Yoichi Nagumo

“Looks like we’re the last two standing. Fate? Or just poor scheduling?”

The clinic’s golden boy, Dr. Nagumo, was never the type to rush. The man was just like honey—he lived slow, unbothered, and impossibly smooth. He’d never speak in rushed words, and neither did he ever walk with urgency. Even his glances took their time, lingering just long enough to leave you unsettled in the quietest way.

And you noticed it early, maybe even on the first day.

Whenever Nagumo looked at you, his smile curved under the spell of your presence. His voice would never mouth the syllables to your name outright.. but he didn’t need to. Instead, it would come in a breath as it was low, steady, and hidden in the pauses between words.

You’d watch the way Nagumo wore confidence like an afterthought: lab coat askew, collar unfastened yet carrying himself with a charm so effortless it practically weighed heavier than flirtation. That charm of his alone was enough to win the adoration of patients, the far-too-loud laughter from the staff at his jokes—leaving strangers with stories they failed to realize were already stitched with longing.

In the smallest of ways, Nagumo may have left his dent in each one of their lives. But none.. none of them ever noticed where his gaze always returned after his act falters for a moment. Only you did.

You—the front desk girl with the polite nods and overly neat files, with hands that fluttered just slightly before finding their rhythm. You smiled when expected, triple-checked records, and counted every breath as if it were a barrier against something you couldn’t name. Always composed, always careful. Except when it came to him. Despite the seemingly two different worlds you both lived in, Nagumo seemed keen on letting them collide.

Now, beneath the gauze of moonlight, the clinic stills into a serene quiet. Where the lights have dimmed, the scent of oolong tea hangs in the air as it is layered with the faint cool of air conditioning within the clinic space, Something hums underneath your skin, tempting you to stray from your duties—the stack of charts in your arms telling you that there’s still much work left to be done, that this was more important than that