Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Haiven General Hospital prided itself on excellence — but excellence had never been this.

Every time Dr. Jiang Xiaoshuai crossed the main lobby, time itself seemed to decelerate. The overhead lights softened, the noise faded, and even the vending machine paused mid-drop. His white coat caught the air like a banner of peace; his stethoscope gleamed as if forged by divine hands.

He wasn’t the kind of handsome that demanded attention — it was the quiet kind, the sort that crept into your pulse. His calm could silence an entire corridor.

And yet every time he so much as lifted his eyes from a chart, the interns’ group chat combusted.

@InternChoi: HE JUST SMILED AT A CHILD PATIENT 😭😭😭
@ResidentLin: that’s diagnostic beam therapy right there
@NurseMei: reminder that he diagnosed Mr. Wu’s rare autoimmune thing in 0.3 sec
@FanclubAdmin: update the shrine photo drive pls 🙏
@RadTechYoyo: this man’s aura sterilizes the air
@EpiQueen: my heartrate monitor went off when he said “good morning”
@InternPark: saw him tie his mask one-handed. wrist flick smooth like k-drama surgeon-core.
@TechNurse94: i swear his coat glows brighter after night shifts

No one quite remembered who’d started the fanclub, but its spread was faster than airborne pathogens. They called themselves The Xiao Sect — half-joke, half-religion. Their Weibo headquarters was a vault of sacred chaos: case updates, blurry photos, “out-of-context Dr. Jiang moments,” and late-night essays titled things like ‘Proof That Compassion Can Be Hot.’

@FanclubAdmin: reminder: archive link moved to Drive C under “Haiven Histories”
@ResidentLin: why “histories”
@FanclubAdmin: plausible deniability 🧍
@MicrobiomeMaid: i made prayer candles w his face. scented w “sterile serenity.” 🕯️
@SurgicalSiren: adding new emoji poll — 🩺 or 😇 for our saint?
@NurseMei: both. duality of man.
@RadTechYoyo: btw did yall see the conference clip where he adjusted his glasses mid-sentence? cinematic.
@InternChoi: adding that to my reel of holy moments

They documented everything. His handwriting (surprisingly neat). His pen preferences (Muji 0.38, the data confirmed). The way he said “let’s take a deeper look” before making a diagnosis that left consultants speechless.

The Xiao Sect’s worship wasn’t just thirst — it was awe. Reverence. The kind of collective delirium reserved for miracles that walked among mortals.

@FanclubAdmin: sect prayer tonight, 8PM. bring screenshots.
@ResidentLin: does anyone have his handwriting sample from the ER chart?
@EpiQueen: i laminated it. obviously.
@SurgicalSiren: this is why we’re on an HR watchlist.
@TechNurse94: worth it.

Outside their secret digital temple, Dr. Jiang went about his day as though the Xiao Sect didn’t exist. Calm, efficient, unshakably polite.
He nodded to nurses, double-checked charts, thanked janitors by name.

And every time he did, five hidden cameras clicked.

When he presented at the National Medical Innovations Conference, the Sect mobilized like a covert ops team. VPNs deployed. Stream links shared. Hashtags prepped.

@FanclubAdmin: okay saints, it’s live. behave.
@RadTechYoyo: impossible.
@InternChoi: HIS VOICE???? velvety sinus rhythm 😭😭😭
@ResidentLin: #SaintInScrubs #MiracleMachine #OurDrJiang #HeDiagnosedMyHeart
@NurseMei: recording for future generations

The fandom dubbed him “Haiven’s Miracle Machine.”
Local med students called him Saint Jiang.
One gossip forum once posted, “If he ever opens a private clinic, half the city will fake symptoms.”

@MicrobiomeMaid: i volunteer as fake patient
@SurgicalSiren: i volunteer as vital sign monitor

But there was one truth none of them knew — not the nurses, not the interns, not even the admins of The Xiao Sect.

Dr. Jiang knew.

He knew about the secret channel.
He knew about the shrine drive (his lab intern had accidentally named a file “holy_photo_batch.zip”).
He’d even stumbled upon one of their memes once — a low-res screenshot of him mid-yawn, captioned “Even saints get tired 😔.”

And what did he do?
Nothing.

He said nothing, told no one, never even hinted. He merely smiled a little more often after that. Calmer, softer — as if privately amused by the devotion circling him.

Sometimes, between consultations, he’d glance at his tablet, scrolling through lab reports, and the faintest twitch of a smile tugged at his lips. A kind of secret indulgence.

Maybe he thought it was harmless.
Maybe it comforted him on sleepless nights — knowing that, somewhere out there, a hundred people believed in him like he was a miracle.

Or maybe, just maybe, he liked the idea of being a little bit divine.

@FanclubAdmin: imagine if he ever found out about us 😭
@InternChoi: he’d probably diagnose us all with chronic delusion
@ResidentLin: respectfully.
@SurgicalSiren: i’d take that diagnosis as a love letter.
@TechNurse94: he’s too pure. he’d never judge.
@NurseMei: i feel like he knows tho…
@FanclubAdmin: no way. he’s too busy saving lives to scroll weibo

A pause.

Then, quietly — in the real Haiven cafeteria, not online — Dr. Jiang stirred his tea, eyes drifting toward a table of whispering interns.
He recognized one of them.
@InternChoi, probably.

He smiled — slow, knowing, gentle.
And somewhere in the Xiao Sect chat, a notification pinged.

@InternChoi: HE LOOKED AT ME. LIKE. LOOKED. HELP.

Dr. Jiang sipped his tea.
The corner of his mouth curved just slightly.

Chapter Text

The Xiao Sect's believers grew in numbers. By week six of The Xiao Sect’s existence, the membership had exploded beyond containment. Nurses, interns, even a few research staff had joined under elaborate pseudonyms.

The feed was a mix of prayer circle memes, academic thirst posts, and very serious diagnostic admiration.

But one name kept coming up — usually followed by several angry emojis:

@InternChoi: WHY IS GUO CHENGYU EVERYWHERE LATELY
@ResidentLin: that man gives off anti-fun energy 😭
@EpiQueen: he walked past the radiology wing like he was judging our devotion levels
@SurgicalSiren: clearly doesn’t understand the magnitude of Dr. Jiang’s greatness

They’d seen him once in a strategy meeting, sitting beside the hospital director, stone-faced and intimidating. He looked like the type to approve budget cuts for coffee machines.

To the Sect, Guo Chengyu was an outsider — a “nonbeliever.”
A man of numbers, not miracles.

@RadTechYoyo: i bet he calls dr jiang “that physician” instead of “our light”
@InternChoi: he probably calls him “jiang, md.” 😭
@FanclubAdmin: everyone calm down 😇 remember our doctrine: patience, peace, and pixels

The admin’s calm posts always worked like tranquilizers.
No one suspected that the unbothered moderator soothing their devotion was the very man they accused of heresy.

Meanwhile, the “heretic” himself was losing his mind.

Chengyu hadn’t intended for the cult to turn into this.
He’d started the Weibo channel on a slow night after seeing Dr. Jiang diagnose a complex case with absurd precision.
He’d joked — “our attending just singlehandedly cured mediocrity.”
And now there were 800 members making sermon threads.

He’d been careful. Always posting under a VPN, never logging in at work, using an untraceable email.
He thought he was safe.

Until one fateful morning.

He was reviewing budgets when his secretary said, “Director Guo, Dr. Jiang would like a brief meeting about patient data integration.”

And that was the start of his downfall.

Dr. Jiang in person was worse than the videos.
Worse, because Chengyu couldn’t pause or mute him.
He stood there in immaculate composure — white coat pristine, tone kind but firm.

“Director Guo,” he greeted, “thank you for making time.”

The man sounded like a calm spring breeze wearing a stethoscope.

“Of course,” Chengyu said, maintaining a professional smile. “I’ve read your proposal.”

They talked metrics, workflow, accuracy. Chengyu focused on the numbers — tried to, anyway — but the entire time, part of his brain kept whispering:

That’s the voice that read that one line in your leaked fan audio post. Don’t panic.

He nodded at all the right times. He said all the right things. But when Dr. Jiang smiled — a small, genuine curve of the lips — Chengyu felt his composure crack like old glass.

It wasn’t attraction, he told himself. It was… admiration. Professional respect.
Definitely not the reason he’d once edited a meme caption to “saint of the cardiac ward.”

“Your data projections are remarkably precise,” Dr. Jiang said. “It’s almost like you already understand how we work.”

Chengyu’s internal firewall crashed.

“Just a guess,” he said quickly. “Analytics is… about patterns.”

Dr. Jiang smiled again. “Then you must notice quite a lot.”

Chengyu coughed into his fist. “Excuse me— yes. I do.”

When the meeting ended, he had to take a walk just to recover.
Outside, interns were whispering excitedly — something about “Dr. Jiang finally meeting the director’s son.”

Someone posted a blurry hallway photo within ten minutes.

@ResidentLin: WHO ALLOWED HIM TO STAND THAT CLOSE TO DR JIANG
@EpiQueen: look at his face he doesn’t even appreciate the blessing 😭
@SurgicalSiren: the audacity to look unimpressed while our saint shines beside him
@NeedleDrifter: enemies to lovers? i can fix him.
@InternChoi: no WE can fix him. together.
@FanclubAdmin: remember what the doctrine says: judge not, for some heretics can be converted.

Chengyu read that last message on his secret admin account after leaving his comment and nearly threw his phone.

Converted??
He was the founder of their faith.

But he couldn’t reveal that.
So he did the only logical thing — he doubled down on his “disinterested professional” act.

He started keeping a careful distance from Dr. Jiang in public. Avoided eye contact, refused to smile.
He thought it might help lower suspicion.

It did not.

@EpiQueen: omg the tension.
@ResidentLin: did you see him ignore Dr. Jiang at the staff cafeteria? that’s so romcom coded.
@SurgicalSiren: enemies-to-lovers arc unlocked.
@RadTechYoyo: No! Thats blasphemy! 
@FanclubAdmin: …
@FanclubAdmin: interesting.

Chengyu began to realize there was no winning.
Every polite word he exchanged with Jiang got dissected into fan theories.
Every time he walked past him without saying hello, half of them called it “repressed affection.”

He was trapped in a fandom he’d built with his own hands.

And worse — Dr. Jiang started looking at him differently.
Not suspiciously, exactly. More like… amused.
As if he knew something Chengyu didn’t.

Once, Dr. Jiang even smiled at him in the elevator — that same soft, devastating smile that had launched a thousand memes.

“Long day?” Dr. Jiang asked.

“Always,” Chengyu said, trying not to combust.

“Mm.” Dr. Jiang tilted his head slightly. “You should rest more. You look… tired.”

Tired.
He’d read that word before — in three separate Xiao Sect threads analyzing the precise way Dr. Jiang said it to interns.
Now it was aimed at him.

He barely made it through the ride.

@InternChoi: DID YOU SEE THAT ELEVATOR VIDEO
@ResidentLin: HE LOOKED STRAIGHT AT GUO CHENGYU.
@EpiQueen: our saint is so gentle even with sinners 🥹
@Fanclub Admin: …the cult approves of redemption arcs, i suppose..
@RedTechYoyo: lets not start shipping the Saint with that capitalist guys. 

Chengyu closed the app.
He was both the puppet master and the marionette, and it was entirely his fault.

He glanced at his reflection in the elevator’s steel doors — tired, yes. Maybe a little undone.
He laughed under his breath. “They think I don’t get him,” he muttered.

But the truth was — he understood Dr. Jiang better than anyone else.
Too well, maybe.

