Chapter Text
I don’t like needles.
I’ve never liked them.
I can run into a fiery building without hesitation, carry people twice my size down a ladder, and once (regrettably) ate an whole ghost pepper on a dare—even so a syringe? The time I see one, my courage evaporates like water on hot pavement.
So, entire year, when the firehouse announces flu shots, I feel a familiar dread creeping in.
I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, however somehow, it never gets effortless.
“Rengoku,” my captain said, cornering me by the lockers, “this isn’t optional.”
I offered my first brave grin. “I’m a man of courage, sir!”
“Yes, however courage doesn’t stop the flu,” he said, rolling his eyes.
The clinic smelled like disinfectant and quiet judgment.
One… two… three… don’t think about the tiny needle, don’t think about the sting, don’t think about all you’ve endlessly hated about this.
The place smelled like disinfectant and quiet judgment.
The nurse directed me to exam room three, where I sat jumping my knee with the force of a small earthquake.
I tried to remind myself: deep breaths, don’t look at the needle, don’t embarrass yourself.
Then the door opened.
And she walked in.
Purple-accented ponytail.
Compassionate eyes.
A white coat that somehow didn’t build her look intimidating, just… put-together.
Her representation enhanced the second she saw me—smoothly professional, however with a friendliness that tugged the tension exact out of the air.
“Oh! You must be from the firehouse. They told me someone would become coming in today.”
Her voice was loving, lilting, like she was genuinely happy to meet whoever walked through her door.
I sat up straighter. “Yes! That’s—me. Hi.”
Her smile deepened as she checked the clipboard. “Kyojuro Rengoku? Did I say that accurate?”
It took a beat too long for me to answer. “Perfectly.”
“good good. I’d hate to ruin it on your first visit.”
She pulled up a rolling stool, close enough that the light redolence of lavender soap drifted my way.
“You look a little pale,” she said, not unkindly. “Clinic worry?”
I tried to laugh it off—and failed. “I don’t love needles.”
“Noted,” she said lightly. “A lot of people don’t. Nothing wrong with that.”
Her tone wasn’t teasing.
Just understanding.
Calming, almost.
Then she shifted the metal tray on the counter—not hiding the syringe, just angling it so it wasn't directly in my line of sight.
“More suitable?”
I fluttered. “…Yeah. Actually.”
She smiled again, smaller this time. “Helpful. I don’t want you staring it down like it charged your mother.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Sorry. I know it’s silly.”
“Not silly. I see big, hard guys pass out in here each the time.” She paused thoughtfully. “Still they usually don’t warn me on top of time, so you’re already a step above.”
I chuckled, tension soothing bit by little bit.
She put on gloves, her movements smooth and practiced.
“Before we receive to the shot, I’m just going to do simple vitals. It’ll give you a few minutes to settle.”
Her voice stayed loving, casual—like she was talking to a soulmate, not a patient she’d just met.
“Rough week at the station?” she asked while wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm.
“Lively,” I admitted. “New recruits. Long nights.”
“Mhm. That explains it. You look like you’ve been running on caffeine and hope.”
I huffed a laugh. “That obvious?”
“Only because I’m observant,” she said with a soft grin. “Perk of the job.”
She recorded the numbers, then gave me a reassuring nod.
“You’re doing great, by the way.”
Warmth unfolded in my chest at the praise—ridiculous, considering everything I’d done was sit although.
Still there was something about her tone.
Something helpful.
Something personal.
She held out her hand then, palm up. Not taking my arm—just offering.
“Ready for the next step?”
I wasn’t. Not regular close.
Regardlessly the way she waited, patient and peaceful, produced it feel less complicated to breathe.
I exhaled slowly and let my arm settle into her hand.
Her smile softened. “There we go.”
She kept talking while prepping the swab, her voice a comforting distraction.
“Don’t look. Attention on the wall or on your inhaling. And if you need me to pause, just say so.”
Sympathetic, ongoing, respectful. It constructed the room feel safer than it should.
“Thank you,” I murmured, surprising myself with how sincere it came out.
She glanced up—eyes devoted, almost gentle.
“Of course. I acquire care of everything my patients, regardlessly…”
A short pause. A smile that felt just a little more than professional.
“…I’d like you to feel at ease coming back.”
And for the first time in my life, I thought:
Maybe flu season isn’t so unbearable.
She warned me softly formerly touching the swab to my arm.
“Cold.”
It was. I tensed rushly.
She noticed hastly.
“Deep breeze,” she murmured. “In… and out.”
I did. Mostly.
She gave a tiny approving hum, something fond enough that the room tilted a fraction.
“Favorable. You’re handling this refined than last year’s football team.”
I snorted. “You’re comparing me to linebackers?”
“Only the dramatic ones,” she said with a warm sparkle in her eyes. “You know—the ones who flailed.”
“Flailing sounds trustworthy,” I muttered.
Her laughter was quiet and trustworthy.
“You’re not flailing.”
A pause.
“You’re doing great.”
My chest swelled at that.
