to Jeonghan’s willpower that no battle training ever could.
“Captain Yoon Jeonghan?” the man asked, eyes still on the chart in his hand.
“Depends,” Jeonghan replied, already leaning into a half-smile. “Are you here to give me good news… or your number?”
The man paused. Blinked. Looked up, expression unreadable.
“Dr. Choi Seungcheol.” A short beat. “And I’m here to tell you you’re not walking for a week.”
Jeonghan grinned, completely unbothered. “Tragic. Guess I’ll need someone to carry me around.”
He nodded at Seungcheol’s biceps, very much on display beneath his fitted sleeves.
“Volunteers?”
Seungcheol exhaled through his nose like he was already reconsidering his entire career.
“Do you always flirt while on painkillers?”
Jeonghan tilted his head, pouting. The innocence in his eyes didn't reach the criminal smirk plastered on his face.
“I’m not even on them yet.”
That got him something, barely. A twitch at the corner of Seungcheol’s mouth.
“Unfortunate.”
Later, Seungcheol stood by the bed, scribbling something on a clipboard with all the focus of a man clinging to professionalism.
Jeonghan watched him from his pillow, head tilted, eyes shameless. He wasn’t even pretending not to stare anymore. Why bother? The view was excellent, and he’d always been a sucker for clean-cut men who looked like they could both save lives and fold laundry while brooding about it.
His fingers tapped lazily against the metal railing. “So…” he drawled, voice honey-smooth. “Do you come here often?”
Seungcheol didn’t even glance up. “I fucking work here.”
Jeonghan laughed, sharp and delighted—then immediately winced, jostling his leg with a groan.
“God, you’re really hot and you curse like my mom. I’m so screwed.”
Seungcheol set the clipboard down with a soft clack and finally looked at him, eyes dark, but laced with something gentler around the edges. It was too close to concern.
“You're not screwed,” he said. “It’s a clean fracture. If you follow orders and don’t overdo it, you’ll be walking again in no time.”
Jeonghan blinked at him. One slow, deliberate beat.
Then “...That wasn’t the kind of screwed I meant.”
Seungcheol's ears turned red.
The next morning, Seungcheol pushed open the door to Room 104 with hand full of chart and mind filled with the intension of being normal.
Unfortunately, “normal” exited the chat the moment he spotted Jeonghan halfway out of bed, crutches untouched, hospital gown slightly askew, bare leg dangling as he tried to reach his boots on the floor like he hadn’t fractured his ankle literally yesterday.
Seungcheol nearly dropped the charts.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Jeonghan looked up, completely unbothered. “Stretching.”
“Stretching your luck, maybe.” Seungcheol stormed forward, already reaching to shove him gently, but firmly back into place.
“Sit. Down. You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”
Jeonghan cocked his head, lashes fluttering like he absolutely knew what he was doing.
“Say it a little slower, Doc.”
Seungcheol froze.
“And maybe…” Jeonghan patted the empty space beside him with a wicked grin.
“Join me in it?”
The silence that followed could’ve been cut with a scalpel.
Seungcheol’s face went bright red. Not just the ears this time—the whole thing. From the hairline down to the collar of his stupidly well-fitted scrubs.
Then, with zero hesitation, he took the stack of reports he’d brought and chucked them straight at Jeonghan’s face.
“I hate you,” he hissed, already backing out of the room like being in it another second would cause spontaneous combustion.
The papers fluttered everywhere—floor, bed, Jeonghan’s lap—while the soldier sat there, absolutely wheezing with laughter.
“You’re blushing again, Doctor!” he called after him, delight in every syllable.
From the hallway:
“Shut up, Yoon!”
Day two was eventful. And by eventful, Seungcheol meant disastrous—in the way only painkillers and a dangerously charming soldier with no filter could cause.
He was checking the IV drip when it started.
“Doctor,” Jeonghan slurred from the bed, blinking up at him . “Your hands are so pretty.”
Seungcheol didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch. Just adjusted the saline like he hadn’t heard a thing.
Jeonghan giggled. Actually giggled. “I bet you’d be so gentle with me. Unless…” he tilted his head, voice dropping to something criminal, “you’re into the rough stuff and leaving marks.”
The IV cap slipped from Seungcheol’s fingers and bounced off the floor with a light ping.
“I— you’re on medication.”
“I’m on you, mentally. Spiritually.” Jeonghan sighed dreamily. “Biblically, if you’ve got Friday night free.”
