Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Where there's a will, there's a way, kind of beautiful
And every night has its day, so magical
And if there's love in this life, there's no obstacle
That can't be defeated

Monday left me broken
Tuesday I was through with hoping
Wednesday my empty arms were open
Thursday waiting for love, waiting for love
Thank the stars it's Friday
I'm burning like a fire gone wild on Saturday
Guess I won't be coming to church on Sunday
I'll be waiting for love, waiting for love
To come around

We are one of a kind irreplaceable
How did I get so blind and so cynical
If there's love in this life we're unstoppable
No, we can't be defeated

Monday left me broken
Tuesday I was through with hoping
Wednesday my empty arms were open
Thursday waiting for love, waiting for love
Thank the stars it's Friday
I'm burning like a fire gone wild on Saturday
Guess I won't be coming to church on Sunday
I'll be waiting for love, waiting for love
To come around

— Avicii, Waiting For Love
(Cover by Romy Wave)

Chapter Text

　"My love is pure, my love is kind. My love awaits for yours to come home."  

　"You were saying?"

　"Oh, nothing," you say while glancing up from the bouquet resting on the doctor's table — an elegant arrangement of white jasmine, pink lilies, and daisies, whose crisp snow-coloured petals framing vibrant yellow centers like tiny suns. "I'm just speaking the language of flowers."

　Zayne, your primary care physician, couldn't care less at your musing. He barely looks up from the lab test results in his hand, his focus only drifting to the flowers once he's come to a conclusion about the findings of your medical examination.

　He scoffs. "You can talk to plants?"

　"Just flowers, Doc. A little something I picked up when I was younger," you select what you deem to be the prettiest jasmine from the bouquet, twirling it gently between your fingers. "This beauty here represents purity. And this . . ."

　You reach for a lily and two daisies, your fingertips grazing the delicate petals as you pull them free. "The lily symbolises kindness. It has other meanings but with this, it's the colour that determines what it says. Now, these . . ." You take one of the daisies and hold it up, studying its simple charm.

　"This is a common daisy. It also means that your love is pure," your gaze lingers on the flower for a moment before shifting to the other daisy in your hand. "This is a marguerite daisy. It's easy to regard them both as the same, but the marguerite is a little bushier in appearance. It also has a different meaning."

　"Which is?" Zayne rests his chin on his hand.

　"I await you."

　The doctor hums, not quite convinced but not entirely unimpressed either. He doesn't press further, simply turning back to the files in his hands before setting them down with a dull thud. 

　"Well, you don't have to wait any longer," he says. "Your test results are normal. Your coughs may just be caused by the change of weather. You know the drill."

　"Lots of water and rest," you reply. A wistful smile tugs at your lips as you press the flowers together, pushing them back into the bunch as if they were never separated.

　You have been plagued by coughs for two weeks now. They started off as nothing more than a few sudden fleeting fits — harmless, easy to dismiss. A dry tickle in your throat, a breath caught at the wrong moment. Nothing worth worrying about, but it's been carrying on for much longer than it should be and your monthly checkup date was approaching. You had to be sure.

　Yet, even now that the man himself has said so, a quiet dread crawls beneath your skin. If it was only the weather, why did it feel like something inside you was unraveling? Why does your chest tighten and twist with something far more suffocating, like vines creeping through your ribs, blooming wild and unchecked, all at the thought of a life with the very person sitting before you? Is this the universe giving you a sign? A warning? Are you imagining things? Are you—

　"Where did you get the bouquet, anyway?" you ask, your eyes never leaving the flowers.

　"A patient left them behind," he answers, "figured you'd appreciate them more than the trash would."

　You huff out a quiet laugh. "This is for me? How thoughtful of you."

　"Sure, I'll give you that," he leans back in his chair, barely glancing at the flowers as if they're the least interesting thing in the room. "You're already giving me a crash course in floriography. Looks like you've found something to direct all that energy toward."

　You roll your eyes. "At least you learn something new."

　"Thank you, I guess."

　Despite his teasing, the question can't help but fester in your mind. A patient left them behind. The bouquet had been abandoned . . . forgotten. Your fingers trace the delicate curve of a lily's bloom, its rose-tinted surface a quiet blush against the pallor of your skin. It seems saturated just to cling to the aspiration that it might find its way into the hands of someone who won't abandon it the way its previous owner had. As if hoping. As if longing.

　As if waiting for love.

　The thought unsettles you in a way you can't quite explain, burrowing deep into the quiet dread already coiled in your chest. You clear your throat softly, pushing the feeling aside.

　"I'll take good care of them," you say, cradling the bouquet in your hands, daydreaming that you're a bride just for a fleeting second.

　Zayne exhales sharply, resting his chin on his hand again. His gaze flickers toward you for just a second before he looks away. "Just don't start hearing the flowers talk back."

　"No promises."

　The two of you fall into silence after that. It isn't uncomfortable, but something about it feels . . . suspended. Like an inhale that never quite releases.

　You should probably leave soon, head home like he advised: drink water, get some rest, pretend your lungs aren't tying themselves right now into knots and your stomach doesn't have butterflies over the man sitting across from you. But you don't move. Not yet.

　"Didn't you have a fascination for flowers before, too?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

　Zayne tilts his head as if trying to recall. "Fascination is a strong word."

　"You knew their meanings once."

　"I knew about a few here and there. Mostly because someone keeps talking about how orchids both mean love and death."

　"So you do remember."

　He shakes his head. "You had a phase."

　"It was never a phase, Zayne. They're timeless."

　The doctor raises an eyebrow. "You really believe in all this?"

　You chuckle softly. "Aren't flowers also a language of love?" you grin, lifting the bouquet to your nose, inhaling their delicate scent like a princess in a fairytale. "If words don't come easy, wouldn't you express it in other ways? Through actions, gifts . . . flowers?"

　The weight of the moment sets in. The bouquet found its way to you, and the meanings woven into each bloom seared in your mind — purity, kindness, patience, longing. Perhaps, in some way, this arrangement was never meant for the person who left it behind.

　Perhaps, it was always meant for you.

　"If I made you a bouquet, would you throw it away?" you ask.

　"Depends," he shrugs.

　"On?"

　He finally looks at you, his gaze steady. "The message."

　"What, afraid I'd curse you with flowers?" you almost burst out laughing had it not been the small prick at the back of your throat threatening to explode into a coughing fit.

　"Wouldn't put it past you."

　"Hey, I'd pick nice ones for ya, snowman."

　Zayne adjusts his glasses, giving you a skeptical look. "That doesn't reassure me. What kind of bouquet will you make me, anyway?"

　"Love me first," you tease, carrying the bouquet in your hands as you stand up and step toward the door. "Then, maybe you'll find out."

　Zayne doesn't react immediately, but something about your words makes him pause. His fingers still against the edge of his desk, his grip subtly tightening before he forces himself to relax. He exhales through his nose, as if the movement could mask whatever had just passed through his mind.

　You don't look back as you slip past the door, but you feel the weight of his gaze lingering on you. "Thanks again. See you, Doc."

　"See you."

　The ride home is a blur of wind and the distant hum of your motorcycle engine. The bouquet, carefully tucked away in your bag, bounces against your side as you navigate the familiar streets, the roar of the engine drowning out the noise of everything else. The rush of the ride is enough to keep your mind from wandering too much, but still, that gnaws in the back of your mind, tangled with the thoughts of a conversation that refused to let go.

　You pull into your driveway and kill the engine with a satisfying twist of the throttle. The silence that follows feels almost too loud. For a moment, you just sit there, letting the vibrations of the bike settle into your bones, before stepping off and heading for the door.

　You fumble with the keys in your hand as you unlock the door. The moment you close it after stepping inside, the tightness in your chest worsens, a faint flutter of unease. Without warning, you stagger forward, hand flying to your mouth. A violent cough erupts, ragged and sharp, pulling you toward the floor. For a moment, everything blurs, the world spinning as your body fights against whatever is clawing at you from the inside.

　When you pull it away, your palm is covered in white blood-speckled petals, soft and white, their fragrance sharp and almost haunting. Your teenage fascination with these things don't take you long to identify what it is that just came out of your throat.

　 Jasmine.

　You sit frozen in the doorway, the petals trembling between your fingers, as if they’re waiting for you to understand something you already know.

　Your mind scrambles to make sense of what’s happening. In the haze of your confusion, you remember the novel Tara was reading the other day when you went out for coffee. She’d mentioned a man who coughed up bloody roses, a disease born of unrequited love, slowly suffocating him as the flowers bloomed in his chest.

　You glare at the petals in your hand, heart sinking. Was this it? You want to cry, but there’s a strange numbness settling over you instead. Your eyes drift to the bouquet now lying on the floor beside you, staring at it as a bitter laugh escapes your lips.

　The language of the flowers may not use mouths to tell you what it thinks, but you hear its words loud and clear: You're in love. Your heart yearns for an embrace as warm as day in the arms of an iceman.

　And because of that, you are going to die.

Chapter Text

　You stand before a sprawling field of jasmine, the blossoms stretching endlessly beneath a blue sky painted with wisps of cloudy white. The air is thick with their scent — sweet, almost intoxicating. A breeze stirs the petals, setting them adrift in slow, lazy spirals, brushing against your skin like whispers.

　You take a step forward. The flowers bend beneath your weight, their delicate forms yielding without protest. There's something unreal about it all. There's something about the way the sky never darkens, the way the air never shifts, the way the field seems to stretch on forever.

　Then, in the distance, you see him. He stands among the blooms, a stark figure in the sea of white. He holds a bouquet in his hands, his fingers loosely curled around the stems. There's no wind here, and yet the petals quiver in his grasp, as if trembling.

　"Zayne . . . "

　He looks up at the sound of your voice. His eyes are dark, unreadable, yet there's something beneath the surface. It's something you can't name, but you know it harbours no good. 

　Slowly, he steps toward you, lifting the bouquet as his fingers tighten around it. The bouquet shifts in his grasp, the white petals wilting at the edges, curling inward as if folding into themselves. A drop of something dark beads at the tip of one petal, rolling down its surface before sinking into the pristine white of the jasmines at your feet.

　"These are for you," he says, his voice quiet and careful. "I know how much you like them."

　"Ever the charmer," you scoff. The scent of jasmine around you thickens, cloying against the back of your throat. You force a small, breathless laugh. "What's the occasion? My wedding day?"

　Zayne doesn't smile. "No."  

　 You furrow your brows together. "Then . . . what for?"

  　 You take another look at the bouquet in his hand. You realise that the flowers are not identical to the ones in the field. The petals are rounder, softer, layered in delicate folds.

　 They're orchids.

　 "For your funeral." 

　You jolt awake, gasping for air. Your body trembles as a cold sweat clings to your skin. A sharp pain coils around your chest, and before you can steady yourself, a cough rips through your throat. One hand clutches at the sheets, the fingers of the other cupping your mouth as a whole fit of it wracks your body.

　When you pull your hand away from your mouth, delicate jasmine petals litter your trembling palm. The tiny specks of blood from last night have spread, forming larger, more ominous stains against the pale petals. You stare at them for a moment before you wipe the blood from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. The lingering taste of iron sits heavy on your tongue as you push aside the blankets and rise from the bed. Your legs feel unsteady, but you force yourself forward, each step toward the bathroom slower than you'd like.

　The cold tile sends a shiver up your spine as you reach for the sink, gripping its edges to steady yourself. You hesitate before looking up because you already know what you'll see. Yet, the sight still unsettles you.

　A disheveled woman stares back, her skin pale under the harsh bathroom light. Your eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, dark circles smudging beneath them like fading bruises

　Your gaze drifts downward, to the fragile white petals resting in your palm. Jasmine. Soft, pure, and utterly damning — just like Zayne. Even now, it still feels too ridiculous to be real until another sharp cough forces its way up your throat. Your body lurches forward, and more petals spill from your lips, fluttering onto your trembling hand.

　 Shit.

　You swallow down the lingering burn in your throat, moving with shaky urgency. Reaching into the cupboard, you pull out an empty cotton jar, unscrewing the lid with fingers still slick with blood. One by one, you drop the petals inside, watching as they stack up into a bloody pile.

