Chapter Text
The paper sheet offered the thermal protection of a whisper and the privacy of a fishnet stocking. Utahime stared at her feet, praying the universe would render her mismatched socks invisible.
“Deep breaths, Hime,” she muttered to the ceiling, clutching the flimsy edges of the gown together. “You are a mature, independent woman. You are here for a routine maintenance check, not a job interview. She doesn’t care about your socks.”
A crisp knock preceded the door opening. The nurse with the cat lanyard dropped a file on the small table by the computer. "He will be with you in an instant."
Utahime smiled politely until the woman was out of the room, and then the words finally hit a mental roadblock.
"He?"
She scanned the room for an exit—a window, a vent, a conveniently placed wormhole. She had specifically requested a ‘woman’ to replace her old OB-GYN going into retirement, or literally anyone whose name was not attached to a masculine pronoun. Before she could process this betrayal or find a way to bolt, the door swung open again.
In stepped Dr. Gojo.
Utahime’s brain immediately blue-screened.
This was not the weary, middle-aged physician she had braced herself for. This man was tall—irresponsibly tall—and dressed in scrubs the color of a calm ocean that made her feel suddenly, violently aware of the draft hitting her bare shoulders.
He was… how to put this politely? He looked like he’d been grown in a lab specifically to make people lose their train of thought. He had a jawline sharp enough to slice through leftover pizza and a mob of white hair so fluffy it made her fingers twitch with the forbidden desire to mess it up. But it was the eyes that did her in—a startling, crystalline blue that suggested he knew exactly how absurd life was, but was determined to make it better anyway.
“Utahime Iori?” he said. His voice was a warm, professional baritone that seemed to vibrate right through the paper sheet she was shivering in.
She tried to answer. She really did. But her tongue felt like a dry sponge and her dignity had already left the building.
“Ha—yes—hi—I’m… person," she stammered, her face heating to a shade of red that probably deserved its own medical diagnosis. "I’m the patient. Yes. I am... here. Yes.. Hi."
Gojo’s lips quirked, a tiny, devastating spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re a person, Miss Iori. It makes the paperwork much easier.”
He slid onto the rolling stool with the grace of someone who didn't realize they were a walking safety hazard, his long legs folding effortlessly as he grabbed her file.
Utahime felt a sudden, frantic urge to audit her entire existence. Had she wiped off that mascara smudge from this morning? Had she worn the ‘functional but respectable’ underwear?
No. Of course not. Because the universe enjoyed a good joke, she was currently wearing the laundry-day emergency pair—the ones featuring a small but undeniable cartoon of a mochi ball dressed as a samurai, currently stretched to its limit under a sheet of recycled wood pulp.
Dr. Gojo flipped through her chart, the sound of the pages turning like thunder in the quiet room. Utahime gripped the edge of the exam table until her knuckles turned white, holding onto the paper sheet like a parachute that refused to deploy.
“So,” he said, finally looking up. That crystalline gaze settled on her, brimming with a terrifying amount of focus. “Any specific concerns today, Miss?”
Her brain, a traitor of the highest order, immediately offered up a list: Yes. You. Sir, please tone down your face. It is distracting the general public. Also, I am being held hostage by a samurai rice cake.
Out loud, her vocal cords betrayed her even further.
“Just… the usual…” she squeaked, waving a hand vaguely at her own existence. “General… woman… stuff?”
It was, without a doubt, the world’s most pathetic answer—a verbal shrug.
Gojo didn't even flinch. He just gave a slow, rhythmic nod, his expression softening into a look of professional understanding that somehow made him even more attractive. “Got it,” he said, his voice dropping into a reassuring hum that proved he had successfully translated her gibberish. “The ‘vague but vital’ category. Let’s see what we can do about that.”
As the routine exam began, Utahime attempted to channel the energy of a composed, functional adult. She failed within thirty seconds.
First, her elbow sent a jar of tongue depressors clattering across the floor like oversized toothpicks. Then, when he moved toward the instrument tray, she panicked and referred to the speculum as a ‘chrome taco’. She even found herself whispering "I'm so sorry" to the blood pressure cuff after it squeezed her arm a little too tight.
Through the entire catastrophe, Dr. Gojo remained a bastion of calm, his kindness unwavering. It was infuriating. Competence was, tragically, Utahime’s greatest turn on, and seeing him handle her spiral with such effortless grace was doing terrible things to her heart rate and groin.
"Alright, Miss Iori," he said, his voice dropping into a professional register that was somehow both clinical and comforting. "I'll need you to remove your underwear and lie back on the table for me.”
She moved with the frantic ‘grace’ of a ninja in a paper bag, successfully smuggling the samurai-mochi panties out of sight and burying them behind her back like stolen contraband.
“Could you scoot down just a little further for me, please?"
She obeyed, sliding down the crinkling paper until she felt positioned for what could only be described as an archaeological dig. The ceiling tiles became very interesting. She counted forty-two dots in one corner.