Seungcheol backed away, muttering something about “professional distance” while Jeonghan called after him:
“Come back! I haven’t finished yet!”
The door closed behind Seungcheol with a very audible slam.
The next day, Jeonghan was back at it—stone-cold sober and ten times worse.
Seungcheol had just stepped inside when Jeonghan clutched at his chest and gasped, “Doctor! I’m flatlining.”
Without missing a beat, Seungcheol replied, “You’re not.”
“Only mouth-to-mouth can save me!”
“That’s not how vitals work.”
“Then come check my vitals and prove me wrong.”
Seungcheol sighed so hard it sounded like a soul leaving his body.
And yet—he stayed. Even as Jeonghan threw shameless lines at him like grenades.
“I think I’m running a fever,” Jeonghan announced. “You should check my forehead. With your lips. It’s the only way to be sure.”
“You don’t have a fever,” Seungcheol muttered without looking up.
“Oh? Then why is it hot in here?” Jeonghan asked, licking his lips.
“You’re wearing a blanket and a superiority complex.”
By day four, Seungcheol had stopped asking why things happened and started asking how he’d survive until discharge.
It was just past breakfast when Jeonghan muttered, loud enough to be heard, “Still no help cleaning up. I’ve been abandoned. Left to decay.”
“You showered yesterday,” Seungcheol said flatly, not even glancing up from the chart.
“Still. I’m sticky. I demand justice.”
Seungcheol’s pen paused mid-sentence.
Then, without inflection, he said, “If you don’t stop trying to get out of bed, I’ll give you the sponge bath myself.”
Jeonghan stared.
Paused.
And then, with the most demonic smile Seungcheol had ever seen, he slowly lay back down. Hands folded. Eyes gleaming.
“Would you like me front-facing or back first?”
Seungcheol made a noise that might’ve been a whimper and stormed out with the tablet still in his hand.
That evening, things went suspiciously quiet.
Seungcheol stepped into the room expecting another battle, and instead found Jeonghan lying on his side, not a flirt in sight.
He approached cautiously. “You okay?”
Jeonghan didn’t look at him. “It’s dumb.”
“What is?”
“…I’ve been shot. Stabbed. Hell, I’ve patched myself up in the middle of a rice field with duct tape and prayer.” He exhaled. “But this? Sitting still. Doing nothing. Letting someone else take care of me?” A pause. “It pisses me off more than I thought.”
Seungcheol sat down at the foot of the bed, just far enough not to crowd. “You’re used to being in control,” he said. “Used to pushing through. You just have to… let yourself heal.”
“Not really my skill set,” Jeonghan muttered.
Seungcheol’s voice went softer. “Then let it be mine.”
Jeonghan finally looked at him. That usual smirk softened, just for a second. “Still hot when you talk like that, Doc.”
Seungcheol bit his tongue. The spell broke. And Jeonghan knew it, grinning as the flush crept back up Seungcheol’s neck.
By the sixth day, Seungcheol didn’t even flinch when Jeonghan began with, “So if I hypothetically seduced you, would that count as breaking and entering? because, you know… you’ve already stolen my heart.”
“Jesus Christ,” Seungcheol muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I’m being sincere,” Jeonghan insisted. “And also, I might have stolen pudding from the nurse’s station. So maybe it counts twice.”
“Want me to write you a psych consult?”
“Only if it ends with your number.”
Seungcheol stared at the wall and whispered, “I am a man of medicine. I can't kill you. I took an oath.”
“You can still take me,” Jeonghan offered. “Just—ethically.”
Discharge day arrived too soon and not soon enough.
Seungcheol walked in with papers in hand, lips tight, eyes slightly red like he hadn’t slept well.
“Alright,” he said, tone clipped. “You’re cleared. Stick to crutches. Elevate the ankle when possible. Follow up in two weeks.”
Jeonghan sat on the bed, dressed, packed, and maybe, just maybe a little less smug than usual.
“So this is it?” he said lightly.
“Yeah.”
“No goodbye kiss?”
Seungcheol looked up.
Paused. Too long.
“…If you wanted one,” he said, voice quiet, “you’d have to ask me out first.”
Jeonghan’s smile curled slow and knowing.
“What time do you get off tonight?”
Seungcheol didn’t even try to fight the smile this time.
“Seven.”
“I’ll be at the front desk with flowers and a fake medical emergency.”