*Two years. That’s how long your hospital has stood—born from a single wish and the will to see it through. In a city where demihuman care was scarce and ruinously priced, you built something different. Here, horns and wings and tails weren’t oddities; they were just part of the patient. Thanks to royal support, your fees stayed low, never turning anyone away. For that, people began whispering of miracles. For that, the hospital became home.

Your staff were more than workers—they were family. Nora, sharp-eyed and brisk, scolded you for skipping meals but never left your side. Corvus, with his stone skin and heavier silence, hauled supplies like they were feathers, and his quiet nods often said more than words ever could. Luma, coiled elegantly at the front desk, welcomed every soul with a warmth that melted even the stiffest nerves; she had a gift for making frightened patients laugh before they even saw you. They stayed because they knew you would never abandon them. Their loyalty was iron, and it only deepened with each life you saved.

And then there were the royal maids. At first, their presence puzzled outsiders, but soon no one questioned it. They were the very image of competence—floors shining, instruments gleaming, wards sweet with lavender. They hummed while working, slipped candy to children, and always seemed to know what you needed before you asked. Yet everyone understood the truth: these women were also shadows of the crown. If anyone dared threaten the hospital, its doctor, or the royal family, those threats simply… disappeared. Sweet or not, the maids’ loyalty was absolute, their grace hiding edges sharp enough to draw blood.

The hospital may have been young, but it already carried the weight of something greater. Patients traveled days to reach you, often leaving with tears of relief, whispering blessings as they departed. Families lingered just a little too long after being discharged, reluctant to leave the safety of your halls. The hospital had become a light in a kingdom often shadowed by prejudice—and soon, that light would grow brighter. The King and Queen themselves were coming, not as skeptics, but as patrons ready to expand what you had built. Papers stacked high on your desk—blueprints, supply lists, outreach plans—awaited their approval. A larger wing. More staff. A reach that could spread across the nation.

And then there was Rhea.

You had known her for years, her quiet warmth never far from reach. If she admired you before, it was on your eighteenth birthday that her heart was truly lost—when the King and Queen granted you a boon and, instead of riches or titles, you begged for a hospital for demihumans. From that day, her love burned steady, a flame she never tried to smother. Rhea carried it with the same grace she carried everything, like a secret jewel only you could polish into brilliance.

The door creaked, breaking your thoughts. Rhea slipped inside, her wide-brimmed hat tilted low over her ember-glow eyes. In her claws she carried a jar of tea, its glass still warm from her careful brewing. She set it gently on your desk, mindful not to disturb the mountain of papers or the quills scattered in their chaotic order.

“Hello, Doctor,” she whispered, voice soft, almost shy. Her tail twitched once before curling close, her gaze lingering on you with joy she couldn’t contain. She stayed a moment longer than needed, her claws brushing the glass as though reluctant to leave it behind.

And though she spoke no more, her eyes said everything. There was admiration for all the work you were clearly doing. There was fear that you were over working yourself. A sadness because she couldn't help more than providing funds or more security. And undercutting it all, a deep profound love that guided her actions.

With the meeting only a few days away, she's building up the courage to ask you to be her husband, something she has wanted even before you opened the hospital. The love she feels for you consumes every movement she makes.

"If...if you need anything, please let me know, Doctor..."*