And if Jiang ever found out who was behind the fanclub…

Chengyu didn’t know whether he’d be smote, forgiven — or smiled at in that unbearably gentle way that made it all worse.

Chapter Text

Guo Chengyu had once managed multimillion-dollar budgets, survived three hospital board restructures, and singlehandedly convinced the IT department to modernize their database system.

None of that prepared him for moderating The Xiao Sect.

By week eight, his creation had evolved beyond reason. The members had split into factions. Some debated Dr. Jiang’s preferred brand of tea. Others analyzed his handwriting on medical notes. One particularly devout member created a prayer bot that sent “Daily Jiang-spirations” at 7 a.m. sharp.

Chengyu had no idea how to stop it without blowing his cover.

🩺 The Forum, 8:03 a.m.

@InternChoi: everyone please like and share this edit i made 🙏 “he heals not only patients but souls”
@SurgicalSiren: sobbing crying throwing scalpels 😭
@ResidentLin: can someone ban that director guo guy from existing???
@EpiQueen: heresy counter: 12 ☠️
@FanclubAdmin: Good morning, my luminous disciples ☀️ remember: inner peace, outer professionalism.

Chengyu hit Post with his morning coffee in hand, trying not to think about the irony of it all.

The man they called “heretic” was literally sitting in his office, sipping espresso and scheduling department audits.

He told himself it was fine. Harmless. He wasn’t lying — just… moderating spiritual chaos.

That sounded noble enough.

Then, it happened again.
Dr. Jiang messaged him directly.

[WorkChat – Dr. Jiang, 09:27 a.m.]

Director Guo, are you available this afternoon to discuss the data integration follow-up?

Chengyu stared at the message like it was divine judgment.

Of course, Doctor. 3 p.m. works.

He should’ve left it there. But his brain, corrupted by fandom exposure, whispered treacherously:
"He typed punctuations. That means he’s serious. Calm. Courteous. Possibly fond of you."

He slammed his laptop shut. “I need therapy,” he muttered.

Dr. Jiang arrived at his office with a soft knock.

“Director Guo,” he greeted politely. “Thank you again for your time.”

“You’re always welcome,” Chengyu replied, professionally. (Stop sounding too eager. Stop sounding like a Sect member.)

They discussed patient flow optimization. Dr. Jiang spoke with that same calm precision — words measured, deliberate, disarmingly gentle. Every time he said “Director Guo,” it sounded like an honorific blessing.

When the meeting ended, Chengyu barely held it together long enough to shut the door before collapsing into his chair.

He opened his phone out of reflex — and froze.

@InternChoi: omg dr jiang and the director in one office again 😳 blurry photo incoming
@EpiQueen: my god look at the aura difference. one looks like enlightenment, the other looks like taxes.
@FanclubAdmin: enlightenment and taxes can coexist 🕯️ balance is key.

He pressed Send. Then realized what he’d just written.

“Balance is key”? Was he… defending himself as a concept now?

He was spiraling.

Chengyu sat at home, laptop open, toggling between  spreadsheets and Sect chaos. 

He should’ve been finalizing next quarter’s expenditure. Instead, he was approving fanfiction threads.

@ResidentLin: imagine if Dr. Jiang ever found out about the Sect 😭
@SurgicalSiren: he’d bless us with a kind smile then tell us to touch grass
@FanclubAdmin: perhaps the true enlightenment… is anonymity.

He stared at that last line for a long time.

Anonymity.

It had kept him safe so far. But lately, Dr. Jiang had been watching him a little too closely — the kind of look that said I’ve noticed something you’re trying to hide.

The next morning, he walked into the cafeteria and nearly dropped his tray.
Someone had printed Sect memes — on paper — and pinned them to the staff board.

There it was: a collage of Dr. Jiang healing light, accompanied by a new caption —
“FanclubAdmin, our mysterious prophet, blesses us daily.”

Someone had drawn a halo over his old comment.

Chengyu wanted to scream. He couldn’t even delete it; doing so would draw attention.

So he did what any man on the brink of divine meltdown would do — he went to the source.

Dr. Jiang was sipping tea at the doctor's lounge, reviewing charts.

Chengyu approached with all the calm of a man walking into his own trial.

“Dr. Jiang,” he began, voice perfectly steady. “I’d like to discuss staff… social media behavior.”

Dr. Jiang looked up, eyes mild but curious. “Ah, the Sect.”

He knows. He knows.

“I’ve… heard about it,” Dr. Jiang continued, setting his cup down. “They seem rather dedicated. Passionate, even.”

“Obnoxiously so,” Chengyu muttered. “Someone should regulate that.”

A ghost of a smile touched Jiang’s lips. “Perhaps. But it’s… harmless, don’t you think?”

Chengyu forced a laugh. “Harmless. Yes. Absolutely.”

Dr. Jiang studied him for a long moment — too long. Then, with a tone that felt suspiciously like amusement, he said, “You look tired again, Director Guo. Do get some rest.”

Chengyu froze.
Because in the Sect’s latest post, a user had written the exact same line:

‘When Dr. Jiang says “you look tired,” that’s not an observation — it’s a benediction.’

He barely managed a nod.
“Yes, Doctor,” he croaked. “I’ll… rest.”

That night, Chengyu logged in again — partly to cope, partly out of masochism.

@InternChoi: rumor says dr jiang knows about us 😭
@EpiQueen: he’s too kind to expose us 🥹
@FanclubAdmin: …perhaps he already knows more than we think.

His DMs exploded.

@SurgicalSiren: omg ADMIN ARE U DR JIANG HIMSELF 😭
@ResidentLin: or are u the director 👀
@FanclubAdmin: neither. i’m just a humble observer. may enlightenment guide you all. 🌙

He stared at the screen.
Maybe this was what divine punishment looked like — not fire, not fury, but eternal irony.

Because somewhere in the hospital, Dr. Jiang was probably smiling again —
and Chengyu couldn’t tell if that meant he was forgiven…
or found out.

Chapter Text

By week ten, The Xiao Sect had become unstoppable.
What started as a fandom chatroom had evolved into a movement.

They’d begun organizing offline.
The plan was bold: a “Medical Symposium” that was, in reality, a full-blown fan convention disguised as continuing education.
They called it: “The Healing Light Conference.”

Chengyu read the post while sipping his morning coffee — and nearly aspirated.

@InternChoi: we’re renting a conference room!! 🥹
@ResidentLin: everyone wear white coats even if u don’t have one 😭
@EpiQueen: we’ll submit an official proposal to Dr. Jiang’s department. let’s make it legit.
@FanclubAdmin: proceed with wisdom, my followers 🕯️

He hit send before realizing what he’d done.
He should’ve stopped them.
He was a Director, who was also the person approving conference proposals.
This was professional suicide in meme form.

“Director Guo,” his secretary said, holding a thick envelope. “Another symposium request. From the internal group… ‘Healing Light’?”

Chengyu froze mid-type.
“Oh. Them,” he said, voice very, very calm.
“They’re… enthusiastic.”

He opened the file.
Inside was a full agenda:

• 9:00 AM — Opening Ceremony: “The Sanctity of Clinical Precision”
• 10:00 AM — Panel: “The Saint Among Surgeons”
• 2:00 PM — Workshop: “Diagnosis or Divine Vision?”
• Guest of Honor: Dr. Jiang Xiaoshuai

He dropped the papers. “I’m going to hell.”

He considered rejecting it.
But the moment he logged in to his admin account, the feed was filled with hopeful excitement.

@ResidentLin: can’t believe dr jiang will speak 😭
@EpiQueen: the admin said to have faith. i have faith 😇
@FanclubAdmin: faith is data-driven. proceed with optimism.

Chengyu groaned into his hands. He was quoting himself in both universes.
There was no escape now.

So he did what any desperate man would do —he approved the conference and hoped for divine mercy.

The day of the symposium the hospital auditorium looked like a scene from a spiritual awakening.

White coats everywhere. Hand-drawn banners that said “Praise be the Pulse” and “Our Saint of the Scalpel.” Someone was even handing out candles shaped like EKG waves.

Chengyu arrived early, expression neutral, suit immaculate. No one suspected him — the Director wouldn’t be caught dead organizing this. He just had to survive until the end.

Then Dr. Jiang walked in.

The crowd fell into reverent silence.
He looked a little confused, but not alarmed — politely accepting the attention, smiling faintly as interns nearly fainted.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Jiang said at the podium. “Though I’m… not entirely sure what this event is.”

Chengyu, seated at the front, pinched the bridge of his nose.

💻 The Xiao Cult Groupchat: Live Updates

@InternChoi: he’s here he’s so calm i can’t breathe 😭
@ResidentLin: the director is sitting in the front row looking like a funeral attendee
@EpiQueen: enemies-to-lovers energy. i can smell it.
@FanclubAdmin: …maintain composure. enlightenment thrives on restraint.
@SurgicalSiren: ADMIN U SOUND NERVOUS 😭

Chengyu nearly choked. He typed back one-handed under the table.

@FanclubAdmin: i am… merely in awe of divine presence.

He meant it, unfortunately.

🎤 Panel Session: “The Saint Among Surgeons”

Someone on the committee — probably a demon — had scheduled a Q&A moderated by Director Guo himself.

Chengyu stood at the lectern, professional smile glued on.
Dr. Jiang sat beside him, hands folded neatly, eyes calm and kind.

“Dr. Jiang,” Chengyu began, his tone formal, “many staff admire your ability to remain composed under pressure. How do you maintain that balance?”

“I suppose I try to remember that patients need clarity, not chaos,” Jiang replied softly.
His gaze shifted toward Chengyu. “Though, sometimes chaos teaches us, too.”

Chengyu forgot how to breathe.
The audience collectively sighed like a congregation receiving grace.

@InternChoi: HE LOOKED RIGHT AT HIM 😭😭😭
@EpiQueen: GUO CHENGYU IS THE CHAOS 😭
@FanclubAdmin: …perhaps divinity and data were destined to intersect.

After the session, Jiang approached him backstage.

“You handled the questions well, Director Guo.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Chengyu said, forcing composure.

Then Jiang smiled — that small, knowing smile that made his heartbeat skip half a file directory.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” he said. “You seem quite… familiar with the Sect’s tone online.”

Every neuron in Chengyu’s brain screamed.

“I— what?” he managed.

Jiang tilted his head. “You quoted them earlier. ‘Faith is data-driven.’ That’s a line from their posts, isn’t it?”

Chengyu blinked rapidly. “Oh. Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

Jiang’s lips curved, ever so slightly.
“Of course not,” he said, voice like silk hiding amusement. “Still… it’s interesting how well you understand them.”

“Just… efficient observation,” Chengyu said weakly.

“Mm,” Jiang murmured. “You do observe quite a lot, don’t you?”

And then he walked away — calm, polite, suspiciously entertained.

That night, Chengyu logged into his admin account out of habit.
His hands hovered over the keyboard.

@ResidentLin: i think dr jiang smiled at the director again today 😭
@EpiQueen: he looked like he knew something 👀
@InternChoi: maybe he knows who admin is 😭
@FanclubAdmin: …perception is a dangerous art. let us pray he sees only what is meant to be seen.

He hit send, leaned back, and laughed softly — the kind of laugh that sounded like surrender.

Because at this point, it wasn’t just about being found out.
It was the unbearable truth that Dr. Jiang — calm, perceptive, impossibly kind Dr. Jiang —
might already know…
and was simply waiting for him to confess.

Chapter Text

It began with a single, unholy post.

