04

You hover outside Room 317, clutching the neurology textbook to your chest like armor.

You shouldn't be here. 

Caleb's text still glows on your phone screen: 

𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚂𝙽𝚄𝙷.

You count the ceiling tiles (twelve) before knocking.  

The room smells like antiseptic and the bergamot tea he drinks during night shifts. 

"Chip." Hoseok doesn't look up from the EKG strip he's analyzing, surgical penlight tucked behind his ear. "You're blocking the light." 

You sidestep the portable otoscope charging by the door. The space is all sharp edges—stainless steel cabinets, framed diplomas, his white coat draped over the back of a chair still warm from his body. 

"Page 214," he says, sliding your marked-up paper across the desk. Red ink bleeds through the margins. Insufficient clinical correlation circles your thesis on autonomic nervous system responses. 

Your throat tightens. "I cited six studies—" 

"Case studies aren't lived experience." He finally meets your eyes, thumb brushing the penlight. "You can't quantify a gag reflex through PubMed."  

The air shifts when he stands. 

"Sit." He nods to the exam table, its crinkled paper sheet protesting as you perch on the edge. 

"I'm not your patient," you say too quickly. 

His laugh is all teeth. "Would you prefer I bill your insurance?" 

The overhead exam light clicks on. You flinch at the sudden brightness. 

"Relax." His knuckle grazes your jawline as he adjusts the lamp. "Just demonstrating research methodology." 

He rolls the stool closer, knees bracketing yours.

"Let's say..." His penlight traces the column of your throat, the cool beam skimming over your pulse point. "You wanted empirical data on vagus nerve stimulation."

Your traitorous pulse jumps under the light.

"Theoretical," you rasp.

"Mm." The stool creaks as he leans in. "Hypothetically—if a patient claimed nausea—" A flicker of movement, then the glint of polished steel between his fingers. A tongue depressor. "—would you take their word for it? Or verify with a hands-on assessment?"

His meaning is clinical. Technically. In medical exams, the vagus nerve can be tested by pressing a tongue depressor against the back of the throat, triggering the gag reflex. A strong response might suggest hypersensitivity. A weak or absent one? Neurological impairment.

But that's not what he's asking. Not really.

The textbook slides from your lap, thudding against the floor.

His thumb finds the hinge of your jaw, applying just enough pressure to tilt your head back.

"You need proper mentorship," he murmurs.

"Mentorship." The word barely forms.

"Mm. Palatal anatomy. Gag reflex modulation." His nail scrapes the tender skin behind your earlobe, where the auricular branch of the vagus nerve lies—just another pressure point, another test. "Essential for any aspiring neurologist."

Overhead, the Code Blue alarm blares—a real emergency, somewhere beyond this room. Neither of you move.

"This is—"

"Academic?" He tilts your chin up with the tongue depressor, just shy of pressure. "Ethically sanctioned? Necessary for your... what was it? Comprehensive understanding of brain-gut axis pathways?"

Your own citation, thrown back at you, laced with velvet implication.

His pager vibrates against the desk.

A reminder. A warning.

"Well, Chip?" He pockets the device, but his eyes never leave your mouth. "D'you want to practice?"

Somewhere down the hall, a defibrillator charges. The crash cart rattles past the door. And you—

You're already nodding, fingers curling in the paper sheet as he snaps fresh gloves over those surgeon's hands.

"For science," you whisper.

His smile cuts through the antiseptic air. "Naturally."

"Open." His voice is clinically detached as he positions the tongue depressor. "Wider."

You comply, heart thundering as he leans closer to examine your oral cavity. The exam light catches his glasses, making his expression unreadable.

"Good girl. Now stick your tongue out—just like that." His free hand steadies your chin. "Interesting. Your tongue control is quite developed."

Heat floods your face. You try to respond but can't with your mouth open.

"Shh. Focus on breathing through your nose." His thumb traces your jawline. "We'll start shallow. See how much you can take before the reflex triggers."

The metal slides deeper.

"Swallow for me."

You do, fighting the urge to gag.

"Again." His voice stays perfectly level. "Notice how your throat accommodates the intrusion? That's neuroplasticity at work."

Your thighs press together involuntarily. He continues as if he hasn't noticed.

"Most people choke at this depth. But you..." The depressor ventures further. "Remarkable control. Have you practiced this before?"

You make a strangled sound of denial.

"Breathing's irregular," he notes. "Try to relax your throat. Yes—just like that. Let it slide deeper."

Your hands grip the hem of your shirt as saliva pools in your mouth.

"Fascinating response." His tone remains purely academic. "The stimulation is triggering excess secretion. Perfectly natural biological reaction."

Your face burns hotter. There's no way he doesn't notice how you're squirming.

He glances down—just once—at where your thighs are clenched together. A gentle smile curves his lips.

"Tell me, Chip..." The words float soft as gauze. "Do you always get this wet during medical examinations?"

Your eyes go wide.

"Excess salivation," he clarifies, innocent as morning. "It's a common autonomic response to oral stimulation. Though yours seems... particularly robust."

The paper crinkles beneath you as you shift.

"We should document this," he muses. "For research purposes, of course."

The depressor glints under clinical light as he presses it deeper. 

"Don't fight it," he murmurs, thumb settling at the corner of your mouth. "Relax your epiglottis." 

You try. You try. But all you taste is sterile metal and the faint salt of his skin where his thumbprint ghosts your lower lip. His thighs tighten imperceptibly against yours, a human vise steadying your traitorous tremors. 

"There we go." His voice drops to a velvet hush, the kind nurses use with combative dementia patients. "Good girl." 

Your pulse thrums where his thumb rests—so close to slipping past your teeth, so close to feeling the heat of your tongue.

