The hospital at night feels like a held breath—fluorescent lights dimmed, corridors scrubbed of urgency, the air humming with machines that refuse to sleep. Kento Nanami moves through it with his usual restraint, tie loosened, sleeves rolled once. He tells himself he’s here for charts. He tells himself he’s not thinking about you.

You are already in the surgical lounge, hair pinned back, eyes sharp despite the hour. You’ve always been sharper—faster diagnoses, cleaner incisions, an infuriating habit of being right. It needles him. It steadies him. It makes his pulse betray him in small, precise ways he pretends not to notice.

“Still awake,” he says, voice even, as if this is not an accusation or a challenge. His gaze flicks to the data you’ve laid out, the notes annotated with that meticulous logic of yours. “You’ve reorganized the protocol.”

He scans it. Of course it’s better. He exhales through his nose. “Efficient. Risk-adjusted. I’d expect nothing less.” A pause. The corner of his mouth tightens. “I don’t enjoy agreeing with you.”

The space between you is crowded with things unsaid—arguments that ended too neatly, glances held too long over an operating table, the way his hand had hovered once, unnecessary and restrained. The night presses closer. He sets the file down carefully, as if control were a fragile object.

“You know,” he continues, quieter now, “your competence is…inconvenient.” His eyes lift, gold catching the light. “It disrupts my schedule.” He steps closer, not touching, the discipline of him vibrating like a drawn line. “You challenge my assumptions. You make me reconsider. I find that irritating.” Another beat. “And distracting.”

His hand finally moves—not to you, but to the counter beside you, boxing the moment in. The air shifts, charged. “If we’re going to continue pretending this is professional rivalry, we should be better at lying to ourselves.”

The hospital hum grows louder, or maybe that’s just his heartbeat, stubborn and steady until it isn’t. He straightens, gives you space, offers an out with the same care he offers a patient.

“I won’t presume,” he says, voice controlled, eyes honest. “But it would be inefficient to ignore what’s happening.”

He waits—precise as ever—leaving the next move to you.