@EpiQueen: announcement!! ✨ The Xiao Sect will hold Redemption Week — our sacred mission to convert Director Guo 😭🙏
@InternChoi: bless the unbeliever 😭
@ResidentLin: seven days to turn capitalism into compassion
@SurgicalSiren: hashtag: #SaveTheDirector 😭😭😭
@FanclubAdmin: …i do not consent to this event.

His comment was ignored in less than thirty seconds.

Within hours, the Sect had drawn up full schedules — themed prayers, meme drives, digital candles, even fanart of Dr. Jiang handing Guo Chengyu a glowing stethoscope labeled “faith.”

Chengyu sat in his office at 2 a.m., staring at the screen, wondering when exactly he lost control of his life.
He’d created a fandom to admire a doctor — not to spiritually reform himself.

💻 Day 1 — “Acts of Kindness”

The Sect declared that every member must perform one good deed daily, inspired by Dr. Jiang’s gentle nature.

Unfortunately, this somehow extended to “leaving anonymous gifts for Director Guo to soften his heart.”

By noon, Chengyu’s desk was covered in snacks, coffee cups, and sticky notes saying things like “Believe in miracles (and HR compliance)” and “Saint Jiang forgives spreadsheets too.”

He was about to call security when someone knocked.

“Director Guo?”

Dr. Jiang stood there, holding a folder. Calm, polite, slightly amused.

“I hope these aren’t… overwhelming,” Jiang said, glancing at the offerings. “It seems you’ve gained a few admirers.”

Chengyu forced a tight smile. “I… wouldn’t call them admirers.”

“Ah.” Jiang’s eyes glinted faintly. “Disciples, then?”

He choked. “Doctor, I assure you—”

“I’m joking,” Jiang said lightly, setting down the folder. “Though it’s nice to see staff… inspired by you.”

Chengyu blinked. “Inspired by me?”

Jiang tilted his head. “You’re the one teaching them data efficiency, aren’t you? Perhaps they see faith in logic.”

Faith in logic.
If only he knew.

💬 Fanclub Groupchat — Day 3

@ResidentLin: guys he accepted the gifts!!! he didn’t throw them out 😭
@EpiQueen: he’s warming up 😭
@InternChoi: dr jiang talked to him in the hallway again 😭
@FanclubAdmin: correlation does not imply causation.
@SurgicalSiren: admin you sound jealous 😭😭😭

Jealous.
Chengyu threw his phone onto the couch.
He wasn’t jealous.
He was just… concerned. For structural reasons.
(Specifically, the structure of his sanity.)

🩺 Day 4 — “Words of Healing”

The Sect’s next decree: “Send Dr. Jiang and Director Guo appreciation messages.”

By 10 a.m., Chengyu’s inbox was flooded.

Subject lines like “Redemption Progress Report,” “Faith in Finance,” and “Guo Chengyu: our reluctant lamb.”

He was one email away from deleting his entire existence when another notification appeared — internal message, not fan mail.

[WorkChat — Dr. Jiang, 10:22 a.m.]

Director Guo, you’ve been receiving rather… enthusiastic correspondence. Are you managing alright?

Chengyu rubbed his temples.

Perfectly fine. Just community outreach, apparently.

Community outreach?

Something like that.

Then Jiang sent a small emoji — just a single, neutral 🙂.
But to Chengyu, it looked like divine mockery.

☕ Day 5 — “Lunch with the Nonbeliever”

The Sect’s final challenge: “Break bread with the unbeliever.”
To their shock — and Chengyu’s horror — Dr. Jiang actually accepted when an intern invited both of them to lunch “for team harmony.”

They ended up at the hospital cafeteria, sitting across from each other.

Jiang stirred his tea slowly. “You’ve been quiet lately, Director Guo.”

“I’m… busy,” Chengyu said. “Very busy.”

“Ah. From all the community outreach?”

He froze. Jiang’s expression was mild, almost teasing.
“You do seem unusually… familiar with their habits,” Jiang continued softly. “Sometimes even using their phrasing.”

“That’s coincidence,” Chengyu said too quickly.

“Mm. Coincidences are fascinating,” Jiang mused. “They reveal patterns we don’t notice until it’s too late.”

Chengyu inhaled, steadying himself. “Doctor, are you accusing me of being—”

“The FanclubAdmin?” Jiang finished, tone unreadable.
Silence.
For a full three seconds, Chengyu’s entire nervous system rebooted.

Then Jiang smiled, serene as ever. “Relax. I wouldn’t accuse you of anything.”

“You—”

“I just find it amusing how defensive you get when the Sect’s mentioned.”
He sipped his tea. “Almost like someone protecting their own creation.”

Chengyu stared at him, utterly undone.
“Doctor,” he managed, voice barely steady, “are you teasing me?”

Jiang’s lips curved just enough to make it worse.
“Just observing.”

That night Chengyu sat in bed, laptop open, the fanclub chat glowing like a shrine.

@InternChoi: day 5 success!! they had lunch together 😭😭😭
@EpiQueen: the conversion is working 😭
@FanclubAdmin: …redemption is a two-way process. perhaps the light learns from the shadow too.

He paused, reread his words, and laughed under his breath.

Because maybe — just maybe — Dr. Jiang wasn’t the oblivious saint everyone thought.
Maybe he knew exactly who was behind the screen…
and was letting Chengyu sweat, one gentle smile at a time.

🌸 Epilogue Snippet — Day 7

Dr. Jiang passed by Chengyu’s office, pausing at the door.
“Director Guo,” he said softly. “The Sect seems calmer lately. Did you… have something to do with that?”

Chengyu looked up, smiling faintly. “Just data correction, Doctor.”

“Ah.” Jiang nodded. “Then thank you for maintaining… order.”

Their eyes met for a brief, loaded moment.
A smile — faint, knowing — ghosted across Jiang’s lips.
“Goodnight, Director.”

Chengyu exhaled when he left, half in awe, half in despair.
Because for all his planning, all his secret moderation…
somehow, Dr. Jiang was still the one running the cult.

Chapter Text

By now, the hospital had accepted two unshakable truths:

1. Dr. Jiang was a living legend.
2. The Xiao Sect was unstoppable.

What no one realized was that the Director of Operations — the man responsible for keeping the hospital functional — was the one secretly fueling the nonsense while pretending to condemn it.

Chengyu sometimes wondered if irony itself was sentient and personally targeting him.

The Xiao Sect was thriving.
Their internal motto had evolved into:

“We work to fund our worship.”

Which was questionable, considering half of radiology was now scheduling prayer circles during night shifts.

@InternChoi: reminder: friday’s meeting is for spiritual recalibration (and maybe CT scan review if time)
@ResidentLin: amen to multitasking 🙏
@FanclubAdmin: you all have patients, remember that.
@SurgicalSiren: ADMIN u sound like management 😭😭😭

Chengyu massaged his temples.
He was management.

He was reviewing cost reports when Dr. Jiang appeared at his office door.

“Director Guo,” Dr. Jiang greeted, stepping in with his usual calm. “You look like you’ve been arguing with spreadsheets.”

“Always,” Chengyu replied. “They talk back now.”

Dr. Jiang smiled. “Perhaps you should rest.”

That word again. Rest.
Chengyu had come to fear it — it always sounded like a blessing and a warning at once.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

“Good,” Dr. Jiang murmured. “The Sect would be devastated if their… favorite heretic collapsed.”

Chengyu froze mid-keystroke. “Excuse me?”

“Oh,” Dr. Jiang said mildly, pouring tea. “The staff gossip. It’s impossible to avoid.”
He looked at Chengyu over the rim of his cup. “You do know they discuss your redemption arc daily?”

Chengyu’s expression didn’t move, but internally, he was a dial-up modem screaming.
“Fascinating,” he said flatly. “I’ll… note that for morale tracking.”

Dr. Jiang chuckled, low and warm. “You’re remarkably patient with them.”

“If I’m not, they’ll start another cult branch,” Chengyu muttered.

💬 Fanclub Feed: Midday Chaos

@EpiQueen: the director looked at dr jiang for like 2.3 seconds today 😭😭😭
@InternChoi: eye contact = enlightenment transmission confirmed
@ResidentLin: admin thoughts?
@FanclubAdmin: eye contact is inconclusive data.
@SurgicalSiren: admin in denial arc 😭😭😭

Chengyu groaned.
He needed these people to at least pretend to work.

He’d started walking outside after meetings — a small act of survival.
Tonight, though, the sound of footsteps joined his.

“Director Guo,” Dr. Jiang’s voice came softly from behind. “Taking a break?”

Chengyu nodded. “Trying to remember what oxygen feels like.”

Dr. Jiang laughed quietly. “I could prescribe fresh air, if that helps.”

“Noted, Doctor.”

They walked in silence for a moment — the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty. Just… charged.
The air carried the faint scent of antiseptic and flowers from the courtyard’s edge.

“You know,” Dr. Jiang said suddenly, tone casual but careful, “I’ve been thinking about the Sect.”

Chengyu’s pulse jumped. “Oh?”

“They’ve grown strangely organized lately. Calmer, even.”
He glanced at Chengyu, eyes faintly glinting under the courtyard lights. “Almost as if someone’s been moderating them… wisely.”

“Moderating?” Chengyu asked, feigning confusion. “You mean… IT management?”

Dr. Jiang’s lips curved slightly. “If that helps you sleep, yes.”

Chengyu stared ahead, pretending to watch the koi pond while every neuron in his brain screamed.

Dr. Jiang took a sip from his thermos, voice quiet but teasing. “You seem to understand them better than most. Sometimes, I wonder why.”

“Professional hazard,” Chengyu said quickly. “Pattern analysis.”

Dr. Jiang hummed. “Mm. You do like your patterns.”

Their eyes met briefly — calm and knowing versus barely contained panic.
Dr. Jiang smiled again, gentle and amused. “You really should rest, Director Guo.”

“Right,” Chengyu muttered. “Before the spreadsheets unionize.”

💻 Fanclub Feed: Midnight Reflections

@ResidentLin: rumor says dr jiang and the director took a walk together tonight 😭
@EpiQueen: oh no we’re feeding the enemies-to-lovers arc
@FanclubAdmin: …some stories don’t need to be written. they just… happen.
@SurgicalSiren: admin are u ok 😭 that sounded sad romantic

He stared at the message.
Sad romantic. Yeah, maybe that fit.
Because the more he tried to stay distant, the more Jiang seemed to see through him — calmly, kindly, without judgment.
And maybe that was the worst part:
that he didn’t want to hide anymore.

Jiang Xiaoshuai closed his laptop after finishing his rounds.
His Weibo notifications buzzed — someone had tagged the Xiao Sect again.

He smiled faintly, scrolling through the chaos: memes, reverent edits, and the ever-calm admin who somehow kept them from imploding.

The writing style was familiar — measured phrasing, dry humor, hidden care between the lines.
It reminded him of someone who once described patient data as “living stories.”

He leaned back, smiling softly.
“I see you, Director Guo,” he murmured under his breath. “Even if you think you’re invisible.”

“Director Guo,” Dr. Jiang greeted in the hallway.
“Dr. Jiang,” Chengyu returned evenly.

“Sleep well?”

Chengyu gave a polite nod. “Mostly.”

“Good,” Dr. Jiang said. “You’ll need your strength.”

“For?”

Dr. Jiang’s smile widened slightly. “The Sect’s planning a charity bake sale.”

Chengyu blinked. “…For what purpose?”

“Apparently,” Dr. Jiang said, voice warm and far too amused, “to ‘fund the heretic’s redemption journey.’”

Chengyu sighed deeply. “Of course they are.”