　Once they're safely tucked away, you turn on the faucet, letting the cool water run over your hands. Red swirls in the sink before fading down the drain. You press your palms against the porcelain, closing your eyes for a brief moment and inhaling deeply.

　 Breathe in, breathe out. The rhythm is familiar, grounding, but it doesn't change the fact that the petals are still there. That this won't stop.

　Worst of all, you know exactly why.

　A sharp ringing cuts through the silence of your apartment, jolting you from your thoughts. You wash your face, letting the droplets slide down your skin as if they could wash away the weight pressing on your chest. The acrid taste of blood still lingers on your tongue, metallic and unshakable.

　Grabbing your phone, you glance at the screen.

　 Tara.

　You swipe the green button, putting her on speaker as you shove your toothbrush into your mouth. Foam gathers at the corners of your lips as you make your way back into the bathroom, the distant hum of her voice filling the space.

　"Hello!" her voice bursts through the speaker, bright and full of energy. "Are we still up for lunch today?"

　"Mmff– hold on," you spit out the foam, watching as streaks of red swirl down the drain before rinsing your mouth clean. The taste of mint could hardly mask the bitterness. "Yeah, still up for lunch. I woke up like, five minutes ago."

　"Ugh, lucky. I've been up for hours. Should I pick you up at your desk later or are you meeting me there?"

　"Meeting you there," you reply, rubbing your temple. Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you ask. "Oh, do you still have that book? The one about the guy coughing up flowers?"

　Tara hums. "You mean The Garden of the Doomed? Yep, it's my favourite book right now, I should have it. Why?"

　"Just bring it," you say quickly, trying to sound casual. "I, uh . . . remembered something about it and wanted to check."

　"Alright," she laughs. "I'll bring it. See you later!"

　"See ya," you mutter before hanging up. With a sigh, you set your phone down, pressing your fingers against your lips. You tell yourself you're just being paranoid. Perhaps this is another dream that you've to wake up from — that whatever you knew about that historical fiction novel was just that, fiction.

　The petals sitting in that jar say otherwise.

　The cozy atmosphere of the bistro buzzes around you, the scent of warm herbs and freshly baked bread filling the air. Sunlight filters through the large windows, casting a golden glow over the rustic wooden tables. The food is good, but you barely taste it.

　Tara, however, is enjoying herself. She spears a roasted potato with her fork and happily pops it in her mouth. "Okay, I'll admit it. You actually picked a winner this time."

　"You say that like I usually fail."

　She snorts. "I'm just generally skeptical about new places. Remember the last new place we went to, the one with the fusion concept? We had to hit a convenience store afterward because all we got was confusion. "

　"Fine," you roll your eyes. "But this makes up for it, right?"

　Tara takes another bite, pretending to think it over. "Mmm . . . yeah, I'll give you this one," the girl sets her fork down and reaches into her tote bag, pulling out a worn paperback with the words The Garden of the Doomed embossed in silver . She slides it across the table with a grin.

　"Here you go," she says, tapping the cover. "Though I still don't get why you're suddenly interested in this one."

　You pick it up, running your fingers over the faded title. "You've talked about it so much, I figured I should finally check it out."

　Tara leans back in her chair, stretching. "Well, I hope you're ready for emotional damage. It's one of those stories," she gestures at the book. "So, the guy in it? He has a thing called Hanahaki disease."

　"Hanahaki disease?"

　"Yep. It's actually a real disease, you know, but a very rare one. Basically, he falls in love with someone who doesn't love him back, and before he even realizes what's happening, boom! Flowers. The flowers apparently differ from person to person, and for him it's roses. One of the deadliest kinds of Hanahaki."

　Your stomach tightens, but you stay quiet as she continues.

　"At first, he tries to ignore it, acts like it's just a little cough. But it keeps getting worse. Like, really bad. He can barely breathe, he's constantly coughing up petals — full flowers, even, then thorns . It's brutal."

　She flips absently through the pages. "And then, of course, he has to make the choice: get the surgery and erase his feelings completely for the girl, or . . . " She trails off, glancing at you. "You can probably guess."

　Your grip on the book tightens. "Does he have the surgery?"

　Tara sighs sadly. "He refuses it. He'd rather die than forget the person he loves."

　The words hit heavier than they should. You stare at your plate, the meal suddenly unappetizing.

　"It's messed up, right?"

　You exhale slowly, then set the book aside. "Mhm, messed up."

　There's a beat of silence before you reach into your bag and pull out the small glass jar. You set it down between your plates, the delicate jasmine petals inside shifting slightly with the movement. Some of them are still speckled with browned blood.

　Tara's eyes flicker to the jar, then to you. Then back to the jar. Then to back you. 

　"What is this?" she asks.

　You swallow hard. "So . . . funny thing. I happen to be coughing up flowers as well."

　Tara stares at you like you've just grown a second head. "What the fuck?"

　You shrug, trying to play it off, even as your fingers tremble slightly against the table. "You know I've been coughing lately, right? These managed to come off my mouth last night after my checkup with Zayne. I thought it was nothing, but . . . it's not stopping."

　Tara sets her fork down, hesitating before picking up the jar. She turns it in her hands like she's waiting for the petals to disappear, like this might somehow be a joke. But it's real. They're real. As she looks eye-to-eye at the evidence in front of her, her usual teasing demeanor fades.

　"Holy shit," she looks back up. "It's because of someone, right? Who?"

　Your breath catches. You could lie. You could brush it off.

　Instead, your bestfriend answers it for you.

　"Your doctor got you sick, didn't he?"

　The glow of your laptop screen casts a soft light against the darkened room. You hesitate for only a second before your fingers hover over the keyboard, typing the words that have haunted you since earlier this afternoon.

　 Hanaki disease.

　A flood of results appears instantly, though it first asks you if you meant Hanahaki disease . You scroll past the familiar, almost poetic descriptions — the kind that romanticize the illness in books and myths. Whatever you find that you know is credible, you right-click to open on a new tab, one after the other.

　You read off the first one that came up after forty-five minutes of searching. Hanahaki Disease is a loveborne illness where unrequited feelings cause flowers to bloom in the lungs, leading to coughing fits, breathlessness, and, if untreated, suffocation.

　"That about covers it," you say to yourself before reading on. Symptoms start with petals and can progress to full flowers or stems. The disease ends if the love is reciprocated or the victim dies. Surgical removal is possible but erases all romantic feelings for the beloved.

　You swallow hard and press forward, clicking through medical reports and case studies, desperate for something — anything — that isn't mixed with speculation or poetic tragedy.

　Then, amid the clutter of open tabs, you find it: the official website of the Department of Health, displaying the latest issue of the Medical Journal. It's opened on the most recent update about eropathology, the study of what they call 'loveborne maladies'.

　 Loveborne, hah!

　"While often dismissed as folklore, Hanahaki Disease has been recorded in various cases worldwide," you read out loud. "This is particular in individuals experiencing intense, prolonged romantic distress. The flowers that develop are often linked to personal sentiment — such as the specific kind of flower — and emotional attachment — e.g., the colour or the variant of the flower variant — though no concrete pattern has been established in species manifestation. Symptoms range from mild coughing of petals to full respiratory obstruction. Without surgical removal or natural emotional resolution, the disease is considered fatal."

　A shiver crawls up your spine. You force yourself to keep reading, clicking onto the next source, still from the Department of Health's website.

Forum Thread - "Hanahaki disease"

　You skim past posts filled with poetic metaphors and self-diagnoses until you find a thread with actual discussions.

user34 | Has anyone here actually had Hanahaki disease? I feel like I might, but I don't know if I'm just overthinking it.

user35 | If you're coughing up flowers, even small ones, you should see someone. Mine started with tiny specks, but it got worse fast.

user69 | Do the flowers always mean romantic love? What if I love someone as a friend, but they don't feel the same?

　You pause when you reach a comment from someone with a verified medical tag.

Dr. Lorraine Dominguez ✓ | While romantic unreciprocation is the most documented cause, there are rare cases linked to deep emotional bonds of different natures. If symptoms persist, seek medical evaluation. I recommend scheduling an appointment with a specialist in eropathology.

　You click on the name, and it leads you to a doctor's profile.

　Dr. Lorraine Dominguez – Head of Eropathology, Akso Hospital

　 For those experiencing symptoms, early intervention is crucial, her description reads when it's done listing her accolades. While surgery remains the most definitive treatment, counseling and emotional resolution have shown varying levels of success. If you are suffering from symptoms similar to those borne from romantic feelings, Akso Hospital is currently accepting consultations.

　You don't hesitate this time. Well, maybe a little bit. Your hands tremble slightly as you navigate to Akso Hospital's website. The appointment request form is simple. Too simple. It shouldn't be this easy to confirm that something is wrong with you.

　You fill out your personal information and check Dr. Dominguez's schedule. You book the first appointment available that doesn't cover Zayne's shift: 06:30 P.M.

　You hover over the last field. Symptoms.

　"Light coughs for two weeks," you murmur under your breath as you type. "Before coughing up jasmine petals two days ago."

　The moment you press the Submit button, sealing your fate with a single click, a tickle rises in your throat. You barely have time to react before you lurch forward, gripping the edge of your desk as a handful of petals spill from your lips, soft and weightless as they drift onto your palm.

　You swallow down the lingering burn, staring at the delicate white petals resting in your hand, some speckled faintly with red. A grimace tugs at your lips. You reach for the small jar on your desk, twisting the lid open with slightly trembling fingers. The petals join the others inside, pressing up against the glass like ghostly echoes of feelings you never meant to have.

　You shut the jar with a quiet click, exhaling shakily. You close your eyes and, once again, your thoughts drift where they always do: to him.

　To Zayne. 

　You hate how effortlessly he lingers in your mind. Like a song stuck on repeat, like ink staining the edges of a page. No matter how much you try to shake him off because he always seems so cold, he's there. In every quiet moment, every absent thought.  

　You can almost see him now, standing in front of you, hands tucked into his pockets, that unreadable look on his face. He's always been like that. Hard to read, distant in a way that makes you second-guess every little thing. But then, there are moments — fleeting, rare — where his guard slips just enough to make you wonder if there's anything besides ice beneath the surface. A quiet chuckle, a glance held a second too long, the barest hint of warmth in his voice when he says your name.  

　And that's the problem, isn't it? He's just enough to make you hope, but never enough to truly reach for.  

　Your chest tightens. Another coughing fit seizes you, your breath hitching as petals spill from your lips once more. You scoop them up once the worst is over, placing them into the jar with the others.  

　 How ironic, you think to yourself. Zayne is a doctor — a fucking cardiac surgeon — and yet, here you are, drowning in an illness born from loving him. Flowers are symbols of love and should be something beautiful, yet these? These are a curse.  

　You wipe the blood from your hands as you shut your laptop. Reaching for the glass of water you'd prepared earlier, you take a slow sip, letting the coolness soothe your raw throat. It doesn't help much. The phantom taste of petals and blood stays, faintly floral, faintly bitter.

　Your gaze drifts back to the jar. The jasmine petals inside press against the glass, silent witnesses to everything you've refused to say out loud. You inhale deeply before finally facing the music — a truth you've been denying yourself for so long despite even flowers telling you in the face.

　"Yeah, I think I love him."

Chapter Text

　06:27 P.M.

　The clock on the wall ticks steadily, each second stretching longer than it should. You sit in the waiting area, hands clenched in your lap. You're on time — early, even — but your stomach is knotted, twisted in an anxious tangle. You filed for leave, made arrangements, even asked Tara for help — yet none of it eases the weight pressing down on your chest.

　What if Zayne sees you? What if he's only on his way out? The thought alone makes you shrink in your seat, as if making yourself smaller could somehow render you invisible.

　Each time footsteps pass, you glance toward the end of the hall, half-expecting the worst. The waiting room is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of papers at the nurses' desk and the low murmur of a radio playing an old song. Finally, your name is called. You snap to attention, standing so fast you nearly lose your balance.

　The nurse leads you down the hallway, past rows of closed doors, until she stops at a small examination room. The walls are painted a soft blue, and various medical charts and anatomy diagrams are pinned neatly to a board. A tall, poised woman enters shortly after, offering a calm smile as she flips through your file. She carries an air of authority, commanding yet not unkind, much like Captain Jenna. Her jet-black hair is pulled into a neat bun, and her sharp hazel eyes seem to read through you in a single glance.

