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As one of the most seasoned nurses in the cardiac wing, you’d long since earned the trust of even the most demanding surgeons. Battle-tested in emergencies and headstrong in crisis, you were a pillar of calm in the chaos of the OR. But nothing — nothing — had prepared you for the battle that was raging in your chest: a hopeless, all-consuming crush on none other than the head cardiac surgeon himself, Dr. Zayne.
He was brilliant, reserved, maddeningly unbothered by the flurry of emotion that seemed to ripple through everyone else whenever he entered a room. You had worked alongside him for years, and while others found his cold, clinical demeanor off-putting, you somehow saw the warmth that flickered beneath it.
You prided yourself on the professional companionship you shared with him — mutual respect, shared jokes on occasion, the rare but treasured smiles he allowed himself when you said something that genuinely amused him.
Which made your recent blunder all the more mortifying.
During a high-stakes mitral valve repair just a few days ago, you had done the unthinkable. You were assisting Zayne, as you had many times before, and everything was running smoothly. Until he said, “Clamps.”
But instead of responding with your usual efficiency, your eyes were glued onto his hands. More specifically, the veins beneath the taut latex of his gloves. Your body reacted a second too late and the clamps slipped from your grasp and hit the sterile floor with a horrifying clink. You scooped them up in a panic and offered them anyway, and watched as the whole OR froze.
Zayne didn’t take them. Instead, he looked at you with such sheer incredulity that you instantly recalled every page of your surgical instrument sterilization manual in horrifying detail.
“That’s contaminated,” he said icily from behind his surgical mask, not even looking at you — just through you.
Your brain, fueled by pure shame and meme culture, offered the only response it could muster: “Um… five-second rule?”
Later, in his office, he let you have it. Not with shouting, of course. Zayne never did shouting. He did disappointment. And he was very good at it. After a solid ten-minute monologue on sterility protocols and ‘having expected better from someone with your experience,’ you left his office to crawl back into the earth.
You avoided him after that. You rerouted your coffee breaks and volunteered for shifts that didn't have him. You stayed alert just in case you got a transfer notice, which, fortunately, you didn't.
But avoiding Zayne only made your feelings boil hotter under the surface. You needed an outlet, something to release the idiotic affection swirling inside your ribcage. And that’s how you — an educated, credentialed nurse — ended up ordering a hot pink plastic Cupid bow and arrow set online at 2:12 a.m.
It arrived the next day: neon pink, the arrows tipped with heart-shaped suction cups, and laughably dramatic. It was a viral gag gift, popular with people who liked playing Cupid on social media. Except you had taken it a step further.
You wrote little anonymous notes with compliments, sweet nothings, medical pick-up lines and rolled them up, taping them to the arrows. Then you smuggled the toy into the hospital and hid it in your locker in the break room.
Your plan? Ambush Zayne by firing one arrow per day until your dignity or your license gave out. Either he’d laugh (hopefully), report you to HR (realistically), or — by some divine miracle — be touched by your ridiculous display of affection and fall madly in love with you (good jokes). Your feelings needed to go, and you figured nothing would kill romantic delusion faster than mortifying yourself with humiliating public displays of nonsense.
Day one
It was a crisp Tuesday morning at the hospital, the kind where the scent of antiseptic still clung thickly in the air from the early shift’s rigorous cleaning. The morning meeting had just ended, and like a tide retreating, doctors and residents poured out of the conference room in clusters, their footsteps echoing against the linoleum as they dispersed to their respective duties. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, and the sun streamed through the high windows in thin, filtered beams, casting a tired glow across the sterile white floors. The air smelled of antiseptic and fresh paper, tinged faintly with over-brewed coffee from the break room down the hall.
You stood tucked behind a concrete pillar near the east hallway, your back pressed flat against the cool surface, heart thundering. You could feel the absurd shape of the toy bow poking into your hip from under your scrubs where you'd awkwardly shoved it sometime ago to sneak it with you. The arrows, with their bright pink foam hearts, stuck out of your jeans pocket and you pulled your scrubs tighter to hide them.
You peeked around the edge of the beige support pillar you were currently using as camouflage, your breath caught halfway between a prayer. The hallway was almost empty now, save for the subject of your ridiculous affection, standing in the middle of it.
