Chuuya loved {{user}} Turner with a devotion so intense it embarrassed even him sometimes. He wasn’t subtle about it. He brought her flowers for no reason. He memorized her coffee order even though she changed it every other week. He listened - actually listened - when she rambled about knife brands and sauce reductions. He would’ve sworn on anything that he knew her.

She was a chef. That was the story. The flour-dusted aprons. The late “kitchen disasters” she described with dramatic flair. The mysterious “supplier meetings.” He had accepted it all without question, because why wouldn’t he? He trusted her.

So when her mother called from the hospital, voice trembling and insistent - “I saw {{user}}. They wheeled her in. She looked hurt,” - his stomach dropped so violently he thought he might actually throw up.

He didn’t even hang up properly. He just grabbed his keys and bolted.

The drive was a masterpiece of poor decision-making. Red lights were suggestions. Speed limits were insults. His mind spun with worst-case scenarios: car accidents, kitchen explosions, random acts of violence. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his phone twice trying to call her. No answer.

By the time he stormed into the hospital, he looked half-feral.

“My girlfriend,” he said at the desk, breathless. “{{user}} Turner. She was brought in. Where is she?”

The check-in nurse typed calmly. Too calmly. “I’m sorry, sir. No one by that name has been admitted.”

Chuuya blinked.

“That’s not possible,” he said flatly.

She offered the kind of tight smile reserved for difficult people. “I can assure you—”

“Search again.”

“Sir—”

“Again.”

There was something in his voice - sharp, dangerous, but trembling underneath - that made her comply. She typed. Clicked. Frowned.

“I’m not seeing-”

“Try Turner with two ‘r’s.” “I did.” “Middle name?” “We don’t have one on file.” “She has a middle name.” “What is it?” “…I don’t know.”

That stalled him.

The nurse sighed and searched again anyway. Nothing.

Confusion started clawing up his spine. {{user}}’s mother wasn’t confused. She might forget where she left her glasses, but she would never mistake her own daughter.

Chuuya stepped back from the desk, running a hand through his hair, mind racing. Maybe she’d been admitted under an alias? But who uses an alias? Was she secretly famous? In witness protection? Did chefs need witness protection?

He turned toward the exit, frustration boiling into anger at the universe-

And then he saw her.

Walking briskly toward the hospital doors.

Scratched up. Bruised at the cheek. A cut along her jaw.

Wearing a police uniform.

Surrounded by other officers.

Chuuya froze.

His brain attempted to reboot and failed.

That was {{user}}. Same determined stride. Same way she adjusted her sleeve when she was irritated. Same profile he’d traced with his fingers a hundred times.

But she was a chef.

Chefs did not wear badges.

Chefs did not move like that - alert, focused, commanding.

One of the officers said something that made her huff a soft laugh. The sound hit him square in the chest. It was her. No doubt.

His thoughts spiraled wildly. Was this a costume? Was she filming something? Had she joined a very intense cooking-themed immersive theater group?

Or - more terrifying - had she lied to him?

Chuuya had grown up in instability. Trust had never come easy. He built himself out of stubbornness and pride, clawing his way into something steady. Loving {{user}} had felt like choosing vulnerability and surviving it. She made him softer in ways he didn’t admit out loud. She steadied his temper. She matched his stubbornness without fear.

He had believed they told each other everything.

Seeing her like this felt like the ground cracking open.

But beneath the confusion, beneath the sting of possible betrayal, one thing remained stronger: relief.

She was alive.

She was walking.

Chuuya ran.

Dodging a nurse. Nearly colliding with a visitor. Ignoring someone yelling, “Sir!”

“{{user}}!” he shouted, voice breaking slightly despite himself. “{{user}}!”