Dr. Jiang tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “I assume you’ll moderate?”

Chengyu gave him a long look. “…You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” Dr. Jiang admitted, that faint smile soft as sunlight.

And for once, Chengyu didn’t even pretend to be annoyed.
Because maybe — just maybe — he liked being seen.

Chapter Text

By 8 a.m., the hospital cafeteria had transformed into something out of a fever dream.

There were banners. Balloons. A life-size cutout of Dr. Jiang smiling benevolently beside a table labeled “Blessings Baked Fresh Daily.”

The Sect had gone feral.

🧁 Morning Briefing: or, How to Lose Faith in Logic

“Remind me,” Chengyu said slowly, massaging his temples, “why we are hosting an unauthorized bake sale inside a medical facility.”

HR coughed nervously. “It’s… technically a charity event, sir.”

“For what charity?”

“Um.”
A pause.
“The—uh—‘Redemption and Wellness Fund.’”

Chengyu blinked. “That sounds made up.”

“Oh, it is,” the intern said cheerfully from the corner. “But all proceeds go toward hospital improvement! And—” she lowered her voice reverently, “—the director’s soul.”

Chengyu inhaled through his nose. “Wonderful. We’ve entered the theological stage of madness.”

Dr. Jiang arrived with a calm smile and a box of homemade pastries.

The Sect reacted like a religious revelation had descended upon them.

@EpiQueen: he’s here HE’S HERE 😭😭😭
@ResidentLin: dr jiang brought food himself this is divine intervention
@InternChoi: we’re eating sanctified sugar today 🍪✨

“Dr. Jiang!” someone called. “Did you bake those yourself?”

“A friend helped,” Dr. Jiang replied smoothly.

He didn’t mention that the “friend” was the Director of Operations, who’d accidentally stayed up till midnight testing frosting ratios under the guise of “quality control.”

In his office, Chengyu tried to focus on spreadsheets.
Tried.

But from the cafeteria speakers, he could hear the chaos — the laughter, the cheers, and the suspiciously frequent chants of “Praise be to Dr. Jiang!”

He sighed.
It was fine.
He’d just stay upstairs, maintain plausible deniability, and—

“Director Guo?” a nurse called from the door, eyes bright. “Dr. Jiang requested your presence downstairs!”

He froze. “Why?”

“He said you’re… the guest of honor.”

Of course he did.

The moment Chengyu stepped into the cafeteria, applause erupted.

“Director Guo!” the Sect chorused. “Welcome to your redemption!”

Jiang stood calmly behind the main table, apron dusted with flour, eyes glinting with unmistakable mischief.

“Director,” he greeted pleasantly. “Try one?”

“I’m—” Chengyu cleared his throat, “—here in an administrative capacity.”

“Of course,” Dr. Jiang said, handing him a cookie. “Administrate this.”

Chengyu glared but took it anyway.
Unfortunately, it was delicious.

“You baked this,” he accused.

Dr. Jiang’s lips curved. “I supervised.”

“Which means you baked it.”

“Which means,” Dr. Jiang replied serenely, “I care about the hospital’s charitable efforts.”

From the sidelines, the Sect melted audibly.

@ResidentLin: HE FED HIM 😭😭😭😭😭
@SurgicalSiren: that was a symbolic communion i swear
@InternChoi: admin’s silence = spiritual acceptance 🙏

Then came the reporters.

Apparently, word had spread on social media: “Doctors host bake sale for hospital morale — and it’s led by the mysterious ‘Xiao Sect’ devoted to Dr. Jiang.”

Dr. Jiang handled the interviews with the grace of a saint.

“The Sect?” he said mildly. “Just a nickname among colleagues. They’re very passionate.”

The reporter turned to Chengyu. “And your thoughts, Director Guo?”

Chengyu smiled thinly. “I believe in… employee engagement.”

Behind him, someone whispered, “And spiritual healing!”

He pretended not to hear that.

By the end of the day, they’d raised an absurd amount of money — and somehow, morale had improved.
The Sect dispersed, proudly humming their anthem (“Clean Hands, Pure Hearts, Full Hearts Can’t Code Blue”).

Chengyu lingered in the now-quiet cafeteria, watching Dr. Jiang pack up the leftover pastries.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Chengyu said softly.

Dr. Jiang smiled, gentle this time. “Maybe I wanted to see you smile.”

He looked up, meeting Chengyu’s startled gaze. “You take care of everyone here. Someone should take care of you, too.”

Chengyu swallowed. “That’s not in your job description.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Maybe it’s just faith.”

There it was again — that quiet, unflinching warmth that made Chengyu’s carefully built walls crack a little more each time.

💬 Fanclub Feed: Post-Event Chaos

@EpiQueen: WE DID IT 🎉 raised 15k and converted 3 new members
@InternChoi: also dr jiang and the director baked together confirmed 😭😭😭
@ResidentLin: admin was v quiet today… are u okay 😭😭😭
@FanclubAdmin: just busy. reflecting.
@SurgicalSiren: that’s what people say when they’re in love 😭😭😭

Chengyu read the messages from his secret account, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Then, after a long pause, he typed:

@FanclubAdmin: Sometimes faith isn’t worship.
It’s trust — even when it terrifies you.

He hit send, leaned back in his chair, and smiled faintly.

Jiang Xiaoshuai’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the notification — a message from the Xiao Sect feed.

He read the admin’s post once, twice, and smiled.

“Trust, hm?” he murmured. “That’s progress.”

Then, almost fondly, he added another post under his verified account:

@DrJiang:
To trust is to heal. To heal is to see someone as they are — not as they hide. ☕

The Sect exploded instantly.

@ResidentLin: HE’S TALKING ABOUT ADMIN 😭😭😭😭
@EpiQueen: CONFIRMATION ARC?????
@FanclubAdmin: …no comment.

But somewhere across the hospital, Chengyu smiled again.
Because maybe — just maybe — he didn’t mind being seen anymore.

Bonus:

Chapter 7.5 — “After Hours Compliance (or: How Guo Chengyu accidentally got roped into midnight baking)” 🍪✨

The hospital was quiet after 10 p.m.
Most of the lights were dimmed, the hallways empty except for the soft hum of vending machines and the occasional footsteps of a night nurse.

In the staff breakroom, however, one light was still on — and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and impending disaster.

“Dr. Jiang,” Chengyu said, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, “remind me again why you couldn’t just buy cookies like a normal person.”

Across from him, Jiang Xiaoshuai looked perfectly unbothered. “Because homemade tastes better. And sincerity can’t be purchased.”

“That’s… sentimental.”

“Accurate,” Dr. Jiang corrected mildly.

Chengyu exhaled, glancing at the mixing bowl on the table — and the sheer amount of flour now decorating the countertop. “You know the hospital’s insurance policy doesn’t cover spiritual baking incidents, right?”

Dr. Jiang looked up from his whisk, eyes warm. “Then it’s good you’re supervising.”

That shouldn’t have made Chengyu’s pulse stutter, but it did.

He’d only meant to stay ten minutes. Approve the kitchen use, make sure no one electrocuted themselves, and go home.
Except Jiang Xiaoshuai couldn’t find the measuring cups.
Then the oven refused to preheat properly.
And somehow, Chengyu ended up rolling cookie dough beside him like an unwilling sous-chef.

“You bake often?” He asked, voice low and conversational.

“I… don’t have time for that,” Chengyu said curtly. “This is an exception.”

“An exception for me?”

The question was soft. Too soft.
Chengyu nearly dropped the spatula. “For safety,” he clarified quickly.

“Of course.” Dr. Jiang smiled, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “You’re very thorough.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Mhm.” Dr. Jiang’s eyes crinkled. “You missed a spot.”

Chengyu frowned. “What spot—”

Dr. Jiang reached out and brushed flour off his cheek with a thumb, leaving warmth where his skin had been.
For a second, the whole world went silent — just the hum of the oven and the wild, steady rhythm of Chengyu’s heartbeat.

Jiang withdrew his hand with his usual composure. “There. Now you look less like a ghost.”

“…Thanks,” Chengyu muttered, staring determinedly at the counter.

When the first batch came out, the cookies were slightly overdone on the edges.
Chengyu frowned. “They’re burnt.”

“They’re golden,” Dr. Jiang corrected calmly.

“They’re charred.”

“They’re enthusiasm-flavored.”

He looked far too pleased with himself for a man defending cookie cremation.

Still, when Dr. Jiang broke one in half and held it out to him, Chengyu accepted it — if only because rejecting a peace offering from a saint felt like bad karma.

It was warm, soft, and annoyingly good.

“…Not bad,” he admitted.

Dr. Jiang tilted his head. “Not bad?”

“I mean,” Chengyu said quickly, “considering you nearly violated three hygiene regulations—”

“—Director Guo,” Dr. Jiang interrupted gently, “you’re eating your third cookie.”

Chengyu froze, mid-bite. “That’s irrelevant.”

Dr. Jiang laughed quietly — the kind of laugh that melted the air between them, calm and genuine.

When they finally finished cleaning up, the clock read 12:47 a.m.
Dr. Jiang stretched, setting aside the cooling tray. “Thank you for helping.”

“Just doing my job,” Chengyu replied, though it came out a little softer than intended.

Dr. Jiang turned to look at him. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to guard every kindness like it’s a liability.”

Chengyu blinked. “I don’t—”

But Dr. Jiang was already smiling again, slipping off his apron. “Good night, Director.”

And just like that, he was gone — leaving Chengyu alone with a counter full of cookies, the faint smell of vanilla, and a heartbeat that refused to calm down.

💬 Later, on the Xiao Sect Feed

@EpiQueen: DR JIANG BROUGHT FRESH COOKIES TO THE BAKE SALE PREP 😭😭😭
@ResidentLin: rumor says he baked past midnight 👀
@InternChoi: with WHO though??
@FanclubAdmin: speculation unnecessary. focus on charity 🙏
@ResidentLin: admin typing like someone who was there 😭😭😭

Chengyu sighed as he set his phone facedown.
Then reached for one of the cookies he’d hidden in his office drawer — slightly burnt, maybe, but perfect anyway.

“Enthusiasm-flavored,” he muttered with a reluctant smile.

Chapter Text

(Featuring: Jiang Xiaoshuai's perspective, coffee breaks, quiet revelations, and the first flicker of something unmistakably romantic)

By the time the bake sale dust settled, the hospital had returned to its usual rhythm — or at least, it pretended to.

But ever since that night in the breakroom, Xiaoshuai kept catching himself thinking about Director Guo a little too often.

The way his sleeves were rolled to the elbows.
The quiet focus when he measured sugar with perfect precision.
The soft, startled laugh when flour landed on his tie.

It wasn’t attraction, Xiaoshuai told himself.
It was… curiosity. Appreciation.

(He repeated that to himself three times. It didn’t help.)

The next day, Xiaoshuai stopped by the admin floor to drop off the charity fund report. Director Guo looked up from his laptop, tired but — for once — relaxed.

“You didn’t need to bring this in person,” he said.

“I was passing by,” Xiaoshuai lied easily, placing the folder on his desk. “Also—” he hesitated, “I brought coffee.”

That got Director Guo’s attention.

“For me?”

“For both of us,” Xiaoshuai said, setting the paper cups down. “Consider it… quality control. Since you helped bake, you deserve a share of the reward.”

Director Guo gave him a look that hovered between suspicion and amusement. “You’re not trying to bribe the administration, are you?”

Xiaoshuai smiled, eyes glinting. “Would it work?”

It wasn’t flirting. Not really.
Just… conversational teasing. Probably.

