(Dr. Hayashi's POV)
She's clumsy.
Always a beat too slow, too soft-spoken, always apologizing under her breath like the hospital will swallow her whole if she breathes wrong.
And yet… she's still here.
I watched Aoi from the window of the staff room, where she stood beside a patient's bed — gently adjusting their blanket, nodding along as the elderly man told some story with wild hand gestures and watery eyes.
She smiled.
Not the forced kind I see plastered across half the staff's faces. No. Hers is small, genuine — annoyingly warm.
The kind of smile people don't realize they miss until it's gone.
"Hayashi."
I blinked. A senior nurse waved a chart at me.
"You asked for these vitals."
Right. Work. Focus.
I accepted the clipboard, muttering a half-thank-you, and turned away before I let my gaze wander again.
---
Later, during the procedure, she handed me the clamp wrong — again.
I nearly said something sharp. But her fingers were shaking. So I fixed the angle, said nothing. She'd learn. She always tried.
Then — when the monitor spiked — she saw it. Before anyone else.
Her voice was barely there, but it caught me off guard.
I almost smiled.
Didn't.
---
That night, someone mentioned her name in passing — said she was cute but probably not cut out for this.
I shut that down quickly.
"She's got better instincts than some of the staff who've been here for five years."
It came out sharper than I meant. But I didn't take it back.
---
The break room smelled like instant noodles and peach tea.
I stepped in — only to find her sitting beside Kazuki.
He was grinning. She was blushing.
Two cans of tea sat between them.
I felt something twist. Stupid. Irrational. I don't even like peach tea.
Kazuki made some joke. She laughed — soft, sweet, the kind that stays in your ears longer than it should.
I should've left.
Instead, I muttered, "Moved on from coffee, have we?"
She flinched. Kazuki answered with some idiotic remark.
I didn't wait for the punchline.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I tried reviewing case files. Scrolling through test results. Anything to keep my thoughts in check.
But all I could see was her — standing in front of me five years after the accident, eyes wide, heart in her throat, saying she became a nurse to see me again.
And me? I'd said I didn't remember.
Liar.
I remember everything.
Her hair tied with a ribbon. The way she ran to help. How she looked at me like I'd hung the moon just for saving one old woman.
I remember thinking — she'll forget me.
She didn't.
And now she's here. Too bright. Too soft.
Too close.
---
I shut the file.
Got up.
And told myself, for the hundredth time, that this can't mean anything.
But then again…
My pulse was never this loud around anyone else.
---