He snapped on a pair of fresh latex gloves—the sound echoing like a starter pistol—and reached for the sterile, wrapped instrument.
"Just relax," he murmured. His tone was soothing, a low vibration that suggested everything was perfectly normal, even though Utahime was convinced her internal organs were currently staging a formal protest. “You might feel a little pressure.”
"Pressure is fine!" she chirped, her voice an octave higher than usual as she tried to sound breezy. "I thrive under pressure. I'm like a diamond. A very… squishy, vulnerable diamond."
Gojo paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners above his mask. "A squishy diamond," he repeated softly, his voice dancing with a hint of a laugh. "That’s a first. I'll be as gentle as possible with the jewelry, then."
He began the examination, his movements clinical, precise, and frustratingly gentle. Utahime squeezed her eyes shut, trying to transport her consciousness to a peaceful meadow far, far away from this exam table. Then, a sudden, sharp pinch of pressure caught her off guard.
"Ah—!"
Gojo froze instantly. "Everything okay?" he asked, his voice dropping into a tone of genuine concern.
"Yes! Fine! Perfect!" Her eyes snapped open, locking onto his. "It’s just… a sudden realization."
He paused, his warm blue eyes meeting hers over the crinkled horizon of the paper sheet. He looked genuinely curious. "And what realization would that be?"
The filter between Utahime’s brain and her mouth didn't just break; it disintegrated. The words tumbled out in a frantic, breathless rush.
"It’s just that... this whole situation," she began, waving a hand vaguely at the space between them. "It’s the perfect metaphor for modern dating, isn't it? You’re forced to be completely vulnerable, you’re putting in all this emotional effort, and you’re just sitting there praying that the tool they’re using—" she nodded frantically toward the speculum—"—is clean and isn’t going to accidentally lock up mid-process."
The room went deathly silent.
Gojo froze, the instrument still perfectly positioned. He stared at her for a beat, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. A muscle in his jaw jumped, and his eyes crinkled in a way that suggested a localized internal struggle to maintain professional decorum.
Finally, he let out a quiet, defeated huff of a laugh.
"Miss Iori," he said, his voice low and undeniably charmed, "I can personally assure you that this tool is perfectly sterile, medical-grade, and guaranteed not to 'lock up' on you." He caught her gaze again, a playful glint dancing in the blue. "And for the record? I think you’re doing much better than the 'modern dating' scene would suggest."
He finished the rest of the examination with a swift, practiced efficiency that spared her any further metaphors.
"All done," he announced, stepping back. "Everything looks perfectly healthy. Though, I might suggest a higher-quality multivitamin if you're going to keep comparing medical procedures to Tinder."
He stood up and snapped off his gloves with a crisp pop. "I'll give you a moment to get dressed. I’ll be right outside."
Once she was dressed—and after a frantic, three-minute search to ensure the samurai-mochi was safely back in her bag—he emerged. He walked to his desk, gesturing for her to take the chair opposite him.
“Alright, Miss Iori,” he said, his pen hovering over her file. “Do you need a renewed prescription for hormonal contraception today?”
The word hit her like a bucket of cold water. “Oh! Contraception! No. No, thank you, Doctor. Absolutely not needed. Entirely unnecessary.”
Gojo paused, raising a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Are you continuing with a non-hormonal barrier method, then? Or are we looking at—”
“No! No barriers. No methods. No… nothing.” She felt the heat rising from her neck to her hairline. “I mean, my lifestyle is currently... aggressively abstinent.”
The sound of his pen hitting the desk was the loudest thing in the room. He leaned forward, resting his chin on a hand, a subtle, disarming smirk playing on his lips. “Aggressively abstinent,” he repeated, testing the phrase like a fine wine. “That’s a new one. Is it a lifestyle choice or a personal crusade?”
“A crusade implies I’m fighting a war,” she countered, her voice steadying even as her cheeks burned. “I’d call it a strategic withdrawal.”
He observed her for a long, quiet moment—just long enough for Utahime’s traitorous brain to plan their wedding, a honeymoon in the Alps, and the names of their first two golden retrievers.
Then, he picked his pen back up, his eyes dancing. “Excellent. I’ll make a note of your current preferred contraceptive method: The Sad but Effective One. Since everything else looks healthy, Miss Iori, I think we’re done for today.”
Utahime exhaled so hard her bangs fluttered. “Oh, thank god. I was genuinely worried my embarrassment levels had reached clinical significance.”
This time, Gojo didn’t just smirk—he actually laughed. It was a warm, genuine sound that made Utahime’s knees feel like over-boiled noodles.
“Don’t worry,” he said, standing up to see her out. “It’s more common than you’d think. Though I have to say, it was... memorable meeting you.” He gave her a final, wry smile as he held the door. “Next time, let’s try to keep the metaphors above the waist, okay?”