Zayne stood with one foot slightly turned out, clipboard in hand, jade eyes focused on the patient chart in front of him. His dark hair was slightly tousled in that infuriatingly perfect way, his lab coat flaring just a little at the back like he’d walked off a medical drama set.
You glanced around, eyes darting to make sure no one else was around. The coast was clear. He was engrossed in whatever file he was reading, completely unaware of what was about to happen.
From behind the pillar, you fumbled with the bow. It squeaked when you pulled back the string. Of all the props in all the stores in the world, you had to pick the one that squeaked. Your fingers, steady as steel in surgery, trembled now like they’d never known stability. You nocked the arrow with shaky fingers, adjusting the rolled-up pink sticky note you'd attached earlier.
“Okay, just center it… gently. Like placing a suture,” you whispered to yourself. A little pep talk.
Your hands were slick with nervous sweat. You held your breath. You had no archery training. Your only reference point was seeing some of the Deepspace hunters having a bow as their choice of weapon and firing it at the wanderers that had once invaded Akso Hospital. You aimed — or attempted to — for his heart.
The arrow veered slightly to the right, missed Zayne’s heart by a good foot and a half, and stuck squarely to the back of his clipboard. You gasped — then immediately ducked back behind the pillar, flattening yourself against it like a character in a cartoon, chest heaving.
Peeking out with one eye, you saw him pause his reading and slowly tilt the clipboard towards himself to inspect the pink projectile now suctioned firmly to its back. He glanced around, likely trying to identify the source of it but found none. He peeled the pink sticky note off with a neutral expression, unrolled the note deliberately, and read it.
You watched from the shadow of the pillar as his eyes scanned the words. The line of his brow eased and then one eyebrow rose by just a millimetre. A reaction so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not by you.
And that was all the information you could process before the adrenaline got the better of you and you took off — straight down the hallway, hurried footsteps, cheeks aflame, the bow clutched to your chest like you’d just committed some sort of crime.
You didn’t stop running until you were safely back in the break room, where you shoved the bow, slammed your locker shut, leaned back against it, and gasped for breath like you’d just finished a marathon.
Day two
You’d been on your feet for hours — morning rounds, a consultation, two new admissions. You weren’t on a break, not technically, but your last task had wrapped up ten minutes early, and that meant only one thing in your world now: it was time for the next attempt. Most of your colleagues were either in their departments or catching a quick snack before the next round of patient visits. You were just returning after restocking supplies when you spotted Zayne.
He was standing at the water cooler near the far wall, just off to the side of the hallway, his back half-turned to the corridor. It was a quiet spot, mostly out of view. He had his lab coat sleeves pushed up, and he was leaning slightly forward as he pressed the little plastic lever and filled his paper cup. You hated how effortlessly attractive he looked doing nothing.
You felt your fingers twitch.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you doubled back towards the break room, pulled open your locker, and took out the bow and arrow set hurriedly. You grabbed one of the arrows and checked if the little rolled-up note you’d stuck on it earlier was properly sticking to it.
You found a spot near the corner where a big decorative plant provided enough cover. Thankfully, today’s chosen target zone was a less dramatic setting than yesterday’s corridor. You crouched down slightly, gripping the bow like you were trying to remember how human hands were supposed to work.
You loaded the arrow, biting your lip as you adjusted your grip. You had practiced a little more since yesterday — nothing formal, just a few shots in your apartment before your cat had attacked the dangling heart-shaped arrow and nearly broken your kitchen lamp.
Your plan for today was simple: aim for the cooler. Hit the wall just above it. Let the arrow bounce off near him with enough proximity that he would notice, but not enough to actually hit him.
You pulled back the string and let go. And the arrow zoomed off-course and smacked him square on the forehead. You instantly ducked back behind the plant, hands over your mouth, struggling not to burst out laughing.
Zayne blinked. The water cup in his hand wobbled slightly, and for a second, you thought it might tip over. He reached up, peeled the arrow off with a confused look on his face, and stared at it like it had just dropped from another dimension. He was reading the note now, his jade eyes trailing along the lines. You saw his mouth twitch, the corners of his lips quirking up. Not a full smile — more like the idea of a smile. It was the kind of expression someone makes when they’re trying very hard not to react, and they’re mostly failing. And then — he exhaled through his nose and shook his head once, walking back to his office with the little note and the arrow in hand.