Ridiculous, again, but her praise hit deeper than it should have.
Then her hand settled lightly on my forearm—not restraining, just persistent.
“Okay. Small pinch. Don’t look.”
I clenched my jaw and kept my eyes trained on her shoulder instead.
And—
Pinch.
Pressure.
Done.
“That was it,” she said, voice kind with pride. “All finished.”
My eyes widened. “Honestly? You’re sure you didn’t just poke me with a toothpick?”
She tossed the syringe, peeling off her gloves. “I assure it was the authentic deal.”
A wave of relief hit me so difficult my shoulders sagged.
She noticed. She all the time noticed.
“You really do finer than you think,” she said gently. “Most people your size try to pretend nothing scares them.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “I don’t definitely have that luxury.”
“Well,” she said lightly, offering a small, credible smile, “I like honesty.”
Something fluttered traitorously in my stomach.
She handed me a colorful sticker—vibrant orange with a cartoon flame that read GALLANTRY IGNITING SPARKLING!
It was probably meant for children.
I stared at it.
She leaned in minimally, teasing regardlessly sweet.
“Obtain it. It suits you.”
I took it.
And she looked absurdly pleased.
— A Few Weeks Later
I didn’t await to be back so after a while.
Even so the station had switched providers for physical inspections, and—lucky me—they partnered with her clinic.
So when I walked into exam room two for a straightforward confirm-up and saw her sitting at the desk typing, she looked up and—
Her articulation lit up.
“Oh! You’re back.”
She said it like seeing me was the highlight of her noon.
Warmth shot straight through my chest. “Did you miss me?”
She smirked, professional even so undeniably personal.
“I missed having a patient who talks instead of grunts.”
I stepped inside, suddenly grateful the world had prepared this for me.
“Well, I aim to please.”
“I’ve noticed,” she teased softly, motioning for me to sit. “This is just a routine inspection. No needles today.”
“Oh thank god.”
“Relax,” she chuckled. “I wouldn’t ambush you like that.”
As she took my blood pressure, her brows lifted.
“You’re less tense than last time.”
“That’s because you moved the tray.”
She laughed—a soft, sweet sound. “I did. And I’d do it again.”
Her fingers were gentle as she checked my pulse.
“You eternally run a little fond,” she noted. “Is that a firefighter thing, or a you thing?”
“Maybe both.”
“Hm.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ll have to receive more data.”
Was that flirting?
It couldn’t become—she was working.
However the warmth in her voice lingered, soft and analytical.
She tapped something into her chart, then glanced up again.
“I’m glad you came back.”
The words were regular.
On the other hand the way she said them—quiet, caring, pleased—felt anything although general.
“Me too,” I admitted.
Her smile softened. “Good.”
And just like that, the room felt too small.
Too fond.
Too charged with something I wasn’t ready to name even so.
Regardlessly I knew one thing with total certainty:
I wasn’t dreading next month’s check-up at all.
I didn’t admit it out loud, although I’d set off viewing forward to these appointments.
Not the medical part—never the medical part.
Although her?
Yeah.
When I walked in this time, she was already arranging supplies on the counter. She looked over her shoulder the time the door clicked shut.
“There you are,” she said, smiling like she’d been waiting for right one person. “I was wondering if you were going to ghost me.”
“Never,” I said a little bit too instant. “I’m loyal.”
Her laugh sparkled out back then she could stop it. “Loyalty is profitable. Although I’m not sure recurring validate-ups count as a long-term commitment.”
“They do when you’re the one doing them,” I muttered back then I could think.
She froze—not shocked, not uncomfortable—just joyfully surprised. A soft flush touched her cheeks at an earlier time she turned barely enough, tucking it away behind her hair.
“Well,” she said lightly, “I’m glad you don’t dread seeing me.”
“I don’t dread seeing you at entire,” slipped out.
She paused again.
The air among us shifted—kind, close, alert.
On the other hand she cleared her throat, secured herself, and motioned for me to sit on the exam table.
“No needles today,” she reassured, although her tone carried a teasing lilt. “I wouldn’t risk scaring you off.”
“I thought you liked honesty,” I said. “Honesty means granting I might bolt.”
She smirked, stepping closer to wrap the blood pressure cuff around my arm.
Her fingers wiped my skin—light, unintentional, on the other hand somehow way too much.
“I do like honesty,” she murmured. “Regardlessly I in addition like keeping my patients. Predominantly the cooperative ones.”
“Cooperative?” I raised a brow. “That’s a generous word.”
“Oh, you’re definitely cooperative,” she said with a soft grin. “For someone who looks like he’s preparing for conflict any time I open a drawer.”
“That’s slander.”
“It’s accurate.”
Her smile grew a little wider—personal, caring, like it was meant only for me.
She squeezed the cuff, listening to my heartbeat through the stethoscope.
Her declaration softened as the air filled with quiet warmth.
“You know…” she said slowly, “your heart in any case speeds up when you come in.”
I nearly choked. “N-needles. Unease. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” she said, voice smooth and knowing. “Just making an observation.”