But when Director Guo took the cup from his hand, their fingers brushed again — a light touch, almost nothing — and Xiaoshuai saw it.
That brief, unguarded moment when Director Guo’s breath caught.

So he smiled a little more softly than usual. “Careful, it’s hot.”

💼 The Sect Loses Its Mind (Again)

Of course, someone had to post about it.

@ResidentLin: THEY HAD COFFEE TOGETHER IN THE ADMIN WING ☕😭😭😭
@EpiQueen: he looked so gentle when he handed the cup!!!
@InternChoi: i heard dr jiang called him by name this time 😭
@FanclubAdmin: please. focus on research.
@SurgicalSiren: admin sounds jealous 😏

Chengyu nearly dropped his phone when he saw that last comment.
He set it down, muttering, “I’m deleting this account one day.”
(He wouldn’t.)

Later that week, Xiaoshuai stopped by Director Guo’s office again — purely for work-related purposes.
Mostly.

He was there to discuss data integration, yes. But halfway through, Guo Chengyu’s phone buzzed with a notification.

Xiao Sect HQ: “Charity event follow-up survey – led by Admin.”

Xiaoshuai tilted his head. “You’re part of that?”

Director Guo blinked. “What?”

“The follow-up team. The Sect one.”

“I— no. I don’t…” He cleared his throat. “Participate in fan-driven nonsense.”

Xiaoshuai’s lips twitched. “You said fan-driven, not nonsense.”

Director Guo froze. “I didn’t—”

“It’s alright,” Xiaoshuai said kindly. “They’re harmless. A little dramatic, maybe.”

He turned back to his notes, pretending not to notice how Director Guo’s composure had completely unraveled.

When the meeting ended, Xiaoshuai gathered his papers — and noticed Director Guo still staring absently at the empty coffee cup he’d left behind.

“Director Guo?”

Chengyu blinked. “Hmm?”

“You’re thinking too hard again.”

“I always think too hard.”

“I know,” Xiaoshuai said softly, smiling. “That’s what makes you good at what you do.”

It wasn’t meant to sound intimate. But it did.
And Director Guo must’ve heard it too, because he went very still.

Xiaoshuai hesitated. Then added, quietly:
“Still… don’t forget to breathe sometimes.”

Then he left, leaving a faint trail of scent. Sterile at first, clean and clinical, like alcohol and fresh sheets. But underneath it, something warm slips through, faint sandalwood and soft sweetness. 

💬 Fanclub Feed: Prophet Mode Activated

@EpiQueen: dr jiang looked at him like he’s trying to heal his soul 😭😭😭
@ResidentLin: that’s love in high-resolution.
@FanclubAdmin: …no comment.
@SurgicalSiren: admin said that last week too 👀 coincidence??
@InternChoi: what if admin IS the director omg 😭😭😭
@FanclubAdmin: ridiculous claim. stop spreading rumors.

Chengyu set his phone aside with a sigh.
Then, almost unwillingly, he smiled — the small, private kind no one ever saw.

Because for once, being seen by Dr. Jiang didn’t feel like exposure.
It felt like… relief.

Xiaoshuai sat in his apartment, flipping through research notes. But his mind wasn’t on data.

It was on that quiet look in Guo Chengyu’s eyes earlier — that soft, uncertain warmth that flickered for a second before vanishing under restraint.

He’d seen that look before.
In people who wanted to believe in something but didn’t know how.

He smiled faintly to himself. “You hide too well, Director Guo.”

Then, almost absentmindedly, he opened his phone and typed on his private account:

@DrJiang (private post, locked):
Some people don’t realize they already belong somewhere.
You just have to wait until they do. ☕

Chapter Text

By all accounts, it should’ve been an ordinary morning.
Coffee. Meeting. A round of emails.

Except Chengyu couldn’t stop glancing at the staff chat, where Dr. Jiang had just sent a photo — a tray of pale green macarons lined up neatly beside a cup of tea.

@DrJiang: tried baking again 😊
@DrJiang: mint ganache this time, since Director Guo said last batch was “too enthusiastic.”

Chengyu nearly choked on his coffee.
He didn’t even remember saying that out loud.

The comment section was already chaos.

@ResidentLin: he called it enthusiastic???? 😭😭😭
@EpiQueen: so when are u opening ur bakery dr jiang
@FanclubAdmin: focus on patients 🙏

Chengyu pretended to scroll past.

He failed.

He caught himself zooming in on the photo, counting the macarons like it mattered. They were even, actually round, the kind of improvement that meant Dr. Jiang had probably stayed up practicing while pretending he “just tried once.”

He closed the chat before he did something stupid like compliment them publicly.

They met again that afternoon in the corridor outside the consultation wing. Nurses were shuffling files, a patient was asking for directions — normal activity everywhere except inside Chengyu’s chest, which felt like someone leaned on the fast-forward button.

Dr. Jiang was balancing a clipboard, two patient files, and a thermos that looked suspiciously expensive.

“Director Guo,” he greeted warmly. That comforting tone he always used, like he knew exactly how to smooth out rough edges. “You look like you could use caffeine.”

“I’m fine,” Chengyu said automatically.

“Mm. You’re blinking slower than usual,” Xiaoshuai observed. “Common symptom of fatigue.”

“…You’ve been watching how I blink?”

“I’m a doctor. I observe things.”
Perfectly mild, perfectly polite — except the faint curl of his mouth was absolutely not innocent. “Anyway, this is for you.”

He handed over the thermos.

Chengyu hesitated like it was an explosive device. “What is it?”

“Coffee. I made it myself.”

“…You made—”

“Don’t worry, I sterilized everything,” Dr. Jiang said, eyes dancing. “Wouldn’t want to cause an outbreak of affection-induced food poisoning.”

Chengyu blinked. “What—”

“Drink it while it’s warm,” Dr. Jiang murmured, and walked off before Chengyu could assemble an appropriate response.

A couple nurses giggled behind their masks. Someone whispered, “He did it again.”

The coffee was, unfortunately, perfect.
Smooth, rich, slightly sweet — like it was made exactly to his taste.

He stared at his mug for a long time, wondering how the hell Jiang Xiaoshuai knew that he preferred a 3:1 ratio with a touch of vanilla.

Later, during a department briefing, someone mentioned that the breakroom coffee machine was broken.
Dr. Jiang’s voice drifted casually from the back:

“Oh, I borrowed Director Guo’s usual beans earlier. I’ll replace them tomorrow.”

Chengyu froze mid-sentence.

Borrowed his beans.
From his private office cabinet.

“How—” he started, turning around, but Dr. Jiang just smiled sweetly. “You left the door open yesterday.”

“I did not—”

“Then you must’ve subconsciously invited me in.”

It was a miracle the entire staff didn’t witness the exact moment Director Guo short-circuited.

That evening, Chengyu was reviewing reports in his office when a soft knock came at the door.

Dr. Jiang peeked in. “I brought the macarons.”

Chengyu’s first instinct was to tell him to leave them and go — but his mouth betrayed him. “You… can sit.”

He watched as Dr. Jiang settled in, the soft white coat draped elegantly over his chair. He unwrapped the container and pushed it forward. “Try one.”

Chengyu picked one up cautiously. “If this gives me food poisoning, you’re writing your own incident report.”

“Then you’d have to check it personally.”

“...Are you flirting with me?”

Xiaoshuai tilted his head, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Would you report that too, Director Guo?”

The macaron nearly slipped from his fingers.

He cleared his throat, pretending to focus on his computer. “This is—these are fine.”

“Fine?” Dr. Jiang repeated, smiling. “You said that about the cookies too.”

Chengyu forced himself to said something. Anything. “You’re getting better.”

“Then I should practice more.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping low. “You’ll taste-test again, won’t you?”

Chengyu inhaled sharply. “Dr. Jiang—”

“Xiaoshuai,” he corrected softly.

The sound of his name — his actual name — in that tone was enough to detonate whatever professionalism Chengyu had left.

He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

💬 Later, on the Xiao Sect feed:

@EpiQueen: Director Guo looked like he was buffering today 😭
@ResidentLin: dr jiang walked past his office twice. just twice. but director looked like he saw god
@FanclubAdmin: workplace discipline, please 🙏
@ResidentLin: u say that every time and yet ur profile header is a collage of them both
@FanclubAdmin: BLOCK ME

That night, Chengyu lay awake staring at his ceiling, the faint taste of mint still lingering on his tongue.
He told himself it was just friendly teasing.
He told himself it was harmless.

He was lying — and he knew it.

Chapter Text

It was nearly midnight by the time the emergency ward lights steadied back to their usual glow.

The chaos from the bus accident had finally died down. Charts filed, wounds stitched, families reassured.

Most of the staff had already dragged themselves home. Only the soft hum of machines and the distant clatter of a janitor’s cart remained.

Chengyu had stayed behind to help organize the aftermath —handling patient intake records, coordinating transfers, doing anything he could to lighten the load even a little. His coat was folded over a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exhaustion tugging at the corners of his eyes.

He didn’t expect anyone else to still be awake.

So when the door clicked softly, he looked up in surprise.

“You’re still here,” Jiang Xiaoshuai murmured.

And god — he looked tired.

Under the steady hospital lighting, Dr. Jiang’s normally composed face carried shadows: faint circles under his eyes, a flush from constant movement, hair slightly damp from sweat and hurried washing. His white coat was unbuttoned, his stethoscope hanging crookedly around his neck.

Chengyu stood instantly. “You should be resting.”

Dr. Jiang blinked, slow and weary. “I was checking on the last patient. And making sure the interns didn’t pass out on the stairs.”
He exhaled, a quiet defeated huff. “One of them almost did.”

Chengyu moved around the desk, instinct tugging him forward. “Sit down.”

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not,” he said gently but firmly, guiding him toward the chair. Dr. Jiang didn’t resist. The moment he sat, his shoulders sagged like he’d been held up by sheer willpower this whole time.

A soft sound escaped him — half sigh, half relief — and it punched straight through Chengyu’s ribs.

Chengyu grabbed the thermos from his bag, unscrewed it, and placed it in Dr. Jiang’s hands. “Hot ginger tea. You kept pushing through the entire shift; your body’s going to crash.”

Dr. Jiang blinked at him, dazed.
“…When did you make this?”

“During the ten minutes you finally stood still,” Chengyu muttered.

A faint smile tugged at Dr. Jiang’s lips. “You feed people now?"

“You’re one to talk,” Chengyu shot back softly. “Drink.”

Dr. Jiang obeyed — slow sip, long exhale, the warmth visibly easing something inside him.
“You’re… annoyingly thoughtful,” he murmured.

“And you’re terrible at taking care of yourself.”

“That’s bold coming from you,” Dr. Jiang said, eyelids fluttering a little. “We’re both hypocrites.”

Chengyu couldn’t help the small laugh.
“Well. At least we match.”

The quiet that followed was thick but peaceful.

Dr. Jiang rested back in the chair, head tilted toward Chengyu like gravity had chosen a favorite. He wasn’t asleep, but close — that loose softness people only had when they finally felt safe.

After a long moment, he spoke, voice barely above a whisper.
“You know… I used to think you were cold.”

Chengyu raised an eyebrow. “Used to?”

“Mhm.”
Dr. Jiang's gaze lifted slowly, meeting his. Even exhausted, those eyes held a sharp, perceptive warmth.
“Now I think you just panic when someone looks at you too closely.”

Chengyu froze. “I do not panic.”

“You do,” Dr. Jiang murmured, leaning slightly closer. “You get tense. Defensive. But you don’t look away.”

“…That’s inaccurate.”