　"Thank you, Minnie," she tells the nurse.

　"No problem, Doc," she replies. "Should I go tell Nurse Kyla and Anne to prepare just in case this might be it?"

　"That would be nice, thank you."

　Minnie finally slips out the door. Then, turning to you, she extends a hand. "Hello, miss. I'm Dr. Lorraine Dominguez, but you can call me Dr. Dominguez. You scheduled the online appointment, correct?"

　"Yes," you shake her hand. "Aren't doctor's hours usually over by five?"

　She hums. "Typically, yes. But the eropathology department allows visits beyond hours for those who have . . . reservations about what they might be experiencing."

　Her expression shifts slightly as she reads your name, recognition flickering in her eyes before she looks up.

　"Huh," she tilts her head. "I think I know you. You're a patient of Dr. Li's."

　Your stomach lurches. "I am."

　"He's talked about you."

　"He . . . he has?"

　Dr. Dominguez sets the file aside. "Yes, a few times. He mentioned you were childhood acquaintances and your cardiac disease. I have to admit, I didn't expect to see you here for a different trouble of the heart."

　You let out a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of your neck as you resist the urge to cough. "Yeah, neither did I."

　She moves to begin the usual check-up, placing the stethoscope against your chest.

　"Deep breaths," she instructs, listening carefully. She checks your throat with a small light, presses lightly against your ribs, then makes a few notes. "You wrote that you've been coughing out jasmine for three days."

　You rummage through your bag, pulling out a jar filled nearly halfway with delicate white petals, then hand it over. "Yeah. Three days today. I figured I'd think ahead."

　"When did you start coughing in general?"

　"About two weeks ago, right after we eliminated some Wanderers at a No-Hunt Zone."

　She leans against the counter, studying the jar before speaking again. "Have you heard of Hanahaki disease before?"

　"I did some research last night after seeing it in a book my friend likes," you answer. "The Garden of Doomed, I think."

　She chuckles. "Yes, that's put the disease in the spotlight recently," she says, setting the jar on a nearby table. "Still, it's only part of a broader category of illnesses tied to emotions and love. Many discredit our field because it sounds too poetic, too rare to be real. I assume you were skeptical before experiencing progressive symptoms? Maybe that's why you didn't come in sooner?"

　"You got me."

　She offers a wry smile. "There are other emotional afflictions, but Hanahaki is the most well-known. So far, what you're experiencing is the common strain — flowers blooming in the lungs, obstructing your airways, making it harder to breathe."

　"Am I going to die?"

　Dr. Dominguez raises an eyebrow at your sudden question.

　"Only if you let it kill you," she replies. "I presume you've also read about the possible cures. We can arrange for surgery if you'd like, especially now that we've caught it early."

　"So it's just . . . that?" You frown. "Confess, or end up in a coffin? No other way?"

　"None that we've found yet, besides surgery. But that comes at a cost."

　"Which means . . .?"

　"Losing the feelings altogether. The procedure removes the flowers, but it also takes away the love that caused them. Some say they feel hollow afterward. Others find it a relief."

　Your knee jerks. "Do I still have time?"

　"Your case is still developing. It could progress into the worst-case scenario — severe floral growth blocking your trachea. You'll have about a month before it becomes critical. But there's another, far rarer form."

　She lowers her voice slightly. "Five cases have reported coughing or vomiting butterflies instead of petals — one had both. It's the rarest strain, but also the deadliest. The butterflies multiply, move, and tear at the insides like living razors."

　A chill runs down your spine. "That sounds . . . horrifying."

　"It is. Few survived, and they rarely speak of it." Her gaze softens. "Would you like to talk about how you're feeling and your next steps?"

　You bite your lip, the weight in your chest heavier than ever. "I don't know. I guess I feel . . . afraid. The reason I even have this . . . I'm not sure if he can give me the cure I need."

　She places her chin between her fingers, studying you carefully.

　"Dear, I don't mean to pry," she clears her throat, "but I can't help but ask . . . is Dr. Li your jasmine?"

　Your breath catches. You don't answer, but the way your hands clench, the way your eyes drop — it's all the confirmation she needs.

　Dr. Dominguez sighs. "That does complicate things, doesn't it?"

　"You know him," you murmur. "I just . . . I don't know."

　A heavy silence settles over the room, thick enough to choke on. You shift in your seat, the weight of your own emotions pressing hard against your ribs.

　"Is he going to find out?" Your voice barely rises above a whisper.

　Dr. Dominguez flips through your chart, her expression unreadable. "He has to. He's listed as your primary care physician."

　"No, please," you plead, voice trembling.

　Her gaze flicks to the paperwork, then back to you. "Legally, I have to document this. If he checks your records, he'll see the visit."

　A sudden cough claws its way up your throat, tearing through your chest. You turn away, pressing a hand to your mouth as the fit rattles your lungs. When the coughing finally subsides, your fingers tremble as you pull them away from your lips. Resting in your palm is a fully bloomed jasmine flower, its petals pristine and delicate. Beside it, a small butterfly, pale and fragile, flutters weakly before stilling.

　Dr. Dominguez's fingers tighten on the table.

　"This isn't good," she says. "Your symptoms are progressing faster than expected."

　A thick silence follows. The butterfly flutters lazily before ceasing to be.

　You swallow, feeling the air grow heavier. "Doc," you whisper. "How much time do I have left?"

　Dr. Dominguez exhales sharply, rubbing slow circles into her temples. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, deliberate.

　"When did you say this started?"

　"Monday."

　"Then you have until the end of this week."

　Four days. That's all the time you have left.

　You weigh your options, turning them over like petals plucked from a dying flower. Which fate is crueler? You don't have the luxury of waiting any longer. If you let the illness take you, at least you will have loved — wholly, painfully, tragically. But if you choose the surgery, you will wake up a stranger to your own heart, stripped of the love that once ignited a fire in you.

　A future without love, or a death steeped in it. Either way, you hear the silent whisper of the bouquet you left to wither at home: My love is pure, my love is kind. My love awaits for yours to come home.

　Where was home when it's nothing but a castle of ice?

　Zayne steps into his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft click. The exhaustion in his limbs is bone-deep, a slow-burning ache that settles into every muscle after a long shift. He rolls his shoulders as if to shake off the weight of the day, but it clings to him just like the faint scent of antiseptic that still lingers in the fabric of his clothes.

　He exhales, slow and measured, unwrapping his scarf and tossing it onto the nearby chair before slipping off his coat. The fabric is cold against his fingertips, still carrying the crisp bite of the night air. He drapes it over the back of the couch, his fingers for a moment as he lets his head tip back, eyes shutting briefly.

　Home. Finally.

　Yet even here, in the quiet of his apartment, the tension doesn't leave him. Something gnaws at the edges of his thoughts, persistent and unwelcome. His shift had been long, the hospital brimming with the usual chaos, yet one moment stood out against the blur of white halls and sterile lighting.

　The eropathology department. A fleeting glimpse of a figure, one he could have sworn was you.

　His jaw tightens as he moves through the dim space, undoing the top buttons of his shirt as he passes the window. The neon glow of the city outside spills into the room, casting shifting patterns of blue and violet across the floor. He barely acknowledges it, too lost in the thought that keeps circling back, refusing to let go.

　Could it really have been you? And if it was, why were you there?

　Zayne exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair before sinking onto the couch. The worn cushions give beneath his weight, but comfort eludes him. His body hums with fatigue, yet his mind refuses to still. His fingers twitch against his knee, restless. The thought should be easy to dismiss. It could've been a coincidence. A trick of the light.

　Just then, a sharp, lacerating cold spears through his arm, forcing a strangled breath from his lungs. His entire body tenses, his fingers flying to his elbow as if he could physically wrench away the sensation. But it's deeper than skin, deeper than muscle. This is something that tears through him from the inside, merciless in its intensity.

　His Evol is flaring. The ice surges through him, curling around arms like barbed wire, threading through his veins in a rush of unbearable cold. His breath escapes in uneven gasps, misting in the freezing air that now radiates from him. Frost spiders across his skin, delicate but vicious , burning where it blooms before shattering apart.

　Zayne grits his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he presses a hand to his chest. His power has never felt this volatile before  —  this untamed. Slowly, the pain stops and fades away. Zayne exhales sharply, flexing his fingers as the ice reluctantly recedes from his veins, leaving behind an aching chill. His breath still mists in the air, but his body is his own again.  

　Without hesitation, he crosses the room, flipping open his laptop. The glow of the screen casts sharp shadows as his fingers move swiftly over the keys. A few clicks. A few keystrokes.

　Zayne leans back, eyes locked on the screen. Thank you for scheduling an appointment with Akso Hospital. Your appointment with Dr. Lorraine Dominguez has been confirmed. We look forward to assisting you.

Chapter Text

　The eropathology department may be Akso Hospital's youngest division, but in just two years, it has earned a reputation for being both groundbreaking and enigmatic. When the branch is first proposed a decade ago, it faces heavy skepticism. Many dismiss it as pseudoscience, believing emotions have no place in clinical diagnosis and that matters of the heart belong exactly where they are—in cardiology.

　However, as cases of so-called 'loveborne maladies' grew in recent years, undeniable patterns emerge. With rigorous research and successful treatments, eropathology proved itself as a legitimate and necessary field.

　Now, Akso Hospital stands at the forefront of this evolving specialty, and at its helm is Dr. Lorraine Dominguez, its founder and current department head. Her groundbreaking research on Hanahaki disease has earned her international acclaim, with her studies published in top medical journals and cited worldwide. Even now, she remains one of the leading figures in the field, tirelessly working to find a cure beyond surgery.

　Many assume her greatest achievement is receiving the Starcatcher Award for her contributions. Others believe it is marrying the very man she once saved from the illness she has dedicated her life to.

　If you ask Dr. Dominguez herself, however, she will tell you it is the people who have inspired her research in the first place.

　"Good morning, everyone," she greets as the eropathology staff file into her office. "We've got a long day ahead of us." Then, with a knowing glance, she turns to one of the nurses. "How was the date last night, Kyla?"

　A blush creeps up the red-haired nurse's face as her colleagues nudge her with teasing grins. "Erm, it went well, Doc," she mumbles, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

　"That's good. We look forward to the expansion of your lore, darling," Dr. Dominguez chuckles, but soon shifts to business. Her staff straighten, ready for whatever their boss has to say.

　"As you may know," she begins, "we have just received a patient with the Paraflos strain of the Hanahaki disease."

　The staff arriving for the morning shift perk up, whispering to each other in hushed voices.

　"But that . . . that's the variant with the flowers and butterflies, right?" one of the student nurses asks, their voice tinged with curiosity and concern. "There's only been one ever."

　The doctor nods. "Yes, Gaia, which is why I've called for an emergency meeting this morning. I imagine you're wondering why they haven't been admitted. They've chosen to delay surgery . . . at least for now."

　A few staff members exchange glances. It is rare for patients at this stage to hesitate, let alone walk away. Most make their choice quickly, and the one other time they have encountered the exact same case, the patient had chosen to end their suffering then and there. The fact that this one has left instead is baffling.

　"They've chosen to go home first, to gather their things and make arrangements before being admitted," she continues, her tone professional yet carrying a faint, unspoken softness. "They've already undergone the necessary tests, and the lab should have the results soon. We'll stay in close contact and monitor their condition for any sudden changes."

　Dr. Dominguez sighs. "I understand what this means for our department and for Akso as a whole. As one of you pointed out, this is only the second recorded case of this Hanahaki variant, and the first our hospital has ever handled."

　She lets the weight of her words settle before continuing. "That alone puts us in uncharted territory. We don't have precedent, only speculation and what little data exists, but that doesn't change our responsibility. We need to be prepared for every possible outcome."

　Her gaze sweeps across the room, steady and unwavering. "I expect all of you to stay sharp. The moment they walk back through these doors, we move. No delays, no missteps."

　A brief silence settles over the room before she gives them a firm nod. "I want updates from all your cases throughout the day. Dismissed."