His nail catches on the swell of your lip, dragging downward as if testing pliancy. 

"Fascinating," he murmurs, though you're not sure what he's referring to anymore—the depressor sinking another fraction of an inch, or the way your throat flutters around it. "Your vagal response is... delayed." 

You whimper. 

He cocks his head, penlight sweeping across your uvula. "Pain?" 

You shake your head minutely, terrified to dislodge his thumb. 

"Discomfort?" 

Another shake. 

"Then what?" 

The question hangs between you, syrupy and dangerous.

His thumb presses harder, blanching the pink of your lip white. You can't tell if he's pushing the depressor or if your body is pulling it deeper, some primal part of you craving the stretch. 

His exhale ghosts your cheek. "Saliva production's increased thirty percent since we began." 

You're drowning in it—a slick, shameful pool gathering under your tongue, threatening to spill. 

"Swallow." 

You obey, throat working around cold steel. 

"Again." 

The third time, a bead escapes the corner of your mouth. His thumb swipes it away before it can fall, the pad rough against your chin. 

"Remarkable," he breathes, rotating the depressor slowly. "No gag yet. How far do you think—" 

His glasses slip. 

It's barely noticeable—a millimeter descent along the bridge of his nose—but his whole body stills.

For one fractured second, you swear his demeanor falters: pupils blown black behind smudged lenses, lips pressed into a bloodless line, tendons standing rigid in his neck. 

Then he's back—gentle, smiling, Hoseok—retracting the depressor with a soft click. 

"Clumsy me," he chuckles, adjusting his frames. "Should've used the head strap." 

You don't mention how his hand shakes. You don't mention the splintered wood where he gripped the depressor too hard. 

You must be imagining things.

You must be making correlations where there's none.

He checks his pager, all brisk professionalism. "Duty calls. You did well today, Chip." 

Chip. The nickname now lands between your thighs. 

You nod, swiping at your damp chin. His gaze follows the movement, lingering on your glistening fingers. 

"Here." He offers a tissue—crisp, folded—with a smile that crinkles his eyes. "For the salivation." 

You take it. He doesn't let go immediately, fingertips brushing yours. 

"We'll continue next week," he says, and it's not a question. 

The door sighs shut behind him. 

Left alone, you stare at the ruined depressor. The wood's fractured where his grip faltered, grooves carved by clenched fingers. You press a thumb into the deepest dent, imagining the force required—the control overridden.  

Down the hall, his laughter floats through an open doorway, warm and easy as he chats with a colleague.

Normal. Harmless. 

You bite the tissue between your teeth, tasting bergamot and salt and lies. 

Your lungs burn as you push through the apartment door, endorphins still singing through your veins.

The run helped—three miles of pavement pounding your inappropriate thoughts into submission. Three miles of not thinking about surgical hands or tongue depressors or—

"Morning, Chip."

You freeze.

The water bottle slips from your grip, hitting the floor with a hollow thud.

Because there he is—Hoseok—lounging on your couch like he belongs there, like he hasn't been haunting your dreams for weeks, like you haven't been actively fleeing every time you catch a glimpse of his white coat in hospital corridors.

"I—" Your voice cracks. "Caleb didn't say..."

"He's in the shower." Hoseok's smile is gentle. Always gentle. "You've been busy lately."

It's not an accusation. His tone is light, conversational. But something in the way he says it—in the careful way he watches you over the rim of his coffee mug—makes your stomach drop.

"Yeah, I..." You scramble for an excuse. "Classes."

"Mm." He sets his mug down with deliberate care. "Interesting. Because I asked about your attendance."

Your heart stops.

"Just checking in," he continues, voice honey-sweet. "Since you missed three anatomy labs."

The air feels too thick.

You're suddenly aware of how you must look—flushed from running, hair escaping your ponytail, compression leggings clinging to every curve.

His eyes track a bead of sweat rolling down your neck.

"I—had other commitments."

"Did you?" He tilts his head, expression perfectly concerned. "Because Dr. Park mentioned you've been switching sections. Always picking labs when I'm not assisting."

Fuck.

"That's not—" You swallow hard. "It's not like that."

"No?" He stands, and you realize with dawning horror that he's blocking your escape route to the hallway. "Then what's it like, Chip?"

The nickname lands like a physical touch. You back up until your spine hits the door.

"Because it seems," he continues, voice impossibly soft, "like you're avoiding me."

"I'm not—"

"Three weeks." He takes a step closer. "Three weeks of missed labs. Declined study sessions. Running away every time I visit your brother."

Your chest feels tight. "I haven't been—"

"Nice outfit, by the way."

The compliment throws you off-balance.

He's still smiling, still gentle, but there's something else there—something that makes your thighs press together unconsciously.

"The color suits you." His eyes drift lower. "Though I wonder if you're getting enough circulation. You're flushed."

You're not flushed from running anymore.

"I should—" You gesture vaguely toward your room. "Shower."

"Of course." He steps aside, ever-courteous. "Wouldn't want you catching cold."

You bolt past him, careful not to brush against his chest. But his voice follows you down the hall:

"Oh, and Chip?"

You freeze, hand on your doorknob.

"Next time you skip labs?" The smile is audible in his voice. "I'll have to schedule a private make-up session. For your academic benefit, of course."

The door closes behind you with a click that sounds like a threat.

You slide down against it, pressing your thighs together as your hand creeps beneath the waistband of your leggings. Because you're weak. Because you're stupid. Because even his threats sound like kindness, and you're going to hell for the way that makes you feel.

In the living room, you hear him laugh at something Caleb says. Normal. Friendly. Like he didn't just pin you to a wall with words alone.

Your fingers slip through embarrassing wetness as you bite your lip to stay quiet.