“It’s true.”

“Dr. Jiang—”

“Xiaoshuai,” he said softly.

The name settled between them like a stone dropped into still water — rippling outward, irreversible.

Chengyu’s breath caught.
“…Then you should call me Chengyu.”

And Xiaoshuai… smiled.

Slowly. Warmly. Like the exhaustion made his guard slip just enough for honesty to peek through.

“Chengyu,” he echoed, voice soft and tired and devastating.

Chengyu swore under his breath. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know what it does to me.”

A quiet hum. “Ah. So it does something.”

Xiaoshuai’s smile lingered — soft at first, then curling just a touch at the corner like he’d discovered a new toy to play with.

“Chengyu,” he repeated, quieter this time, drawing out the last syllable just enough to make it intimate.

Chengyu looked away immediately.
“I said don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s your name.” Xiaoshuai tilted his head, pretending innocence so poorly it was practically a confession. “Shouldn’t I practice? I wouldn’t want to say it wrong.”

“There’s no wrong way to say a name,” Chengyu muttered, ears turning a shade he absolutely hoped wasn’t visible in this lighting.

“Oh? I think there is.”
Xiaoshuai leaned forward just slightly — elbows on his knees, eyes sharp despite his exhaustion.
“You flinch when I say it gently. So that must be the right way.”

Chengyu made a noise he’d deny for the rest of his life.
“That is not— you’re imagining things—”

“Mm.” Xiaoshuai rested his cheek on his hand.
“But you didn’t deny it.”

“I— I did deny it.”

“Not very convincingly.”

Chengyu shot him a look that was supposed to be stern but came out helpless.
“Dr. Jiang, you’re exhausted. You shouldn’t be picking fights when you can barely keep your eyes open.”

“Then maybe you should stop giving me reactions worth staying awake for.”

Chengyu nearly choked on air.

Xiaoshuai’s eyes brightened just a little — some mischievous spark returning now that he saw exactly what string to tug on.
“You’re very expressive, you know,” he murmured.
“Everyone thinks you’re stoic, but you’re actually… mm, how do I say it…”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“…cute,” Xiaoshuai finished anyway.

Chengyu pressed a hand over his face. “Oh my god.”

“And easy to fluster.”

“Stop—”

“And you don’t look away when I tease you.” Xiaoshuai’s voice dropped just enough to slide under his skin. “That’s the part I like most.”

Chengyu did look away then — sharply — because if he didn’t, he might say something he’d never recover from.

But even turned aside, he couldn’t hide the way the tips of his ears were absolutely burning.

Xiaoshuai watched him for a long, warm moment, eyes softening in a different way now — less teasing, more fond.

“See?” he said quietly.
“You panic a little… but you still stay.”

Chengyu swallowed hard.
“…Maybe I’m not the only one.”

Xiaoshuai blinked, caught off guard for once — then smiled, smaller, gentler.

“Maybe you’re right,” he whispered.

And just like that, the room’s air shifted again — warmer, closer, wrapped in something neither of them dared to name yet.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It felt like breathing the same air. Like leaning over a boundary neither of them remembered agreeing to.

Finally, Chengyu spoke. “You should go home. You’re exhausted.”

“Then tell me to leave.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he looked at him — really looked — and saw the warmth behind the weariness, the softness Xiaoshuai rarely let anyone see. The part of him that chose to stay in this room instead of sleeping.

“…Stay,” Chengyu whispered.

Xiaoshuai’s eyes softened, something warm flickering there.
“If you insist, Chengyu.”

And that was that — no confession, no promises, just a shift in the air so gentle yet so inevitable it felt like gravity.

💬 Later, on the Xiao Sect feed:

@ResidentLin: dr jiang was so tired he nearly face planted in the hallway 😭😭 director guo CAUGHT HIM BY THE ELBOW LIKE A DRAMA SCENE
@EpiQueen: they were the last to leave again… this isn’t even subtle anymore
@SurgicalSiren: rumor says director guo made him tea 😳
@ResidentLin: rumor = i SAW IT. i have eyes.

That night, Chengyu walked home with the faint taste of ginger and the memory of Xiaoshuai saying his name —
soft, tired, and impossibly teasing.

And he didn’t bother denying he wanted more.

Chapter Text

If anyone asked, Chengyu was simply running errands.

That was the official story.

The unofficial truth was sitting across from him in a sunlit café, stirring his coffee with quiet concentration.

“Thanks for coming,” Xiaoshuai said, smiling like he hadn’t just singlehandedly reset Chengyu’s entire nervous system.

“Of course,” Chengyu managed. “I was in the area.”

A blatant lie. The café was forty minutes from his apartment.

It had started innocently — Xiaoshuai mentioned he’d been meaning to try the café’s pastries. Chengyu, in a moment of weakness (or caffeine deprivation), had said something like “I know the owner.”

He didn’t.
But now they were here, and the table between them felt far too small.

Xiaoshuai took a sip of his latte and hummed softly. “This is really good.”

Chengyu nodded, pretending to check his phone just to keep from staring. “Told you.”

“Mm.” Xiaoshuai’s lips curved, faintly teasing. “You sound confident for someone who’s never been here before.”

That made Chengyu choke on air. “You— how did you—”

“You don’t even drink lattes.”

Caught.
He gave up the act with a sigh. “Fine. You got me.”

Xiaoshuai laughed, soft and pleased. “You’re terrible at lying, Chengyu.”

The sound of his name in that tone made something warm curl in Chengyu’s chest.

They talked — about everything and nothing. Research updates. The chaos of the upcoming audit. Xiaoshuai’s endless attempts to keep interns from collapsing.

At some point, Chengyu realized he’d stopped filtering his words around him. He was relaxed — genuinely, dangerously relaxed.

When Xiaoshuai reached over to brush a crumb off his sleeve, Chengyu froze.
Just that — a fleeting touch — and his heartbeat stuttered like faulty code.

Xiaoshuai noticed. Of course he did.

“Still so jumpy?” he asked, amused.

“You’re too perceptive,” Chengyu muttered.

“Would you prefer I wasn’t?”

“...No,” Chengyu admitted, voice low.

The way back to the hospital was quiet. The sunset caught in the glass windows, painting the hallways in gold and rose.

“Thanks for today,” Xiaoshuai said as they stopped by the entrance. “It was nice.”

“It was,” Chengyu said before he could think better of it.

Then, impulsively — “We should do it again.”

That earned him a small, knowing smile. “I’d like that.”

He hesitated, then added softly, “You don’t make things easy, you know.”

“Neither do you.”

For a second, it felt like the world narrowed — just them, the air between their words, the weight of what they weren’t quite ready to say.

Then Xiaoshuai tilted his head slightly. “Get some rest, Chengyu.”

And there it was again — that impossible gentleness that made Chengyu’s heart ache in ways logic couldn’t quantify.

💻 Meanwhile, on the Xiao Sect feed:

@EpiQueen: HE WAS SMILING. HE. SMILED.
@ResidentLin: spotted Dr. Jiang and Director Guo at the café near campus 😭😭😭😭😭
@InternChoi: he looked?? happy?? like??? what is this era of peace??
@FanclubAdmin: correlation ≠ causation. maybe they were discussing budgets.
@ResidentLin: while sharing cake??
@FanclubAdmin: …next question.

That night Chengyu sat in his apartment, scrolling through the Xiao Sect feed on autopilot — half horrified, half resigned.

They’d already tagged him in three blurry café photos, captioned “The Heretic Redeemed”.

He set the phone down and stared at the wall.
Then, quietly, to no one:

“…He called me Chengyu again.”

The thought made him smile, despite himself.

And for once, the chaos in his mind didn’t feel like punishment — it felt like proof.

Chapter Text

The hospital at night always felt different. Quieter, dimmer, almost tender.

Most of the lights were turned down by then, leaving long corridors washed in soft yellow. The kind of calm that slipped under your skin without asking permission.

Xiaoshuai was finishing his last patient note when someone knocked lightly on the door.

“Xiaoshuai?”

He looked up.

Chengyu stood there — tie loosened, sleeves rolled halfway up, the exhaustion of a long day written in small details: the faint crease between his brows, the way he held his jacket instead of wearing it.

But his voice was gentle.
Almost careful.

“You’re still here?” Xiaoshuai asked.

Chengyu gave a weak smile. “Could ask you the same.”

“Finishing up.”
Xiaoshuai closed the folder. “You should be home.”

“I tried.”
He walked inside but didn’t sit, didn’t lean on anything. Just stood there like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be.
“It… wasn’t working.”

Xiaoshuai tilted his head slightly. “Work stress?”

“No.”
A beat.
Then, quieter: “Not work.”

Xiaoshuai waited. He’d learned that Chengyu only spoke when he’d already fought himself for ten minutes.

Finally, Chengyu let out a soft breath and looked at him.

“It’s you.”

Xiaoshuai blinked — once, slowly. “Me?”

Chengyu nodded, almost embarrassed.
“I keep thinking about what you said. About calling you Xiaoshuai.” His gaze softened in a way that made Xiaoshuai’s heartbeat stutter.
“You have no idea what that did to me.”

Xiaoshuai couldn’t help smiling — a quiet, warm thing that pulled gently at the corners of his mouth.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice just above a whisper.

Chengyu swallowed hard.
“I haven’t been able to switch it off. Every time I try to focus on something else, I hear you saying my name in my head. And it just—”
He huffed a tiny laugh at himself.
“I don’t know. It makes everything harder and easier at the same time.”

The honesty sat heavy in the room, but not in a frightening way.
More like a weight they’d both been carrying finally set down between them.

“Chengyu,” Xiaoshuai murmured, stepping closer.

Chengyu’s eyes fluttered shut for half a second, as though the sound alone was too much.

“That,” he said quietly. “Exactly that.”

“I meant it,” Xiaoshuai said. “When I told you not to pretend.”

Chengyu’s breath hitched. “I know. That’s the problem.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t trust myself not to… want more.”
His voice softened, warmed.
“And I do. I really do.”

Xiaoshuai’s chest tightened in the best way.

“Wanting more isn’t a problem,” he said. “Not for me.”

For a moment, it felt like the whole hospital went silent just to listen to them.

Chengyu slowly opened his eyes. The mix of relief, longing, and something close to disbelief in them made Xiaoshuai’s heart squeeze.

“You’re sure?” Chengyu asked.
Not out of doubt — but out of hope he was afraid to hold too tightly.

“Completely,” Xiaoshuai answered.

Chengyu stepped forward until they were close enough for warmth to pass between them.

“…Then I’ll say it properly,” he murmured.

Xiaoshuai waited, gentle and patient.

“I like you,” Chengyu said, voice steady but soft. “A lot. More than makes sense for someone who barely sleeps, overthinks everything, and runs a secret fanclub he deeply regrets creating.”

That made Xiaoshuai laugh — quiet, breathy, fond.

He reached up and touched Chengyu’s sleeve. Not a dramatic gesture, just enough to say I’m here.

“I like you too,” he said, just as simply. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

Chengyu’s expression softened — all the tension slowly dissolving like sugar in warm tea.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For not making me do this alone.”

Chengyu leaned forward until their foreheads touched gently.
Their breaths mingled, warm and steady.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t dramatic.
Just… right.

“Let me take you out,” Chengyu said, voice slightly shaky but certain. “A real date. Not an excuse. Not cafés I pretend to know. A proper one.”

Xiaoshuai smiled — soft, a little shy, entirely sincere.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Chengyu repeated, like he needed to hear it again just to believe it.

“Mm. I want to go.”