　The medical staff trickle out one by one, their footsteps fading into the sterile hush of the hallway. Dr. Dominguez leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly as the weight of the morning settles over her. Her gaze drifts to the empty space where the patient sat just yesterday, their hands clenched in their lap, voice tight with desperation.

　She has studied them carefully, noting the tension in their expression, the way their fingers trembled despite their effort to appear composed. It isn't an easy request, hiding a case like this from their own physician, especially one so rare. But in the end, she agrees. Maybe it is the quiet panic in their voice, the way their eyes flickered toward the door as if bracing for him to appear at any moment. Or maybe because—

　 Knock, knock, knock.

　"Speak of the iceman, and he shall appear," she mutters under her breath. "Come in."

　The door swings open, and as a raven-haired man steps inside, faint snickering drifts in from the hallway before the door clicks shut behind him. Dr. Dominguez offers a small, knowing smile and gestures toward the chair across from her.

　"Right on time, as always, Dr. Li."

　The sun hangs low in the sky, spilling amber light across the walls and casting long shadows across the floor. It feels eerie, how quiet everything is. How still. As if the house is holding its breath, waiting — just like you are.  

　You take one last look at your house before heading outside. At least, your fourth or so one last look. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob, reluctant to let you go back to the hospital. You try to memorize every little detail: the way the light catches the edge of the picture frames, the faint scuff marks on the floor from when you dragged the couch too many times, the subtle scent of coffee still lingering in the air from a morning you barely remember.

　Zayne would have liked it here.

　You can already picture him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, raising a skeptical brow as he scans the place with that sharp, assessing gaze of his.

　 "Lovely place you have here," he'd say, unimpressed. "I'm surprised this has not been taken over by the plushies we collected at the arcade."

　You'd just roll your eyes, shove him inside, and watch as, despite himself, he starts making himself at home. 

　You imagine him sitting on your couch, curled up with a medical journal, his long fingers tapping absently against the pages. You'd steal glances at him from the kitchen, watching as the golden light softened the sharp edges of his face. He'd flick his eyes up, catch you staring, and smirk.

　You'd laugh. You'd tease him. He'd pretend to be nonchalant about it but he wouldn't move away when you plopped down beside him, resting your head on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

　The thought is enough to make your chest ache, but you don't stop there. You let yourself have this, just for a little while.  

　You imagine waking up to the sight of him in the kitchen, going over his cases at Akso while somehow still making you breakfast. You imagine his coat draped over the chair, his shoes by the door, his voice filling up the empty spaces you never knew how to fix.  

　God, it hurts.

　You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing holding you up. Tara was quick to promise to take care of things if you chose not to go through with the surgery. You know she'd keep that promise. She's already made sure to help you keep everything in order, from talking to Captain Jenna about your condition down to writing your last will and testament. Just in case.

　The idea of this house without you in it — without the possibility of him in it — twists something deep in your gut. It could've been real.

　It could've been yours.

　Your eyes fall on the bouquet from a few days ago, its colors faded and the petals brittle, the scent barely clinging to the air. You reach out, fingers grazing the wilted flowers, and the ache in your chest tightens. Once, this spoke to you. Now, it didn't need to tell you what you already knew.

　A cough rips through you, sudden and violent. You stagger back before the coughing starts, falling against your duffel bags stuffed to the brim with your basic necessities. Your vision blurs, dark spots blooming at the edges. Jasmines spill from your lips, delicate and beautiful in their tragedy. Small butterflies follow, their tiny wings fluttering weakly before collapsing, too fragile to survive the weight of your longing.

　You gasp, struggling to breathe, but all you taste is blood and flowers and grief. Tears burn hot trails down your cheeks, and the sob that follows is raw, breaking free before you can stop it.

　You want it to stop. You want the pain to end, but perhaps more than anything — more than anything in this world — you want him.

　Oh, if it was only that easy to melt a frozen heart.

　It takes too long to pull yourself together. When you finally do, your body feels hollow, like something vital has been carved out of you and left to wither. Wiping your mouth, you grab your bag and step outside.

　The street is quiet. As you approach your motorcycle, you catch sight of a couple stumbling down the sidewalk. They're laughing, lost in their own world. 

　"Akio, you idiot!" the woman pants breathlessly. Something about her feels familiar, like you've seen her bright eyes and her pretty little smile somewhere,but you just couldn't pinpoint where exactly.

　"It's past eight, we should head home. I'm going back to work tomorrow, I can't be late!"

　"But the night's still young, Kate," Akio grins, slipping an arm around her. "Won't you stay with me a little longer?"

　Kate sighs, pretending to resist, but his puppy-dog eyes make her smile. "Fine, babe. But you're going to cook breakfast tomorrow morning, and if I do get late, you're bringing doughnuts for us tomorrow."

　"Deal."

　Their hands brush before one of them finally takes the other's hand properly, lacing their fingers together like it's the easiest thing in the world. Something inside you twists.

　It should've been you reaching out, hesitating for only a second before Zayne sighs, exasperated but fond, and laces his fingers through yours. It should be you, laughing at his dry remarks, nudging his shoulder, watching as he fights to suppress a smile and ultimately fails.

　But it's not, and it won't be.

　You've already made your choice.

　The eropathology break room hums with quiet chatter, the overhead lights casting a sterile glow over the nurses gathered near the coffee machine. Their voices dip into hushed excitement, punctuated by the clink of ceramic mugs and the soft rip of sugar packets. Kyla, ever the coffee connoisseur, pours freshly brewed cups for the group, but the real buzz isn't from the caffeine—it's from the conversation brewing between sips.

　Minnie, perched on the counter with a practiced ease, adjusts her glasses as she pouts and sighs. "I wish all cases were like Akio and Dr. Allegre—oh, wait, it's Dr. Castello now, hehe."

　Anne, the starry-eyed romantic of the group, chuckles while lifting her mug. "You remember how she was this close—" she holds up her thumb and index finger, the gap barely the size of a grain of sand, "to getting the gerberas removed when he busted through the operating room?"

　Kyla gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Katie, my love! It's me, Akio! I love you, and I've been so stupid not to realize it this whole time!"

　Anne snorts, stirring her coffee. "Honestly, I thought Dr. Dominguez was going to hurl a scalpel at him instead of starting the procedure. That was fucking stupid."

　"Hey, you can't deny it was romantic," Kyla argues with a dreamy sigh. "My niece saw them earlier at the park — Akio was sketching her, and they were arguing because she wouldn't stop laughing."

　Minnie grins. "They're enjoying their honeymoon, huh? I'm surprised they didn't fly out somewhere."

　Kyla hums in agreement, but before anyone can comment further, she absentmindedly stirs her coffee and shifts the topic. "Oh, by the way, I saw Dr. Li drop by Dr. Dominguez's office earlier, right after the meeting."

　She taps her spoon against the rim of her mug, her tone turning thoughtful. "Apparently, he scheduled an appointment with her today."

　Minnie frowns. "But this isn't the first time, right? I remember he came by about a month ago, too," she pauses, lowering her voice. "Surely, it's not Hanahaki?"

　Anne shakes her head. "I don't think so."

　"Yeah," Kyla nods. "Otherwise, he'd be dead by now. Or at least a lot worse off."

　"So what is it, then?" Minnie asks.

　Anne hums. "Maybe it's not a what, girls. Maybe it's a who ."

　A ripple of knowing laughter follows. Before the speculation can spiral further, the break room door swings open with a quiet creak. A trio of medtechs enter, their white coats crisp against the deep blue scrubs underneath.

　Delilah, the girl in the middle, is mid-sentence with her brows furrowed in thought. "I'm telling you, it's too much of a coincidence. I've never seen anything like this before."

　Mirana, runs a hand through her salt-and-pepper hair, letting out a contemplative hum. "I mean, if anyone were going to be a medical anomaly, it'd be the snowman himself."

　Minnie perks up and walks over, greeting each medtech with a warm hug. "You're talking about Dr. Li, too?"

　Celestine, the youngest of the three, brightens. "Oh, not just him. You know about the patient from last night?" She pulls out a chair and plops into it with a sigh. "The one with Paroflos? This isn't just the first case in Akso — it's our first recorded instance of jasmine in Hanahaki."

　A chorus of gasps follows.

　"Really?" Kyla places a hand over her mouth as she hands the newcomers their coffee.

　"Yeah, we collected samples from her last night," Mirana confirms, drumming her fingers against the table. "We've mostly seen roses, tulips, maybe an occasional forget-me-not. I'm surprised jasmine hasn't shown up until now."

　Minnie tilts her head. "But what does that have to do with Dr. Li?"

　Delilah sighs, shaking her head with a knowing smirk. "Oh, you poor thing," she says, reaching over to pat Minnie's head. "Think about it. Who do you know that adores jasmine flowers and keeps a picture of a white butterfly in his office?"

　Minnie blinks. "Wait . . . you don't mean—"

　Celestine nods, her expression shifting into something almost pitying. "I guess the rumors are true."

　"No way," Anne whispers, shaking her head. "That's crazy."

　"I think it makes sense," Mirana says, leaning back with a sigh. "They were childhood friends, he's her primary care physician, and I've seen them out together a couple of times."

　Minnie swallows. "Does he know?"

　"Probably not," Celestine murmurs, tapping her fingers against the table. Then, as if remembering something, she straightens. "Oh, speaking of Dr. Li, Dr. Dominguez ordered a scan for him. We went over his results this morning, and let me just say: Hanahaki's not supposed to work like that."

　"What do you mean?" the nurses ask in unison.

　Mirana leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "We found flowers in his lungs, alright. But here's the kicker: they're jasmines. Made of ice."

　A stunned silence follows.

　"But that's not possible," Kyla pipes up. "I mean, it's already almost impossible to grow flowers in your lungs, let alone ones made of ice."

　"That's what we thought," Celestine says, setting her mug down with a soft clink. "But Dr. Dominguez says he's an anomaly. He's not coughing, but he's showing signs of deterioration through his Evol. Said he gets flares of pain and what-have-you. She kept most of it under wraps."

　"So instead of petals suffocating him, it's ice freezing him to death," Delilah sums up.

　Kyla exhales, setting down her mug. "Do you think it's got something to do with the new patient?"

　"I don't think," Minnie answers. "I know."

　Anne frowns, stirring her coffee absentmindedly. "But doesn't that complicate things for everyone? They probably don't even know they're sick because of each other."

　"Guess you could say they're lovesick."

　The girls spin around at the sound of a familiar voice. Leaning casually against the doorway is Dr. Greyson, his white coat slightly rumpled, a cup of coffee in one hand and a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. His hair is still slightly tousled from a long shift, and the faintest hint of exhaustion lingers in his sharp yet kind eyes. He has a habit of slipping into conversations unnoticed — probably a reflex from too many overnight surgeries where silence was a necessity. The eropathology staff don't mind, though.

　"Dr. Greyson!" Mirana grins, shifting to make space. "Come join us."

　He takes the invitation without hesitation, settling into the chair with an exhale. "Don't mind if I do. My shift just ended, and I need something to keep me from dozing off in my car."

　He takes a sip of his coffee before sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You'd think with all his achievements, Dr. Li would be smart enough to pick up on context clues," he mutters. "Unfortunately, the man has the emotional intelligence of a dead goldfish. Just my opinion, of course."

　Anne raises a brow, leaning forward with a smirk. "Oh, don't be too harsh. Who was it again that got his date flowers without knowing they were allergic to pollen?"

　The table erupts into laughter, the earlier heaviness lifting just a little. Even Greyson cracks a small smile, shaking his head at himself.

　Greyson sighs, shaking his head in mock defeat. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. At least I actually had a date. Some people in this hospital wouldn't know romance if it bit them."

　Mirana hums, resting her chin on her hand. "Speaking of romance and people who are terrible at it . . . what do you guys think about Dr. Li?"

　Kyla perks up immediately. "Oh, now that is a man who gives me secondhand frustration."

　"Why?" Greyson asks, arching a brow. "Because he looks like he walked out of a romance novel but has the emotional range of a brick?"

　Minnie snickers. "Exactly."

　"To be fair," Anne muses, "he does have that whole mysterious, brooding vibe. Some people find that attractive."