She practically vibrated out of the room, her face radiating enough heat to power a small city. As she navigated the sterile corridors of the gynecology ward, she shot a pointed, venomous glare toward the ceiling.
“Really?” she muttered to the fluorescent lights. “My gynecologist? That is where you put the hot one? You’re chaos-biased, Universe. I see you. I see what you’re doing, and I don't appreciate it.”
That evening, the universe’s bias for chaos finally came to a head. The email from her editor, Mei Mei, had arrived like a digital death sentence.
The numbers for "The Unattached Life" are in. They’re… subterranean. Engagement is currently lower than the office coffee machine newsletter. New angle or reallocation. 9 AM sharp.
Reallocation. The corporate translation for ‘pack your desk into a cardboard box’.
Her boss Mahito’s words from the week before echoed in her mind like a taunt: “Write something sexy, Hime! Something bold. Something the young, feral Utahime would’ve written before she started caring about retirement funds!”
“Young Utahime was feral because the world gave her something to bite,” she hissed, kicking her heels toward the closet. “Now the world just gives me spreadsheets and soy lattes. You want feral? Give me a reason to growl that isn't a 9 AM status meeting.”
She slammed her apartment door with enough force to dent the drywall, and tossed her phone onto the couch. She bypassed the wine and went straight for a beer, pouring it into a glass so large it defied the laws of physics and common decency.
The silence of her apartment—usually a sanctuary—now felt like a jury’s verdict. She sat on the floor, the cold condensation of the glass numbing her hand, and watched her phone screen light up with the damning email again. Suddenly, Dr. Gojo’s smirk flashed in her mind.
Next time, let’s try to keep the analogies above the waist, okay?
A laugh bubbled up in her chest—sharp, dry, and slightly beer-soaked. She had spent years building a digital manifesto against the male species; she had become the patron saint of the ‘aggressively abstinent’. Yet, within ten minutes of meeting a man who looked like he’d been airbrushed by the gods, she was making innuendos about chrome tacos and sterile tools.
She hadn't felt that spark of… whatever that was... since her disastrous ex. The idiot who communicated almost exclusively in emojis and genuinely believed his cat was a sentient reincarnated monk. He’d dumped her because she ‘wasn't supportive enough’, which was his way of saying she hadn't given his tragically small dick enough praise.
She took a long, unapologetic swig of her beer. Dr. Gojo was definitely something, she thought, letting out a small, unladylike burp that echoed against the fridge.
She cracked open a second can, not even bothering with the glass this time. Class was for people who weren't facing career execution at 9 AM.
As the cold foam hit her tongue, Mahito’s voice vibrated in her skull again: Write something sexy. Something bold.
Why the hell not?
She crawled toward her laptop, her movements fueled by a mix of spite and malt. She opened a new article on her blog’s main page, the white screen blinding in the dim room. Her fingers hovered over the keys for a heartbeat, and then she began to type.
Title: My New OB-GYN Already Got to Third Base (And He Was Wearing Latex Gloves).
The cursor blinked, a rhythmic, mocking heartbeat. Waiting.
Utahime took a massive gulp of Sapporo, the cold sting fueling her spite. Let’s make it sexy, she thought, a manic glint in her eyes. Let’s make it so cringey it’s art. Let’s make it so hot it burns Mahito’s overpriced silk robes right off his back.
Her fingers hit the keys with a caffeinated, beer-soaked fury. She didn’t write about the actual appointment. She wrote the Director’s Cut—the fantasy version where the exam room wasn't lit by flickering, sterile fluorescents, but by the low, amber glow of flickering candles.
In this version, his professional baritone didn’t just murmur "just relax”. It vibrated against her skin, a low, honeyed command that made her bones feel like they were melting. She took his clinical competence and weaponized it, spinning it into a masterful, deliberate seduction.
The speculum was no longer a ‘chrome taco’. In the glow of her laptop screen, it became a "gleaming, silver key, forged to unlock a treasure he’d been searching for his entire professional life."
She was on a roll now, the prose purple enough to bruise. She ended the post with a final, breathless flourish:
And as I walked out of that office, my legs trembling not from medical anxiety, but from the aftershocks of a purely hypothetical, earth-shattering climax, I had one realization: The Unattached Life is a lie. Sometimes, the only "routine maintenance" a woman needs is a full-system diagnostic from a man who looks like a Greek god and handles her cervix with the breathless reverence of a holy relic.
She didn't proofread. She didn't breathe. She just slammed her finger onto the ‘Publish’ key with the finality of a judge’s gavel.
Click. The laptop shut with a sharp thud, sealing her fate. Utahime stumbled toward her bed, her head spinning with the faint, lingering scent of antiseptic, cheap beer, and the ghost of a blue-eyed smirk. She collapsed onto the pillows and passed out instantly, her last conscious thought being that she had either saved her career or set her entire life on fire.