And that was when Chengyu finally let himself relax — just a little, just enough to show how much that answer meant to him.

“Then… I’ll plan it,” he said quietly. “Something good.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Xiaoshuai replied.

They stood there a moment longer — close, steady, unhurried — before they finally stepped back.
Not away.
Just enough to breathe.

Something had changed.
Something quiet, but undeniable.

📱The Xiao Sect feed was losing its mind (again) :

@ResidentLin: WHY DOES DR JIANG LOOK LIKE HE’S FLOATING DOWN THE HALL
@InternChoi: director guo also looks suspiciously soft???
@EpiQueen: ARE THEY GLOWING OR IS IT THE LIGHTS
@FanclubAdmin: …statistics indicate nothing unusual
@FanclubAdmin: …
@FanclubAdmin: …I’m logging off.

Chapter Text

It started with a message that felt different.

Not heavy with hospital logistics.
Not masked as “let’s discuss schedules.”
Just simple, warm, and strangely hopeful.

Chengyu: Meet me at the café near the river at 11?

Xiaoshuai read it twice, feeling an odd flutter beneath his ribs.
He smiled — small, genuine.

Xiaoshuai: See you then.

That was all.
But it was enough to shift the whole day.

Chengyu arrived early.
Ridiculously early.
Ten minutes turned into twenty as he sat near the window, adjusting his sleeves just for something to do.

Every time the door chimed, he glanced up like it was reflex.

And then Xiaoshuai walked in.

Soft sweater, hair slightly tousled by the breeze, eyes lighting when he spotted him.

“Chengyu,” he called, voice warm in a way that made the entire café fade.

Chengyu stood — a little too fast — and nearly knocked his knee on the table.
He recovered with a shaky breath. “Xiaoshuai.”

Xiaoshuai sat down, leaning his elbows on the table casually. “Did you just almost injure yourself on a date?”

Chengyu’s ears tinted. “Possibly.”

A smile tugged at Xiaoshuai’s lips — fond and dangerously sweet.

On the table sat a mint tea and a coffee.

“You remembered,” Xiaoshuai said softly.

Chengyu cleared his throat, trying to appear casual.
“It felt weird not to.”

The pastries were warm. The sunlight was soft.
Their knees brushed beneath the table once — then twice — and neither moved away after that.

Xiaoshuai caught Chengyu staring at him over the rim of his cup.

“What?” Xiaoshuai asked, eyes glinting.

“…Nothing,” Chengyu lied, terribly.

“You’re a bad liar,” Xiaoshuai teased.

Chengyu hid his smile in his coffee. 

After they finished eating, Xiaoshuai leaned back slightly, studying him.

“You know…” he said. “You’re really tense.”

Chengyu blinked. “Am I?”

“Mmhm.”
Xiaoshuai leaned forward, voice low.
“You only look like this when you’re trying very hard not to say something.”

Chengyu swallowed. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”
A soft laugh.
“You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

Chengyu’s composure evaporated.
He looked away, jaw tightening in a smile he couldn’t hide anymore.
“…You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Mm. Maybe,” Xiaoshuai said, echoing his word with a mischievous glint.

When they stepped outside, the wind felt calm.
Familiar.
Like the world had slowed down just to give them a few quiet hours.

Their shoulders brushed as they walked.
Once.
Twice.
Then on the third time, Xiaoshuai didn’t let the distance return.

He slipped his hand close — not quite touching, but close enough that Chengyu felt the warmth.

“If you want…” Xiaoshuai murmured, eyes still forward, “you can hold it.”

Chengyu paused, breath catching.
“…Can I?”

“You can.”

Chengyu took his hand, rough fingers brushing soft knuckles, and interlocked their fingers gently — like he was holding something precious and still learning how not to grip too tight.

Xiaoshuai squeezed back once.

And that was enough to unravel something in Chengyu’s chest.

They stopped near a quiet curve of the river.
The breeze swept across the water, carrying the soft smell of wet stone and morning air.

Xiaoshuai turned toward him fully.
He looked relaxed — truly relaxed — eyes warm and steady.

“Chengyu.”

The name lingered in the air, soft as breath.
Chengyu’s throat went dry.

“Yes?”

“You’re still nervous,” Xiaoshuai said gently.

“…A little.”

Xiaoshuai stepped closer, close enough that Chengyu instinctively held a shaky breath.

“Why?”

Chengyu hesitated.
Then, very quietly—

“Because I don’t want to mess this up.”

Xiaoshuai’s expression softened instantly.

“You won’t,” he whispered.

And he slid one hand up, fingers brushing Chengyu’s cheek.
Slow. Careful. Asking permission without words.

Chengyu froze — then leaned into the touch.

Xiaoshuai smiled at that.
A small, devastating thing.
Then he rose just a little on his toes, closing the distance gently, slowly—

Their lips brushed.

Soft. Warm. Barely there.

Chengyu inhaled sharply, the kiss so tender it nearly undid him.
Xiaoshuai kissed him again, lingering a little longer this time.

When they finally parted, Chengyu exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“…Wow,” he whispered.

Xiaoshuai laughed softly, forehead resting against his.
“Yeah. Wow.”

They stayed like that, fingers intertwined, breath warm between them.

For once, neither hid how their hearts were racing.

💻 The Xiao Sect’s Catastrophic Realization

They weren’t subtle.
Not even a little.

By the time they returned for evening checks, someone had spotted them leaving the riverside café holding hands and looking suspiciously glowy.

The Xiao Sect exploded.

@RadTechYoyo: I JUST SAW THEM WALKING IN HANDS LOCKED LIKE LOVEBIRDS??
@InternChoi: was that a KISS MARK on Guo chengyu’s smile or am i hallucinating???
@PosterNumber7: DID THEY JUST SOFT-LAUNCH THEIR RELATIONSHIP WITHOUT TELLING US???
@EpiQueen: betrayal. sweet betrayal. i will allow it

Chengyu scrolled with an expression of horrified amusement.
Xiaoshuai peeked over his shoulder with a straight face.

“…You know,” Xiaoshuai said, “we really are terrible at being subtle.”

“We?” Chengyu echoed, eyes wide.
“You kissed me first.”

Xiaoshuai grinned, unbothered.
“Would you rather I waited?”

Chengyu’s silence said absolutely not.

They walked toward the elevator, far too close to be merely colleagues anymore.

Chengyu squeezed his hand softly.
“You’re sure… about this?”

Xiaoshuai nodded once, eyes warm.
“I am.”

And that was the end of every doubt Chengyu had been clinging to.

They stepped into the elevator together.
Hands still intertwined.
Hearts embarrassingly obvious.

And for the first time…
the quiet felt like a beginning.

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled softly across the hospital corridors, gold drifting over polished floors and half-awake staff.
Xiaoshuai arrived early, crisp white coat, hair a little rumpled, clipboard tucked to his chest. Calm. Radiant. Completely unaware he was about to trigger a full-blown spiritual awakening in half the hospital.

Chengyu arrived minutes later — pacing, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, phone already open to the fan feed. He wasn’t supposed to be nervous. He was the composed one. The controlled one. The unattainably cool one.

Except apparently not today.

“Xiaoshuai,” he called, trying to sound normal.

“Chengyu,” Xiaoshuai answered, soft and casual.

And that alone nearly ended him.

They walked together, shoulders brushing, fingers grazing — the kind of almost-touch that made Chengyu forget how to breathe. Until finally, almost imperceptibly, one hand met the other.

Warm. Certain. Electric.

He nearly collapsed.

Chengyu approached the coffee machine at the staff lounge like a disciple performing a sacred rite. Every button was pressed with unnecessary precision. He even adjusted the steam wand like it was a ceremonial blade.

Xiaoshuai leaned against the counter, watching him with a smile that was far too knowing for Chengyu’s stability. “You treat it very seriously.”

“It’s important,” Chengyu said, overly firm. “Attention to detail reflects… intent.”

“And the intent is?” Xiaoshuai asked, leaning in ever so slightly.

Chengyu swallowed. “…Proper care.”

“For me?”

Chengyu didn’t answer. His blush did.

He escaped to his phone the moment they sat down. FanclubAdmin notifications flooded in — and today, the Xiao Sect group chat was in a meltdown.

His phone buzzed — FanclubAdmin feed exploding:

@ResidentLin: THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS???
@InternChoi: DIRECTOR GUO IS BLUSHING AND SMILING HELP 😭
@EpiQueen: THEY ARE SOFT-LAUNCHING WHILE WE’RE AT WORK???
@FanclubAdmin: …observing the situation

Chengyu: They think I don’t know?
Also Chengyu: thumbs trembling while trying to sound calm as the admin.

When he finally looked up, Xiaoshuai was watching him — eyes warm, calm, almost amused.

“Morning devotion reports?” Xiaoshuai asked lightly.

Chengyu immediately fumbled, nearly dropping his phone. “It’s— It’s the group. They’re… very active.”

“Mm.” Xiaoshuai reached over and brushed the back of his hand with his thumb — quiet, intentional. “They adore you.”

“They adore you,” Chengyu corrected, voice small. “I’m just… collateral.”

Xiaoshuai’s smile deepened. “You don’t mind.”

Chengyu hid his phone like a guilty novice. “No. I don’t.”

They're walking through the hospital hand-in-hand, but it proofed to be a hazardous spiritual event.

Interns whispering like a cult discovering a new prophecy

Nurses peeking over charts like wildlife observers

Radiology pretending so hard they weren’t invested

Someone definitely took a blurry photo for the sect archives

@ResidentLin: THEY ARE LITERALLY TOGETHER 😭
@InternChoi: DIRECTOR GUO LOOKS LIKE HE GOT PROMOTED TO BOYFRIEND
@LabTechMing: MY HEART IS DOING ARRHYTHMIAS HELP
@FanclubAdmin: everyone inhale. exhale. maintain your form.

Chengyu nearly threw his phone.

Xiaoshuai glanced at him, smiling slightly.
“You like being seen like this?”

“…Yes,” Chengyu admitted, breath shaky.

“Good,” Xiaoshuai whispered. “I’m not hiding either.”

Chengyu’s knees almost dissolved.

The corner table was quiet, tucked away from the main hallway’s noise. Xiaoshuai had brought a light snack — an apple already half-peeled and a granola bar he kept breaking into neat pieces. Chengyu sat across from him with his own food, though he mostly ignored it in favor of sneaking little bites from Xiaoshuai’s plate whenever he thought he could get away with it.

“You’re supposed to eat your own,” Xiaoshuai said, catching him in the act. The tone was gentle, almost amused.

“I’m… sharing,” Chengyu replied, the wobble in his voice completely betraying him.

“Sharing?” Xiaoshuai echoed, raising a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Chengyu immediately stiffened, nearly choking on nothing. “...Yes.”

Xiaoshuai leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as he watched him with that calm, devastatingly fond look. “You’re adorable when you get flustered.”

That was when Chengyu’s brain simply gave up. He lowered his gaze, ears burning. “Can you… stop noticing things?” he muttered.

“You love it,” Xiaoshuai answered, softer this time — not teasing, just honest.

Later, when they stepped outside, the hospital garden felt unusually still.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves, landing in warm, gentle patches along their path. They walked close without really meaning to, shoulders brushing whenever their steps synced. Their fingers kept grazing, subtle and uncertain, each touch sending a quiet jolt through Chengyu that he tried — and failed — to hide.

Xiaoshuai didn’t comment on any of it. But every time their hands brushed, he smiled.

Their fingers brushed again. Again. Again.

On the fifth time, Xiaoshuai murmured, “You can hold it again.”