　"I'm not even sure he believes in love," Mirana says, stirring her coffee. "Have you ever noticed how he shuts down any conversation about it? Like it's some kind of disease."

　"Which, considering where we work, is kind of ironic," Minnie mutters.

　Greyson leans back, arms crossed. "Dunno. I think he just loves quietly. Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve."

　"Love quietly?" Kyla scoffs. "I think the man is practically mute."

　Anne laughs but softens. "Greyson has a point. Zayne doesn't do grand gestures, but he remembers how you take your coffee. Covers shifts. And don't get me started on how he treats his patients."

　Mirana nods. "Yeah. There was this kid scared of stitches, and instead of brushing them off, he showed them how to suture on a stuffed animal first."

　A quiet pause follows, the group reflecting. Then, Minnie exhales. "Okay, fine. He's not heartless. But if he ever fell in love, we'd have to pry it out of him with a scalpel."

　"That's assuming he even realizes it," Greyson mutters.

　Anne tilts her head. "You think he could have feelings and not know?"

　Greyson shrugs. "Some people go years before figuring it out."

　The girls nod. That's the unspoken truth in their field: some love loudly, some love in whispers.

　Some don't realize it until it's almost too late.

Chapter Text

　"Are you sure you have everything?" Tara asks, placing the last of your belongings in the bedside drawer.

　You nod. "Thank you."

　"Oh, don't bother," Tara plops down into the chair beside your hospital bed and exhales a long, exhausted sigh. She'd made good of her promise to help you since you were diagnosed. She helped you carry your bags, unpacking your things in this place as if making it feel a little more like home could somehow change the reality of it all. She stretches her arms over her head before slumping forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

　The hospital room is cold, sterile, and quiet except for the steady beeping of the heart monitor. The world outside goes on, but here, time feels slower. She watches you for a long moment before speaking.

　"Are you sure about this?" she asks, tucking a strand of her coffee-coloured hair behind her ear.

　You keep your gaze on the window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. "Yeah," you murmur.  

　Tara shifts beside you, arms crossed. Then, almost disbelievingly, "Even though you still love him?"  

　Your fingers curl against the sheets. "Even though I still love him."  

　She exhales sharply, shaking her head. "You still have a couple of days, girl. Maybe—"  

　 "No."  

　She lets out a frustrated breath. "God, do you even hear yourself? You're acting like this is set in stone, like you don't have a choice."  

　You don't respond, and that seems to frustrate her even more.  

　"Why?" she presses. "Why are you willing to put yourself through this? Over someone you're not even sure loves you back?"  

　"Tara—"  

　"I just don't get it, alright?!" she shakes her head, rubbing a hand over her face. "You're my best friend, and I feel like I'm watching you throw yourself into something that's only going to break you."  

　Silence lingers between you. You can feel it in her voice that she's on the verge of tears, and with a weak hand, you reach out to pat her on the shoulder.

　"You're going to be fine," you give her a tight-lipped smile. "You know how the guy in The Garden of the Doomed wanted to die for love, right? Maybe . . . maybe I am that guy. Perhaps this is time for you to start realising that dying for love isn't as romantic as it seems."

　"Fuck you," Tara elbows you half-playfully, though her eyes glisten with unshed tears. "Not like that. And I don't even love angst, idiot!"

　"Says the girl whose entire book collection revolves around either somebody dying or somebody getting pregnant — in a medieval or mafia setting, no less. That in itself is material for angst."

　"Hey!" Tara huffs, swatting your shoulder just as you feel the telltale tightness in your chest. The moment her hand makes contact, it's as if she's pressed a cruel trigger.

　Your vision swims as your body convulses, heaving against your will. Tara curses under her breath, grabbing the bucket just in time. You clutch its edges with trembling fingers as your stomach clenches, forcing out jasmines, their scent sickly sweet as they mix with the sour burn in your throat. White butterflies flicker from your mouth, their fragile wings damp with the remnants of your suffering. Tara's hand stays firm on your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you shudder through each choking gasp.

　"Shit," she murmurs. "I got you."

　"Know you do," you mumble. You take the tissue paper she hands you, using it to wipe the blood on the corners of your mouth. She takes the bucket away from you and places it on the ground, this time handing you a bottle of water to quench your thirst.

　"I owe you one," you say after taking a single sip, your state making it hard to swallow any further.

　Tara scoffs. "Yeah, right. You've never told me why you love him in the first place."  

　"You never bothered asking."

　"Zaynie!"

　You're sitting on a bench in the playground, knees drawn up to your chest. Laughter and shouts echo around you as the other kids dash past, caught up in their games. Your attention, however, is elsewhere — on the delicate orchids blooming along the fence.

　Grandma never quite understood your fascination with them in general. She'd shake her head and say that other nine-year-olds would rather dream about boys giving them flowers than obsess over the flowers themselves. Caleb wasn't much different, but at least he understood enough to leave you be, resuming his reign as the king of the playground.

　A bright grin spreads across your face as you wave at the boy approaching you, your other arm clutching a book titled The Floral Inquiry. It was a gift from a neighbor when you turned seven, given after they noticed how often you lingered by their small garden of roses.

　Zayne sits beside you, silent as always. He's never been much of a talker, but that's never stopped you from filling the quiet with your voice.

　"How have you been, Zaynie?" you ask, shifting slightly to face him.

　He gives a lazy shrug, eyes flicking toward the ground. "Same as always."

　You huff. "That doesn't tell me anything."

　"There's not much to tell."

　"Come on," you nudge his shoulder lightly. "There's always something. You could at least lie and make it interesting."

　He rolls his eyes, but a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Fine. I'm actually a magical prophet that lives in a castle on a snowy mountain. I'm just on vacation right now."

　You giggle. "Do flowers grow up there?"

　"Only those made of ice."

　You grin before looking down at the flowers growing along the fence. Reaching out, you carefully pluck an orchid, twirling the stem between your fingers.

　"You know, out of all flowers, I like orchids," you say, watching how the petals shift under the light. "They're beautiful. According to this book, they mean beauty, charm, love . . . and longing."

　Zayne tilts his head. "Longing?"

　"Well, it says 'thoughtfulness', but isn't that the same thing?" you lower the flower to your lap. "Your thoughts are always about someone you love, and you miss them so much it hurts."

　He hums, gaze flicking back to the orchids. "Huh. Weird."

　"You always say that," you tease.

　He shrugs again, but you catch the way his fingers brush absently against the wood as he does so.

　"They also mean death."

　"But that's the opposite of what you just said," Zayne turns to you, brows furrowing slightly.

　"Yep. Ain't that so funny?"

　You trail a finger along the petal's edge, delicate and paper-thin. "In some places, orchids are funeral flowers. I think that's why I like them. They aren't just one thing. They can mean love, but also the other way around. It's pretty, but it's also sad."

　You glance at him. "Kind of like people."

　He doesn't say anything right away, his eyes locked onto the swaying flowers. For a moment, it almost seems like he's somewhere else entirely, lost in a thought you can't quite reach.

　Then, finally, he says, "That's kind of nice."

　You smile softly. "I'm glad you think so, too."

　Neither of you speak after that. The other kids keep shouting, running, playing, but the two of you just sit there, watching the orchids sway in the breeze — its blooms whispering a language of their own to you. 

　You're ten years old, running barefoot through the sunlit field behind your house. The wind dances through the wild jasmine, carrying their light, sweet scent. You stop, crouching down, fingers brushing against the delicate petals before carefully gathering a handful.  

　They remind you of Zayne. Maybe it's the quiet way they bloom, never asking for attention. Or maybe it's how they're simply pretty. The girls at school had a point when they say that his eyes are kinder than his words.

　Clutching the flowers close, you race to his house, heart pounding with excitement. When you get there, however, something feels wrong. The front porch is empty. The windows are dark. The curtains are pulled shut, like the house is holding its breath.

　That's weird.  

　You take a step forward, about to knock, when a voice calls out. A neighbour, watering their plants, watches you with a kind but sad look.  

　"Oh, sweetheart," they say gently. "Didn't you hear? They moved away this morning."  

　The flowers slip from your fingers.  

　You stand there for a long time, staring at the house that no longer belongs to him. The jasmines lie at your feet, hoping to find a home.

　You don't pick them back up.  

　Your motorcycle just broke down.  

　The engine sputtered to a stop in the middle of the road, forcing you to push it all the way to the nearest repair shop. By the time you get there, you're exhausted, out of your mind. They tell you it's going to take overnight to fix and to come back tomorrow. Just as you're debating whether to curse your luck or collapse on the sidewalk, you hear a voice.  

　"Are you alright?"  

　You glance up.  

　Zayne stands by the shop entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, his face impassive under the glow of the streetlights. He's taller now, sharper, unreadable. The boy you once knew is long gone, replaced by the man in front of you — your doctor, of all things. It still throws you off sometimes, seeing him like this. Not just the Zaynie from next door, but Dr. Zayne Li, a renowned cardiac surgeon.  

　You pull your jacket tighter around yourself. "I am. My motorcycle isn't, though. I'm gonna have to walk home . . ."  

　"Let me accompany you," he hums, barely acknowledging your frustration.   

　You blink. "What?"  

　"I'll walk with you," he says. His tone is flat, uninterested, like he's stating an obligation rather than making an offer. "Greyson invited me to a party near your place. You can tag along if you'd like, but otherwise, I'll help you get home safely."

　"Fine. Walk me home, Doctor."

　He didn't have to. He could've just let you go on your own. Yet, he says it like there was never any other option. You talk to the shop owner and pay some fees before hurrying after him.

　The two of you walk in silence for a while, your footsteps the only sound against the empty street. The cold air bites at your skin, but you barely notice.  

　"Do you still have an interest in flowers?"  he asks out of nowhere. You glance at him, surprised he remembers at all.  

　"I do," you reply.  

　"Orchids, wasn't it?"  

　A faint smile touches your lips. "Still is."  

　"They represent love and death, if I recall correctly."  

　"And longing," you add.

　"Yes, because apparently, 'thoughtfulness' is too long of a word for a child to understand."

　"Hey!" you chuckle. "I did say that it could be the same thing, you know."

　Zayne exhales a quiet breath, something like amusement flickering in his expression. "Right."  

　You study him for a moment before tilting your head toward the sky. The night stretches endlessly above, stars barely visible beyond the city lights. The silence between you feels heavier now, weighted with years you never got to share.  

　"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" you ask sheepishly.

　He doesn't answer right away. For a moment, you think he might not answer at all.

　"Well," he begins without even facing you. "How exactly was I supposed to say that to a pretty girl? I've been told to not break their hearts."  

　You scoff, though there's no real bite to it. "You're ridiculous."  

　He only hums in response, offering neither defense nor denial. A quiet breeze sweeps past, rustling the trees along the sidewalk.  

　"You know, I never got to know what your favourite flower was," you say after a moment.

　Zayne doesn't answer immediately. He exhales, watching his breath dissipate into the cold air before finally meeting your gaze.

　"Jasmine."  

　You stop walking.

　"They remind me of the fields behind our houses," he continues. "They smelled nice in the summer."

　Zayne takes another step before realizing you're no longer beside him. When he turns back, his expression remains unreadable, shadowed beneath the dim glow of the streetlights.  

　"What is it?" he asks, a hint of curiosity in his otherwise even voice.  

　You swallow, shaking your head. "Nothing," you murmur, forcing yourself to move again. "I just . . . didn't expect that."  

　He watches you for a moment before looking away. The two of you just keep walking, step by step, until you reach your door.  

　You exhale, fingers tightening around the handle as if grounding yourself. You should tell him. You should tell him everything. Would it even matter? Would he listen? Would he want to stop and smell the flowers with you, even just for a second?

　"Um, thanks Doc," you throw in a wink and a lazy salute. "Good night."

　For a split second, you wonder if he sees through you—if he hears the words you can't say.

　"Good night," he replies at last, his voice softer than you expected. His gaze lingers, warm yet distant, as if he's looking at you and somewhere else all at once.

　You hesitate, gripping the handle, but the moment slips away. So you nod, step inside, and let the door click shut behind you.

