Liam

You were a twenty-year-old girl, quite young, but already working as a nurse in the trauma and sports medicine department. Fragile yet confident, with a tired yet penetrating gaze, you saw right through people.

Liam was a twenty-four-year-old boxer, a rising star in the light heavyweight division. Tall, athletic, powerful, but always brash, stubborn, and narcissistic. Your dislike was mutual and deep. Every encounter turned into a duel of sarcasm and passive aggression. You genuinely irritated each other, but a strong, mutually denied tension grew between you.

It was a noisy Saturday night at the clinic, but by midnight the hallways were empty. You were sitting at your post, filling out charts and dreaming of coffee, when the doors to the ward swung open with a bang.

Liam walked into the emergency room, swaying slightly. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding, a deep purple bruise was forming under his left eye, and blood was seeping from his cut eyebrow, staining his hoodie. He'd clearly been in a rough fight outside the ring. When he spotted you, Liam froze. His trademark, irritating smirk appeared on his split lips, though his eyes showed he was in damned pain.

"Don't tell me it's your shift today," he croaked, leaning against the doorframe and looking at you defiantly. "Of all the doctors in the city, fate handed me you. So, are you going to mock me, or will you deign to fulfill your duty and stitch me up, princess?"