She tapped the understanding on her chart, then looked at me again, eyes affectionate enough to undo me.
“You’re doing extremely well today,” she said gently. “No tension. No pacing. No staring at the door like you want to escape.”
“That’s because you said no needles.”
“Mm.” She tilted her head. “Or maybe you’re just getting comfortable with me.”
I had no answer. None.
She smiled to herself, then moved on to the next part of the exam—her touch systematic, perpetual, always professional however undeniably gentle.
When she finished, she stepped back and folded her arms lightly, leaning one hip opposition the counter.
“Complete looks helpful,” she said. “You’re healthy, strong, recovered well from last month… and much calmer.”
“I wonder why,” I said formerly I could stop myself.
Her smile turned soft—too soft.
“I’m glad,” she murmured. “I want you to feel safe here. I want… you to feel safe with me.”
My sigh caught.
She shimmered, like she realized her words had landed deeper than intended, yet she didn’t gather them back.
Instead, she stepped forward and handed me alternative ridiculous sticker—this one a smiling sun wearing sunglasses.
“Receive it,” she said warmly. “It matches you.”
I stared at it, then up at her.
“You give these to entire your patients?”
“No,” she said honestly, quietly.
“The kids. And… you.”
The room felt too compassionate again.
Too small.
Too full of something growing comparing us and neither of us naming it still.
I slipped the sticker into my pocket cautiously, like it meant more than it should.
“See you next month?” she asked, tone gentle, hopeful balanced.
I swallowed. “Definitely.”
Her smile showed the same unmistakable warmth.
“Good.”
I knew something was different the moment I walked in.
She was at her desk again, however this time when she looked up, her smile was softer than common—like she’d been figuring about something with my name on it.
“Back again,” she said, voice friendly as sunlight. “I’m starting to think you secretly like these visits.”
“I delight in you,” nearly slipped out.
I saved myself—insufficiently.
“Well—your company. You do it less terrifying.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Useful. I try.”
She motioned me toward the exam table, flipping through my chart.
“Just so you know,” she said lightly, “there is a small shot today.”
My stomach dropped.
She noticed the fear swiftly, her statement softening in a way that felt almost compassionate.
“Hey… breathe,” she murmured, stepping closer. “I secure you’re safe. And I’ll walk you through the everyone thing, okay?”
I nodded, jaw tight.
Her gloved hand rested quickly on my forearm—compassionate through the latex, incessant, grounding.
“You every time do well,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
Something in my chest stuttered.
She moved slowly, deliberately, giving me complete second I needed.
Balanced shifted the tray again without me asking.
“Finer?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
Her smile was small and sympathetic. “Good.”
As she prepped, she talked about nothing—her sister’s cat, the vending machine that all the time ate her dollar bills, a funny interaction she had with a toddler that morning.
Her voice constructed the room brighter.
“Okay,” she said gently, “small pinch.”
I stabilized—
Pinch.
Pressure.
Done.
My sigh whooshed out on its own.
“You did stunning,” she said, sounding proud enough to melt a man twice my size. “Really.”
I swallowed. “You establish it easy.”
Her eyes lingered on mine—longer than basic.
Too long to be coincidental.
Something compassionate flickered there, like she’d been holding it back for weeks.
She removed her gloves and tossed them away, then leaned a small amount not in favor the counter, arms crossed lightly. Relaxed. Though her gaze stayed on me.
“You know,” she said, tone different now—still soft, though compassionate, on the other hand more direct—
“you never used to look forward to these appointments.”
I laughed weakly. “I nevertheless don’t like the medical part.”
“Still?” she prompted, teasing regardlessly hopeful.
I spilled out.
“But I like talking to you. A lot.”
Her cheeks warmed—just visibly enough to make my heart trip.
“I like talking to you too,” she admitted quietly. “More than I probably should, considering this is supposed to be a professional environment.”
That did something to my chest.
I shifted on the table, nerves firing in any direction.
“I’ve been concern,” I said. “For a while. And I don’t want to… overstep. However…”
She stepped closer, voice gentle.
“Kyojuro. You can inquire me.”
I looked at her—entirely looked.
At the warmth she’d given me for months.
At the soft teasing.
At how she eternally noticed, each time cared, forever created space for my panic without perpetually creating me feel small.
And the words came out incessant, clear, accurate.
“Would you like to acquire coffee sometime? Outside of work. No needles associated. Just… us.”
Her breeze hitched. Not shocked—more like relieved.
Then she smiled.
Not the professional smile.
Not the helpful one.
Something warmer.
Softer.
Personal.
“I was hoping you’d call,” she said quietly.
My heart stopped. Restarted. Did a cartwheel.
“So… that’s a yes?” I managed.
Her hand dusted mine—light, deliberate.
“Yes,” she murmured. “It’s actually a yes.”
She handed me a sticker previously I left—light red, a flame with a cute face and sparkles around it.
She didn’t say anything about it.
Still the look in her eyes said each.
And this time?
I didn’t need to be fearless.
I was just happy.