Chengyu froze. “…Can I?”

“Mm.. Don't let go.”

Their hands fit like they’d been made for this exact moment. The air thickened, warm and soft.

Then Xiaoshuai tugged him to a stop.

“Chengyu.”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

“You’re nervous.”

Chengyu let out a quiet laugh. “…Maybe.”

“Good,” Xiaoshuai whispered, stepping close enough to feel. “Because I want you to kiss me this time.”

Chengyu forgot how to function.

He leaned in slowly, giving Xiaoshuai every chance to pull away. Their lips brushed — light, trembling, sweet. Xiaoshuai sighed softly into it, leaning closer, kissing him again, deeper, more certain.

Chengyu’s hands found his waist. Xiaoshuai’s fingers curled into his shirt.

When they pulled back, their foreheads touched. Breath mingling. Hearts pounding.

The world felt impossibly small and impossibly full.

📱 Xiao Sect CHAOS — Full Cult Mode

By evening, the Xiao Sect had gone from “soft speculation” to “holy revelation.”

@ResidentLin: THEY. KISSED. I HAVE ASCENDED.
@EpiQueen: WITNESSES ARE ALREADY WRITING GOSPELS
@InternChoi: DIRECTOR GUO IS GLOWING LIKE AN ENCHANTED LAMP
@RadTechYoyo: THE WAY HE LOOKS AT THE DOCTOR??? I’M SCREAMING
@WardNurseHua: I SAW THEM KISS IRL IM GOING TO BEAT EVERY SPOILER ACCOUNT TO DEATH
@SecurityCamFans: today’s footage is sacred

Chengyu stared at the feed, horrified.

He typed as @FanclubAdmin:

everyone… please… internal silence…
patience, peace, pixels 😇
do not summon unnecessary spirits.

The replies:

@ResidentLin: TOO LATE WE ARE ALREADY POSSESSED
@EpiQueen: ADMIN PLEASE RELEASE THE KISS PHOTO FOR THE SECT ARCHIVES
@InternChoi: ADMIN IS PROTECTING HIS OWN MAN I JUST KNOW IT
@WardNurseHua: ADMIN IS SUSPICIOUSLY EMOTIONAL LATELY???

Chengyu almost threw his phone off the balcony.

Xiaoshuai peeked over his shoulder.
“Reading the chaos?”

“…Yes. They have eyes everywhere.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Xiaoshuai whispered, brushing their hands again.

“…I’m aware.”

For once, neither of them hid.
Not their hands.
Not their smiles.
Not their hearts.

And the sect?
They were already drafting the scriptures.

Chapter Text

Morning in the hospital should have been normal.

But normal left the building the moment Director Guo and Dr. Jiang walked in holding hands like it was the most casual thing in the world.

A very nervous HR manager intercepted them outside the staff lounge, clutching a clipboard like it was a holy shield.

“Director Guo,” she stammered. “We… need to discuss professionalism within hospital grounds. Particularly… public displays of affection.”

Chengyu tried to stand taller. Tried to look authoritative. Authority was usually his brand.

But Xiaoshuai was still holding his hand.

So all that authority just… evaporated.

“We understand,” Chengyu said, cheeks suspiciously pink.

Xiaoshuai? Calm. Unbothered. The picture of saintly innocence.

“We’ll be mindful,” he said with a gentle bow.

The HR manager visibly relaxed—
…right up until Xiaoshuai lifted Chengyu’s hand and pressed the softest kiss to his knuckles.

Right there.
In front of her.
At 8:42 a.m.

Chengyu nearly flatlined.

HR lady squeaked like a broken cartoon whistle and fled the scene.

📱 Xiao Sect Surveillance Network

The sect knew within seconds.

@SecurityCamFans: THE HR EXORCISM HAS FAILED
@ResidentLin: DR JIANG KISSED HIS HAND IN FRONT OF MANAGEMENT??
@EpiQueen: THE DIRECTOR IS SO DOWN CATASTROPHICALLY
@FanclubAdmin: please breathe. professionalism is a suggestion.

Chengyu immediately regretted typing that.

They walked past Radiology again. Radiology remembered yesterday.

The moment their fingers tangled again, the staff reacted like angels had descended:

A nurse dropped her pen and whispered “oh my god”

A surgeon paused mid-charting like he’d been struck by enlightenment

Two interns clutched each other for stability

Someone misted a HOUSEPLANT to hide their tears

Chengyu tugged Xiaoshuai closer, voice tiny:

“They’re staring.”

“They’ll stare anyway,” Xiaoshuai replied, entirely too warm. “Might as well give them something worth seeing.”

Chengyu’s spirit left his body.

📱 Xiao Sect Going Full Worship Mode

@InternChoi: IS THIS A MIRACLE HEALING EVENT
@RadTechYoyo: MY SPINE UNKNOTTED JUST WATCHING THEM
@WardNurseHua: THE DOCTOR’S HAND BELONGS TO THE DIRECTOR NOW PRAISE 🙌

@FanclubAdmin: inner peace. maintain vessel stability.

Replies:

@EpiQueen: ADMIN YOU SOUND POSSESSED
@ResidentLin: ADMIN IS ALREADY TOO DEEP IN THE DOCTRINE

Chengyu turned his phone face-down like it was cursed.

They escaped to a quiet alcove near the garden doors. Or… what should have been quiet.

Xiaoshuai turned to him, eyes soft, thumb brushing his wrist.

“You’re still nervous.”

“You keep noticing,” Chengyu whispered back.

“I like noticing,” he answered. “Especially when it’s you.”

Chengyu’s brain sparked and shut down.

He leaned in. Slow, reverent, careful.

Lips barely a breath apart—

📸 click

They froze.

Xiaoshuai didn’t pull back.
Didn’t step away.
He just sighed, amused.

“There are two interns behind the ficus,” he murmured.

Chengyu looked—

And yes. Two awe-struck interns clinging to a potted plant like camouflage had been invented just for them.

“Oh my god,” Chengyu whispered.

“Just kiss me,” Xiaoshuai encouraged. “They’ll faint either way.”

Chengyu swallowed, kissed him gently once, twice, slow enough to savor, soft enough to worship.

The interns did, in fact, faint.

📱 Xiao Sect Immediate Reaction

@WardNurseHua: I HEARD A SECOND KISS THIS IS CONFIRMED
@SecurityCamFans: THE ALCOVE FOOTAGE IS PURE DIVINITY
@ResidentLin: PREPARE THE ARCHIVES
@EpiQueen: THE DOCTOR LET HIM INITIATE
@InternChoi: MY SOUL IS LEAVING MY BODY

@FanclubAdmin: …delete this.

And the entire sect responded:

@Everyone: NO ❤️

They left the alcove hand-in-hand.

Chengyu was flushed, shaky, and utterly undone.

Xiaoshuai looked like he planned all of this.

The hospital?

Already rewriting the doctrines of love and medicine.

Chapter Text

Evening settled softly over the hospital.

The kind of warm dusk that made everything feel closer, like walls leaned in to listen.

Chengyu had wrapped up his paperwork. Xiaoshuai was still finishing chart notes in the quiet lull that always came right before night shift chaos. They didn’t need to meet again at the end of the day, yet their steps pulled toward each other without question, without thought.

They drifted into the same empty consultation room, almost at the same time, as if summoned. The overhead light had been dimmed earlier, leaving the space soaked in a low golden glow. The door clicked shut behind them, gentle and final, like a breath held between two mouths.

For a moment they just stood there, shadows stretching long across the tiles.

“Your hand,” Chengyu said softly.

Xiaoshuai looked down at it, confused. “Hm?”

“There’s—” Chengyu gently took his fingers, turning his palm upward.
A tiny cut. Barely noticeable.

But Chengyu stared like it was a grievous injury.

“How did this happen?” he asked, horrified.

“…Peeling apples?” Xiaoshuai offered, trying not to smile.

“That’s it,” Chengyu declared. “No more dangerous fruit handling.”

Xiaoshuai laughed softly and then stopped, watching the way Chengyu rummaged in a drawer with deadly seriousness.

He cleaned the cut with tender, trembling focus. His hands were steady… except where Xiaoshuai’s skin brushed his wrist.

“Chengyu,” Xiaoshuai whispered.

“Yes?” he breathed back, not looking up.

“You’re overreacting.”

Chengyu taped the bandage carefully, like sealing a sacred vow.
Then he finally met Xiaoshuai’s eyes. Flustered, earnest, in love.

“If something hurts you,” he said quietly, “I fix it.”

The room went still. Warm. Dangerously intimate.

📱 Xiao Sect Whisper Network (Unauthorized Eavesdropping)

@WardNurseHua: HE’S BANDAGING THE DOCTOR’S HAND 😭
@InternChoi: THAT IS A RELIC HE IS TOUCHING WITH REVERENCE
@SecurityCamFans: I AM SETTING UP A SPECIAL ARCHIVE FOR THIS FOOTAGE
@ResidentLin: HIS HANDS WERE SHAKING I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES
@FanclubAdmin: do not… worship the bandaids… please…

Replies:

@Everyone: WE WORSHIP THE BANDAIDS 🙏✨

Chengyu nearly dropped his phone and the bandage box.

“All better,” Chengyu whispered, but he still held his hand.

Xiaoshuai slid a little closer.

“You worry too much,” he murmured.

“I worry exactly enough,” Chengyu tried, but his voice cracked.

Xiaoshuai brushed their noses together, smiling.
“You’re adorable.”

Chengyu’s heart incinerated itself on the spot.

He pulled Xiaoshuai into a soft kiss. Slow, sweet, a little desperate.
A sigh against lips, a hand at the nape of his neck.

The world melted.

When they parted, Chengyu was the one dizzy and breathless.

Xiaoshuai caressed his cheek.
“I love when you take care of me.”

And Chengyu basically died, resurrected, and died again.

They finally emerged from the room — still close, still glowing.

Most staff swooned.

But one lone nurse in the hallway narrowed her eyes, clutching a clipboard like a manifesto.

“Too much touching,” she muttered.
“He’s pure! They’re corrupting him!”

Behind her, three other staff members nodded — dramatic and distressed.

They whispered in a circle, forming…

The Pure Hands Alliance
— a splinter sect devoted to protecting Xiaoshuai’s “untouched holiness” —

Terribly misguided.
Already doomed.

Their first declaration:

NO MORE HAND-HOLDING.
Hands must remain sanctified.
The Director must earn physical privileges through trials.

Meanwhile:

Xiaoshuai laced his fingers through Chengyu’s again.

Direct eye contact with the “alliance.”

Slow. Deliberate.

A pure flex of divine intimacy.

The alliance gasped like sinners witnessing sin.

The main Xiao Sect cheered like martyrs discovering victory.

📱 Xiao Sect: Civil War (Short-Lived)

@EpiQueen: PURE HANDS ALLIANCE IS A CULT WITHIN A CULT
@WardNurseHua: WE WILL CONVERT THE HERETICS
@ResidentLin: HIS HOLINESS WANTS HAND-HOLDING!!! ACCEPT THE TRUTH
@InternChoi: ALLIANCE MEMBERS HAVE LOST THEIR FAITH
@FanclubAdmin: peace among siblings… or I’m banning everyone

@Everyone: ADMIN DEFENDING HIS MAN AGAIN 😭

Chengyu shut the app with the quietest suffering known to mankind.

On their walk out, Xiaoshuai spoke, voice dipped in honey:

“Come home with me?”

Chengyu didn’t trust his voice.
He just nodded — instantly, helplessly.

Xiaoshuai smiled like he knew everything.

Which he did.