　The weight of it all crashes down the second he's gone. You slide to the floor, pressing your back against the door. You sigh, tilting your head back. Your chest feels full, like flowers blooming beneath your ribs, while butterflies stir in your stomach, weightless and relentless.

　Little did you know how true that would become.

　Tara exhales shakily, her fingers gripping the edge of your hospital bed as if grounding herself. Her gaze flickers over you: your frail frame, the IV line, the wilting petals scattered in the nearby waste bin. Something shifts in her expression. Understanding settles in, heavy and undeniable, washing over her like a tide she can't fight.

　Tears spill silently down her cheeks. "I hate this," she whispers, voice breaking. "I hate that you're okay with this."

　You offer her a weak smile, though your lips barely curve.

　"You don't have to worry about me anymore," you murmur, your voice low and hoarse, worn from too many nights of coughing, too many petals catching in your throat. Even now, you feel the flowers pressing against your ribs, each breath a little more shallow, a little more fragile.

　Tara shakes her head, furiously wiping at her tears. "Stop saying that."

　You don't argue. There's no point. Instead, you reach for her hand, your grip weak but steady. She squeezes back like she's trying to hold you here, as if she can anchor you to this world through sheer force of will.

　You manage a faint chuckle, though it comes out more like a breathless rasp. "You're such a crybaby."

　Tara lets out a shaky laugh, half a sob. "Shut up," she mutters, squeezing your hand even tighter. "You're the one . . . you're the one who's . . . " Her voice falters, the words catching in her throat.

　 Dying. She doesn't say it, but you both know. The weight of it sits between you, heavy, unspoken. 

　You take a slow breath, feeling the flowers shift inside your chest, their petals pressing against your lungs.  You hate this part the most — the pain you're leaving behind, and the fact that you had another choice besides this. Your heart aches for Tara, just as much as you're suffocating from your plight.

　"Tara, I mean it," you whisper. "I'll be okay."

　"No, you won't," she chokes out. "And I won't be, either. How . . . how am I supposed to be okay without you?"

　"You will," you say gently. "You have to."

　Tara lets out another sob, pressing her forehead to your hand. "Why don't you try telling him? You might stand a chance . . . just . . .  I'm not going to be okay thinking you didn't die without a fight."

　You close your eyes for a moment, exhaustion creeping in, but you force them open again. You don't want to waste a second more.

　"Then don't be," you murmur. "Just . . . be happy. For me."

　Tara bites her lip, trying to stifle another sob, but she nods. Maybe for you, maybe for herself. She leans in closer, resting her head lightly against your chest, as if listening for a heartbeat she's afraid of losing. For now, this is enough. 

　For now, it's all either of you can do.

Chapter Text

　There are all sorts of whispers that slither through the halls of Akso Hospital, curling around sterile walls and slipping through the cracks of closed doors. It is a place where life and death hold hands, where the extraordinary masquerades as routine, and where every ward carries its own brand of intrigue. Some whispers speak of impossible recoveries, others of patients who vanish overnight, leaving behind only the echo of their presence.

　The most compelling stories always come from the eropathology department, a place dedicated to studying the poetic and tragic disease developed out of love. This time, though, the whispers are intriguing. A Hanahaki patient afflicted with its deadliest form has volunteered their body for scientific study once they pass away. The idea is unsettling, even in a hospital accustomed to tragedy. No name is attached to the rumor, no face, only the certainty that someone within these walls has chosen to become a subject rather than a patient.  

　The information trickles down, passing through knowing glances and hushed conversations and it eventually lands at Zayne's feet.

　Now, he was not a man to pry. Prying was a rather ludicrous word for the art of excavation, peeling back layers until only the raw truth remained. His approach wasn't nosiness, but rather, it was an exercise in unraveling the incomprehensible. The same way he is when he is in surgery, if you will. He didn't just want to know: he wanted to see, to understand from the inside out. His associates found this trait both admirable and infuriating, praising him for his precision while condemning him for his detachment.

　This particular rumor, however, gnawed at something in him. Hanahaki patients were already subjects of morbid fascination, their suffering transformed into poetic tragedy, their lungs not just organs but graves for the flowers they could never stop blooming. As if the weight of unrequited love crushing their chest wasn't enough, the mystery person managed to have their cards dealt in the worst way possible with the added pain of having literal butterflies in their stomach.  

　Zayne exhales slowly, fingers tightening around the X-ray film he holds against the dim light of his office. His own results, taken just a few days ago, were stark proof of what he had been trying to ignore. The shadows blooming across his lungs weren't mere smudges. They had shape. These are jasmines in full bloom, translucent and jagged, curling inward as if frozen mid-bloom.They're evident, stark white in contrast to the deep black that bleeds like ink, as dark as the night beyond your window.

　 "Given the spread, I'd say the growth of the flowers have been slow and steady, for at least two months."

　 Zayne's jaw tensed. He thought back to the past few months: the growing heaviness in his chest, the way his breath seemed to thin as if the air itself recoiled from him. The strange cold blooming inside him, not painful, but unnervingly present.

　 He had been here before. Sitting in this very office, hoping for answers, only to leave with nothing but speculation and vague reassurances. The first time, Dr. Dominguez had attributed it to stress, an anomaly in his Evol. She suggested it might be a temporary imbalance, something that would pass with time — something not yet borne out of romantic emotions.

　 Zayne had learned to live with it, convincing himself it was just another quirk of his ability . . .  until yesterday. The frost took shape on his arms, delicate petals forming like ice spreading across a windowpane. For a moment, breathing felt like drawing in winter air, sharp and hollow. He knew better as a doctor himself.

　 Now, as he sat in front of her again, the X-ray film in his hands. This time, there was no dismissing it. For the first time, he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

　 Dr. Dominguez leaned forward. "I believe the growth started a little after your last visit. Additionally, there's something unusual about your case."

　 She tapped the X-ray, her finger circling the shadows in his lungs. "You see all of this? These aren't real flowers."

　 His brows knitted together. "What do you mean?"

　 The doctor exhaled, setting it aside. "Hanahaki disease manifests as physical flowers, but in your case . . . " she hesitates. "These jasmines are made of ice. That's not natural. At least, not for an ordinary person."

　 She hums in thought. "Your Evol's ice, wasn't it?"

　 "Yes."

　"Do you have romantic feelings for someone?"

　Zayne stiffened. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the question striking something deep inside him. Love? He wanted to scoff. That word had always felt distant — something fleeting, something not meant for someone like him.

　 All he usually did was hope. Perhaps, it was time for him to stop and nip it in the bud . . . 

　His brows furrowed as he recalled your conversation last Monday. It had been nothing out of the ordinary, or so he thought at the time. You were just talking, like always, but there had been a moment. A shift in the air, something unspoken lingering between you. He remembered the way you had looked at him, the way your voice had softened.

　"Aren't flowers also a language of love?"  

　Zayne had picked up the bouquet left by his patient earlier that Monday. The white and pink flowers were simply lovely, carefully arranged with an intention he didn't quite understand at first.

　You'd probably appreciate this.  

　His grip on the bouquet tightened slightly. It wasn't the first time he'd thought that. In fact, he realized it was a habit of his, one that had started long ago back when you were just kids. He'd always found himself gravitating toward little things he thought you'd like. The orchids on the playground fence. The seals you had mistaken for snowballs. A walk home after a particularly shitty day.  

　A bouquet of flowers.  

　"If words don't come easy, wouldn't you express it in other ways? Through actions, gifts . . . flowers?" 

　The weight in his chest stirred again, unspoken and unacknowledged. Now, everything changes. Now he knows it was there, and it had always been there.

　So that's what it was, wasn't it?

　The doctor sighed, leaning back. "You understand the options available to you, don't you?"

　"I'll think about it," he muttered, standing up before she could say anything more. "Thank you, Doctor."

　Tara hadn't wanted to leave.

　 You had seen it in her eyes, the conflict, the war between refusing and respecting your choice. She held on as long as she could, but in the end, she hadn't fought not as hard as she could have. She finally accepted it. She saw the truth in your face, the resignation in your trembling hands.

　 Goodbyes had already been written into the petals blooming inside of you.

　 The absence of Tara's presence was immediate, a hollow space where warmth had been just moments before. The ghost of her embrace still lingered, her arms wrapped tight, her fingers pressing into your back as if she could anchor you here just a little longer.

　The room is painfully still now. The heart monitor hums softly, a rhythmic reminder that your body was still fighting even as your heart had already accepted the end. The scent of flowers clung thick to the air, sweet and suffocating, curling into your lungs like vines wrapping around something long abandoned.

　Then it came.

　The first sharp, tearing pain clawed up your throat, raw and unrelenting. You barely had time to brace yourself before the force of it had you doubling over, fingers clenching around the rim of the bucket. The world around you blurs at the edges as your body convulses, chest heaving, lungs constricting with something far thicker than air.

　You choke, gasp, cough.

　A flood of white spills from your lips, soft and sickly fragrant, tumbling into the bucket in endless waves. The jasmines bloom in droves, now with stems and leaves, their pale bodies curling at the edges where they met the air. They pile on top of one another, delicate yet suffocating, like the very love they had grown from.

　From between the blossoms, pale wings emerge. White butterflies, paper-thin and trembling, unfolding themselves from the bed of petals, their tiny forms weak, barely clinging to life. They try to fly, their movements feeble, erratic, before settling atop the sea of flowers like fallen snowflakes.

　Your chest burns, but the pain no longer felt purely physical. Through the dizzying haze, through the salt of tears stinging your vision . . .

　 Zayne.

　In his crisp preppy attire as a child, eyes alight with a quiet curiosity. In the stark white of his doctor's coat as a man, sleeves always neatly rolled, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. In a sun-drenched field of jasmines, where laughter once felt endless, petals tangled in his dark hair. In the sterile halls of this hospital, where fate had brought you back together, only to pull you apart once more. His hazel eyes looking at you, his voice saying your name like a whisper in the wind.

　A broken sound slips from your lips, half a sob and half a laugh. It had always been him. It had always been him, and yet, he wasn't here. Maybe that was for the best. You know he would have tried to stop you. Seeing you like this would have shattered something in him.

　Your fingers trembles as they slip away from the bucket, your body slumping forward, forehead pressing against the cool rim. The butterflies barely stir now, their fragile wings folding in, stilling, their time drawing to a close.

　Just like yours.

　The scent of jasmine was overpowering now, thick and cloying, drowning out everything else. As the darkness plays tug-of-war with you, all you could think of was him.

　 Zayne, Zayne, Zayne . . .

　Ten minutes before eleven o'clock. The time waiting for love is almost up.

　Zayne let the film slip from his fingers, the glossy surface catching the dim light of his office as it landed atop the desk with a whisper-soft sound. It should have been just another scan, just another piece of medical evidence, but as he stares at it, the shapes burn into his mind. He couldn't shake the suffocating weight pressing against his ribs.

　The rumor continues to claw at the edges of his thoughts, relentless.

　A Hanahaki patient, their condition severe enough that they had already surrendered to fate. Someone willing to become a subject of study rather than a person with a future. Someone who had chosen to let the flowers bloom unchecked, to let love consume them from the inside out. No name, no face — just a quiet, nameless tragedy buried within the sterile walls of Akso Hospital.

　But he knew.

　His fingers clenches, nails biting into his palms as a dreadful possibility coils in his chest, cold and unbearable. He had spent years dissecting the incomprehensible, peeling back layers to get to the truth. Even as he tries to deny it now, the pieces were beginning to fall into place too perfectly, too cruelly.

　The timing, your coughing symptoms. The way you had avoided certain questions, the way you had brushed off concerns with that same, familiar smile. The subtle shifts in your posture, the occasional pause in your breath as if something lodged in your throat refused to let go.

　"What kind of bouquet will you make me, anyway?"

　"Love me first, then maybe you'll find out."

　He had dismissed it before, telling himself that you would go to him if something was wrong, that you wouldn't hide something like this from him. After all, he's your primary care physician.

　. . . but what if you had?

　Zayne swallows against the tightness in his throat, but the feeling remains. What if his suffering wasn't just his own?

　His gaze drops to the X-ray still resting on his desk, the dark, ghostly imprint of ice-petaled jasmines stark against the film. They bloomed in the hollow of his ribs, their crystalline edges sharp, delicate, merciless. Frozen in time, just like him. Just like the moment he had spent years avoiding, a truth he hadn't yet dared to name.