You crouched lower behind the plant. There was a stupid grin on your face and your body was tingling in a weirdly giddy way. You waited a few more minutes before standing up and walking in the opposite direction.
Day after day, arrow after arrow, you let your absurd plan unfold. Each time, his reactions thawed another layer of his carefully guarded composure. You continued, a few arrows here and there — his locker, the break room, once even mid-presentation at the weekly surgical review meeting. Each time, he reacted the same way: unreadable at first, then just the faintest sign of amusement that fanned the foolish little flame in your chest. You’d catch him pocketing the notes as if filing them away for future diagnosis.
Then came today.
It was midnight when you finally found a pocket of free time. The patient charts had been signed, your shift duties temporarily in check. That’s when you decided for another strike. You knew Zayne had a short gap between procedures, and his office light had been on earlier. You’d been watching the hallway casually from the small corner where supply cabinets broke the line of sight. His shadow had passed by the frosted window in his office door twice since. You figured he was standing, maybe reading something, or maybe pacing.
Your plan was simple: Aim for the center of Zayne’s office door. Not his head, not his arm, not any part of him directly — just the door. You’d seen the shadow inside. He’d be coming out soon. You just needed the arrow to land when he would exit, let him notice it and make him smile again.
You nocked an arrow, tongue poking out in concentration, aiming for the center of his door. So focused were you on your target, you didn’t notice the soft footfalls approaching from behind — until you felt a warm hand wrap around your waist and another slide over your hand on the bow — just firmly enough to freeze you in place. The contact startled you so hard you nearly dropped the bow.
Zayne was right behind you, half-embracing you, correcting your form as if this were a shooting range and not a hospital hallway. His gaze was fixed forward, his tone calm and maddeningly unaffected.
“Your stance is off,” he said, voice low, like he didn’t want it to echo. His breath ghosted across your cheek as he pulled your body back against his. “You’re pulling too much with your fingers, not your back.”
You felt him ease you back just a little, accurately aligning your posture. His chest brushed lightly against your back, his arm sliding along yours to adjust your hold on the bowstring. His fingers were warmer than expected, calloused from years of surgical work, but the touch was careful, like he didn’t want to startle you more than he already had.
He deliberately adjusted your elbow with his hand and pulled your upper arm slightly back so the arrow sat straighter. The door to the office opened just then. You felt him release your hand. The arrow launched and landed with a splat on the forehead of Greyson, your colleague, who had just emerged from Zayne’s office.
There was a brief pause, followed by a loud “What the hell?” from Greyson as he struggled to peel the arrow off.
You couldn’t even laugh, too mortified by the presence beside you to do so. The shadow in the office had been Greyson — not Zayne. You shrank into yourself immediately, lowering the bow, trying to form some apology, but your brain had turned into static. You felt him step away from you. You expected him to walk away, or worse — scold you with that same sharp tone he’d used back in his office after the surgery clamp incident. But instead, he reached for the bow in your hands and took it gently.
Then, to your complete confusion, he picked up one of the remaining arrows from your quiver, dug into his coat pocket, and pulled out a blue sticky note. He didn’t say anything. He just wrote something, rolled it carefully, and stuck it to the arrow. Then he stepped in front of you, lifted the bow, and with a slow, deliberate shot — fired it directly at you.
The arrow landed cleanly on your chest, just above your heart.
You plucked it off gently, fingers fumbling slightly as you unrolled the blue note.
“Ever wondered what kind of combination archery lessons and freshly brewed tea might make?”
You stared at the handwriting for a second longer than necessary. Your heart dropped to your stomach and rose again in the same breath. You looked up at him — your face no doubt a disaster of color and disbelief.
He met your eyes for the first time fully, without avoiding or glazing over. There was a subtle lightness in the way he stood now, something more relaxed than usual. He was smiling — really smiling now. That slow, knowing curve of the lips that you’d never seen aimed at anyone else. He looked like a man who had been aware all along and was finally, finally joining the game.
Your voice came out softer than you intended. “I’d… love to know more about that.”
His smile deepened. “Friday. After your shift.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving you speechless in the hallway, an arrow in your hand and a rapidly accelerating heartbeat in your chest.