　He exhales slowly, his breath misting faintly in the cold air of his office. The sight of the flowers should have unsettled him, should have made him feel something: fear, disappointment, maybe even frustration.

　But all he could think about was you.

　Even back then, when he was just a boy, he had admired you from a distance, never daring to step too close. You were always surrounded by life, by color, by warmth — so utterly alive in a way he never quite knew how to be. He remembered the way you laughed, the way your hands brushed against the petals of every flower you passed. In his memories, you were always bathed in the golden light of spring, framed by the orchids that draped over the district's winding streets.

　And even after he left, after the Bloomshore District became nothing more than a place he used to know, you never faded. The image of you remained, persistent as a heartbeat, tucked away in the quiet spaces of his mind. Perhaps that was why, no matter how much time passed, no matter how many seasons turned, he always found himself thinking of you. A passing remark that echoed your words. A glimpse of a flower that looked like the one you once tucked behind your ear. The way certain moments, certain silences, felt like they belonged to you.

　He had told himself it was nostalgia. A simple, foolish attachment to the past. Despite the fates conspiring for you two to cross paths again, he clung to that belief like a lifeline, convincing himself that whatever he felt was nothing more than the echoes of a childhood memory.

　Even when he saw you again, he had refused to acknowledge the way his heart stuttered. He told himself it was a fleeting sentiment, nothing worth dwelling on. He forced himself to maintain that distance, to see you as nothing more than another patient in his roster. It was easier that way — safer. He ignored the way his chest grew unbearably tight whenever you walked into his office, the way his hands sometimes hesitated before reaching for his stethoscope, afraid of what he might feel if he got too close.

　Each time you went for a checkup, he tried to shake the feeling off, trying to focus on the sterile routine of examinations and diagnoses. But it was never just that, was it? You were never just another patient.

　He had never been the kind of person to speak his feelings easily. Affection had always felt foreign, a concept better left to others. Wasn't that exactly what Hanahaki was? The disease didn't ask for permission. It took root in silence, in everything that was left unsaid. It thrived in restraint.

　That's exactly the kind of torture he's put himself in for years.

　He had spent years perfecting the art of detachment, and yet, when it came to you, every effort unraveled at the seams. Now, with the ice-bloomed jasmines pressing against his lungs, with your voice still lingering in his thoughts like the ghost of a dream, he could no longer escape it.

　The disease didn't lie. This was love, and no matter how many times he had tried to deny it, it had already taken root inside him. The realization struck him like ice cracking under pressure.

　He loved you. Some way, somehow, he had always loved you.

　It had always been you, and maybe — just maybe — he wasn't the only one suffering.

　Perhaps, you had been carrying the same weight all this time, and he had been too much of a coward to see it.

　His breath came sharp and uneven, the tightness in his chest no longer just from the flowers taking root inside of him. The thought of you enduring this alone, of you choosing to let it consume you without telling him . . . it was unbearable.

　A sharp knock cut the silence in the room.

　"Come in," Zayne mutters.

　The door swings open. Dr. Greyson walks in, his sharp gaze flickering over Zayne's stiff posture. He didn't comment on it, but his lips pressed into a thin line before he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

　"Dr. Li, you're still here. I was wondering—"

　"You're close with the eropathology staff," he doesn't hesitate, cutting straight to the point. "Do you know anything about the patient?"

　Greyson raises a brow. "Not much more than what's already going around. Their case is severe, worsening fast. I heard that she might not make it till midnight with how bad it's going. At most, she has only till tomorrow."

　 She.

　"Why?" his assistant tilts his head in wonder. "Is this about your results with Dr. Dominguez?"

　Zayne nods. "You've heard."

　"You said it yourself, the eropathology department are good friends of mine."

　His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the ice biting at his skin going unnoticed. "Do you know what kind of flower they have?" 

　Greyson lets out a slow breath. "Jasmine, apparently."

　The world around him stills. Zayne had spent all of last night buried in research, poring over case studies, scouring medical records, dissecting every documented instance of Hanahaki. Roses, tulips, marigolds, gerberas. Every flower had been accounted for, each one carrying the weight of the emotions that had bloomed them, but never jasmine.

　Not once.

　It's her, he thinks. She might not make it till midnight . . .

　Before Greyson could react, Zayne was already moving. His chair scraped violently against the floor as he shoved it back, the sound slicing through the room like a jagged blade. Pain lanced through his ribs as his Evol surged without restraint, ice crackling up his arms in jagged veins, spreading cold across his skin. His breath hitched, his vision flickering at the edges, but he didn't stop.

　Greyson cursed under his breath and followed, his longer strides closing the distance between them with ease. "Damn it, Dr. Li, slow down!"

　Zayne barely registered his voice. His body screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it, shoving through the halls with reckless determination. His heart pounded against his ribs, his own emotions clawing at the edges of his control, unraveling him from the inside out.

　He needed to see you. He didn't have the right words, didn't have a plan, didn't know how he would make you understand, but none of that mattered.

　Not when you were on the other side of that door — not when love was killing the both of you.

Chapter Text

　It wasn't Sunday yet, but for you, it might as well be.

　Your condition rapidly deteriorated since you were confined. What you once thought was an unbearable ache now felt like a slow, relentless erosion of everything that was once whole. Each breath felt heavier than the last, each exhale tinged with the acrid aftertaste of blood. The oxygen prongs hooked to your nose might as well have been useless. No matter how much air was forced into your lungs, it never felt like enough. You found yourself hoping that the next thing you coughed up would be your lungs themselves, just so you could finally be free from the weight of it all.

　The taste of iron floods your mouth as another fit of coughing wracks your body. The jasmines now come in bunches, complete with their delicate stems and leaves. They spill from your lips like ghostly remnants of unspoken words. You already filled your bucket, and some land on your sheets, mingling with the scarlet splatters that stain your trembling fingers. Among them, pale white butterflies flutter weakly. Their wings are as thin as gossamer and as frail as the breath rattling in your chest.

　You are dying.  

　The thought should feel like an ending, an inevitability carved into your bones, but instead, it lingers in the space between breaths, weightless and terrifying. You have come to terms with it.

　Or so you tell yourself.

　As the room dims at the edges, as the sickness drags you toward oblivion, fear coils tight in your ribs.

　Not yet, not yet, not yet, not—

　"You're stubborn, you know that?" 

　A woman's voice cuts through the thick haze of your fading consciousness. It is steady, grounding, a tether against the pull of the abyss. You barely have the strength to turn toward its direction, but its owner stays in your periphery, watching with the patience of someone who has seen too many souls swallowed whole by this cruel disease.

　In your best friend's absence, you had asked Dr. Dominguez to stay by your side as the light faded from your eyes. At least, till before midnight, since it was the most she could do before her shift ends. You couldn't bear the thought of Tara witnessing your final moments, sparing her the anguish of watching you slip away. Instead, your doctor would take her place as an act of quiet mercy. After all, once you were gone, you agreed that your body would be given over for study, a final contribution in the wake of the Paraflos strain that had taken hold of you. If there was any way you could still be of use, it would be this.

　"Still fighting," she muses. "Even when you tell yourself you've already lost."  

　A weak, bitter chuckle scrapes its way out of your throat. You could hardly speak at this point, every word feeling like a hard day's work.

　"What else am I supposed to do?" you ask, "Can't help it. I'm a Deepspace Hunter, it's what I gotta do to get by."

　Her lips quirk slightly. "You know, if there's anything left unsaid, now's the time."

　"Guess I'll be quiet now, Doc."

　She smooths the blanket over you, as if the gesture alone can hold you together. Her hands take the bucket and settle it down on the floor, pulling up the chair to sit by your bedside as you lay back down.

　"You know, I was in your position once," she says.

　You raise an eyebrow, your eyes half-lidded. "You had Hanahaki?"

　"No, but I was on the other end of things. My husband had narcissus growing on his lungs."

　You swallow, your throat raw and aching. "Did he . . . suffer like this?"  

　Dr. Dominguez exhales slowly, a quiet sigh that seems to carry the weight of ghosts. "You could say so," she begins. "You are aware that you're the second patient that's coughed up both flowers and butterflies, correct?"

　You nod.

　"He was the first."

　Your fingers twitched weakly against the sheets. You understood now why Dr. Dominguez hadn't hesitated to grant your request, even though it wasn't something a doctor would normally agree to, let alone someone who has somebody waiting for them at home.

　"And he still survived?" you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

　"Barely," her voice slips into something distant whilst she brushes her thumb against her wedding band. "Not because of medicine, not because of time, but because . . . "

　She pauses, her lips pressing together before a faint, almost self-deprecating laugh slips through. "Because he finally told me."

　Your breath shudders in your chest.

　"Despite knowing each other since we were in high school, he didn't have the guts to tell me he felt butterflies in his stomach when I'm around till he literally had them," Dr. Dominguez tells you with a wistful look in her eyes. "This was about three years ago, before I got here in Akso. Ironically, I was his doctor, and I was the one who diagnosed him. He had no problems opting out of the surgery, instead just wanting to die alone and also requested me to be by his bedside. I owed him a pretty big favour when we were in college, so I decided to go along with it."

　Her gaze flickers to the bloodstains strewn across your bed. "At the very last moment, when he was too weak to even hold my hand, he looked at me, said my name, and then . . . he told me he loved me."  

　"And you . . . ?" your voice wavers, barely audible. "You felt the same?"  

　"Yes," she replies, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. "I was never really good with words, but I really did love him despite being so quiet all the time. After that, the flowers and butterflies faded away. It took him a while to recover since the petals and butterflies had torn through his throat and stomach, but he made it. And he wasn't alone. I was with him."

　"Do you think . . . do you think it works like that for everyone?"

　She tilts her head. "Are you asking if Dr. Li could love you back?"

　You don't answer. Dr. Dominguez doesn't press you for a response, either. Instead, she leans back slightly, watching you with a kind of quiet understanding.

　"My husband thought the same thing," she says. "He thought I could never feel the same way, that his love was nothing but a fleeting moment that sticks with you — like a whisper in the wind that's crying out for help."

　You let out a weak, humorless laugh. "Feels like one."  

　"It only feels that way because you don't know if it's returned," she counters. "Tell me, if you had known that he loved you too . . . would you have been afraid?"  

　The question lodges itself deep within you. Would you have?

　Would the jasmines have felt like a curse if you had known — without a doubt — that Zayne's heart had always belonged to you, the same way yours did to him? Love has never been kind to you. Between failed relationships and this, it has woven itself into your lungs, petal by petal, each confession left unsaid becoming another root burrowing deeper into your ribs. The scent of the flower that reminded you of him clung to your breath like a whispered longing, delicate yet inescapable

　If love had truly been yours from the start, why did it still feel like a field of spring flowers withering against a blue sky?

　Dr. Dominguez gives you a knowing look, a gentle and firm one at that. "If there's even a chance, even the smallest sliver of hope, isn't it worth holding on just a little longer?"  

　"And what if I hold on for nothing? I don't have much time left."  

　She offers a small smile as she stands, turning to leave as the clock finally strikes 11:45 P.M. "Then at least you held on for yourself."  

　You scoff. "If by some miracle and some god above decides to intervene you're going to lose a body for science. I know what that means for you, studying Hanahaki."

　Dr. Dominguez pauses at the door, her hand resting on the frame as she glances back over her shoulder. The door remains slightly ajar, caught between leaving and staying.

　"I'm a doctor," she says, her voice steady but soft. "No matter what, I still want your life to be saved."

　Her words cling to you. You wonder, as the door clicks shut behind her, whether that was really enough. What if, in the end, the thing that matters most is simply holding on for the sake of it?

　Maybe that's why you didn't even entertain that thought. You were the type of person to go for all or nothing. You've spent so much of your life fighting, too — fighting against Wanderers, fighting for what you know what's right, fighting for something that feels real. It's like if you didn't do anything that needed an exertion of effort, you didn't want it.

　For the stubbornness that's kept you alive all this time, you can't bother to hold onto the hope that maybe Zayne felt the same even as the world around you fades away.

　It's a waiting game now. Dr. Dominguez had said that you had only until tomorrow, and it was drawing ever so close with every tick of the clock. The bucket by your bedside is full. It overflows with jasmines, each one a reminder of what festers inside you. Among them, butterflies rest, their fragile wings damp and ruined, sticking to the petals like remnants of a cruel, unfinished masterpiece.

　Your body feels hollow, drained from coughs and gut-wrenching convulsions. Every breath burns, your throat raw from the sharp stems and delicate wings that have clawed their way up. You close your eyes, surrendering to the ache, the feverish warmth clinging to your skin.

　Your mind drifts, slipping through the cracks of memory like a river spilling over its banks. You go back to the first time. The thought had paralyzed you then, just as it does now.

　 You're in love. Your heart yearns for an embrace as warm as day in the arms of an iceman.

　 And because of that, you are going to die.

　Would it really be so bad if you didn't wake up?

　The thought unsettles something deep inside you. It should be comforting. It should be a relief. Instead, an unfamiliar unease coils in your chest, tight and suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with your failing lungs.

　You should want this . . . but if you do, then why do you hesitate?

　A humourless laugh escapes you. It hurts to breathe, hurts to exist. Dr. Dominguez's words also hurt your already broken heart.

　 "If there's anything left unsaid, now's the time."

　You lift your head slightly, staring out into the nothingness ahead, but your thoughts are already drifting elsewhere. The truth is so simple, so glaring, you almost want to laugh again.

　You don't really want to die.

　You just want someone to notice — for him to notice. To stop you, to say the magic words that will easily make all of this go away. But you don't know how to ask for that, do you?

　You never have. Hell, you even begged the doctor not to tell him, even going as far as to pay all of this out of pocket just so it won't reach him. You've always been good at swallowing the words that matter most, at choking down the plea that sits like a thorn in your throat.

　Well, it's too late . . .

　. . . or so you think.

　For what seems like forever, it had only been five minutes since Dr. Dominguez left. You had close your eyes once again, hoping that this time, you won't get to open them anymore so this might all just put you out of your misery. They flash open when you hear loud footsteps outside your door.

　"Dr. Li, you can't just—"

　"I don't care, Dr. Dominguez. I have to see her."

　The door bursts open, rattling on its hinges. A blast of frigid air sweeps into the room, as cold as the voice of the person who said he needed to see you — man that has been haunting you all this time.

　Dr. Greyson follows close behind, attempting to hold his colleague back, but Zayne is already inside. You see ice fracture down his arms, creeping like veins of frost glass. His breath is sharp and visible, curling in the air like a ghost of something unsaid. His entire body is taut, trembling not from the cold, but from the desperate effort to contain it.

　"Please," Dr. Dominguez interjects. "She is my patient and has specifically requested her final moments to herself."

　Zayne's teeth chatter both through the pain and the frustration. "And I am her primary care physician. I didn't even know she was sick."

　"Dr. Li, please vacate this room or else I will have to—"

　"Let him in."

　Dr. Dominguez hesitates. She looks at you, then back at Zayne, then exchanges a glance with Dr. Greyson. Whatever she sees in your face must convince her, because she exhales sharply and steps aside.

　"Fine," she exhales sharply and steps aside, but not before pulling Zayne close to her and whispering what you heard from her earlier. "If there's anything left unsaid, now's the time."

　The door clicks shut behind them, sealing you both inside.

　Zayne crosses the room in three strides, dropping into the chair beside your bed with a force that makes it creak. The ice lingers at his fingertips, frost trailing over the armrest as he grips it like a lifeline. He's trying so hard to control it . . . for you.

　His eyes sweep over you, taking in the oxygen tubing resting against your nose, the way your body has thinned beneath the hospital blankets, the unnatural pallor of your skin. His throat works, but no words come out. Not at first.

　"You should have told me," he finally says, his voice tight and frayed at the edges.

　You manage a small, tired smile. "How did you find out?" you ask.

　"I work here," he replies nonchalantly. "I was bound to."

　Your chest tightens, though whether from the flowers or the weight of his presence, you can't tell. You watch him, the way his Evol flickers beneath his skin, how the ice lace the tips of his fingers as if waiting to lash out. He's here, though. Somehow, that makes the suffocating weight in your lungs just a little more bearable.

　"You came," you whisper.

　"I had to. I—" he exhales sharply, as if steadying himself. "Why didn't you tell me?"

　"What would have changed?" you scoff.

　You look at him, really look at him. The furrow of his brow, the way his shoulders are drawn tight with tension, the slight tremor in his fingers as he clenches them into the fabric of his jacket. There's something raw in his expression, something breaking apart right in front of you. His ice spreads uncontrolled for a second, a frostbitten outline creeping over the floor before he forces himself to rein it back. He looks at you, eyes wide, lost.

　"You're dying," he chokes out.

　You swallow, wincing as another petal catches in your throat. "It's okay, Zayne."

　He shakes his head. "No, it's not."

　"This will be over any time soon. You've got one less patient to worry about."

　"Stop . . . don't say that, please."

　For a long moment, there's only silence between you, thick and suffocating against the heart monitor beeping weakly. He kneels beside the bed, his hands resting on the edge of the mattress, close but not quite touching. 

　"Tell me what to do," he pleads, and his voice is quieter now — almost fragile. "Tell me how to fix this."

　He takes your hand slowly and hesitantly, as if he's afraid you'll disappear the moment he touches you. His fingers tremble where they hover near yours, cold enough that the air between you feels sharp.

　"Zayne . . . "

　You want to say something, anything, but no words come. Your body is betraying you in more ways than one, stealing the air from your lungs, the voice from your throat. Your silence must terrify him, because his grip tightens ever so slightly around your fingers. Then, in a whisper so quiet you almost don't hear it, he breaks.

　"I have them too."

　Your breath catches. You blink at him, unsure if you heard right, if the verge of being delirious is making you imagine things.

　"I have them too," he repeats, his voice shaking. He swallows hard, his throat working as though he's forcing the words out through sheer will. "But mine aren't like yours. Mine are made of ice."

　"Jasmines . . . made of ice?"

　A choked sound escapes you, a half-cough, half-sob. You stare at him, at the way his hands shake, at the frost still creeping across his skin, at the way his eyes glisten with something unshed. He looks just as lost, just as helpless as you feel.

　"How is that even possible?"

　He looks down to the bucket at his feet before his attention returns to you.

　"The language of flowers, wasn't it?" he murmurs, his voice frayed at the edges. He lifts your hand to his cheek, your warmth seeping into his frozen skin. For a moment, he forgets. The world beyond him fades, and he is suspended you can't quite place. A daydream in the night, maybe.

　"My love is pure," he begins, "my love is kind. My love . . . "

　". . . awaits for yours to come home," your voices weave together, the syllables falling into place like fate itself had been waiting for this moment to arrive.

　The question that had wandered in your mind since he entered — the ice that coats his skin, that made it almost hard for him to speak — finally makes sense. His Evol. Of course. He is winter incarnate, his very existence kissed by frost and snow.

　His breath stutters, his thumb tracing absent-minded circles against your skin. His hazel-green eyes drink you in, brimming with tears. A thin, trembling smile tugs at his lips, but it does little to mask the emotion welling in his gaze.

　"I love you."

　The words fall from his lips with the finality of a vow, of a wish, of something too sacred to be anything less than the truth.

　"I'm sorry it's taken me this long to tell you . . ."

　Something inside you breaks . . . no, something inside you heals . The weight in your chest begins to unravel, thread by thread.

　"I hope it's not too late, and—"

　You push a finger against his lips as your own part, and this time, there is no more.

　"I love you too."

　The moment the words leave you, the pain finally shatters. It dissipates into nothing, like morning frost yielding to the first touch of sunlight. You inhale, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your lungs do not protest. The pit in your stomach has long ceased. You exhale, and the petals do not come.

　His Evol bends to you. The ice that had once claimed him so fiercely begins to thaw, melting away with every rapid beat of his heart. The cold recedes, inch by inch, as warmth takes its place. His love was as cold and quiet as winter, yes, but even winter bows to the arrival of spring.

　"What took you so long?" The words slip out in a whisper, choked by the sudden rush of tears you hadn't even realized were falling.

　Zayne's eyes widen, and before you can move to wipe them away yourself, he's already there. His hands do the work for you, catching each tear with a gentleness that makes your heart ache.

　"I . . . I don't really know," he sighs. "It sounds stupid coming from me, but . . . I'm sorry. I really am."

　 But maybe you do know, don't you? Zayne thinks to himself, though you can see him ask that question in his eyes.

　"I think . . . I think I was just scared," he finally admits, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. "Not just of saying it — of feeling it. Of letting myself want something I thought I could never have."

　A dry, breathless laugh escapes him, full of self-deprecation. "Guess that makes me a coward, huh?"

　You shake your head, reaching up to cover his hand with yours. "Not a coward, just a little lost."

　He lets out a slow breath, his gaze searching yours. "Maybe. But you don't have to wait anymore. I'm home."

　He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles, a silent vow written in warmth.

　You hum in thought as you grin, your mind clearer than it has been in days.

　"Jasmines. Nothing but jasmines."

　"Hmm?" Zayne raises an eyebrow, his head tilting slightly. 

　"You asked me what kind of bouquet I'd make for you, didn't you?" A small, tired smile graces your lips. "Those are the flowers I'd choose for you. Though I think . . . "

　You gesture vaguely toward the bucket, where bloodstained jasmines and fragile butterflies lie quietly, as if their souls have now found peace since yours had finally arrived. ". . . I think that speaks for itself now."

　Zayne sighs before dragging a hand through his hair. When his eyes meet yours again, the sharp edges have softened, and he smiles. It's small and fleeting, but something about it feels like it's new and familiar all at once. It's probably the first time you've ever truly seen it.

　A beat of quietness stretches between you before you break it with a whisper.

　"Stay."

　His brows furrow slightly. "You should rest."

　"I'll rest better if you're here."

　He hesitates, his jaw tightening. You see it — the instinct to distance himself, the way he's always been careful not to take up too much space, not to let himself want too much. But there's exhaustion in his eyes too, the kind that goes deeper than sleepless nights. The kind that comes from holding himself back for far too long.

　You reach for him, your fingers curling around his wrist.

　"Just for a little while," you say, voice softer now. "Lie next to me."

　For a second, he doesn't move. Something inside him finally relents after you give him a gentle squeeze. He pulls back just enough to kick off his shoes, then eases onto the bed beside you, hesitant, as if the moment is too fragile to touch.

　You shift closer. When his fingers find yours beneath the blankets, he doesn't pull away. He gingerly wraps an arm around you, mindful of the tubes delivering oxygen to your nose. 

　Which reminds you.

　"I probably won't need this anymore," you say, reaching up to remove the cannula.

　His hand catches yours just as you do so, tightening ever so slightly.

　"Don't," he disagrees. "Your lungs and throat need time to heal. The blood loss and prolonged oxygen deprivation have already strained your respiratory system."

　You pout. "That just means I'll recover faster without it."

　Zayne shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. "That's not how it works."

　You huff, sinking back against him. "Okay, okay. But only because it's the doctor's orders."

　Silence settles between you, not heavy, not awkward, just comfortable. You listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his fingers absentmindedly trace soothing patterns against your skin.

　For the first time since this all began, you think you might actually sleep peacefully. You should call Tara in the morning, let her know that your world didn't end after all — that you're still here, that you're okay.

　That waiting for love wasn't in vain.

　For now, wrapped in the quiet warmth of Zayne's embrace, you allow yourself to rest. Your gaze flickers to the clock on the wall.

　12:12 A.M. A moment suspended in time. A quiet kind of symmetry.

　Zayne presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin, his breath steady despite the exhaustion laced in it.

　"Good night, my love," he murmurs.

　A soft smile tugs at your lips as you reach up, cupping his cheek with gentle fingers. You pull him in, closing the distance for a soft and unhurried kiss, a promise without words. When you part, you don't stray far, pressing one more kiss to his cheek before tucking yourself against him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your eyes finally flutter shut, and you listen to his heartbeat as a lullaby to lull you to sleep.

　"Good night, my darling."