Scalpel & Sass
Seulgi’s POV:
“You hold a scalpel like you’re trying to stab your ex,” Jaeyi said, eyebrow raised as she watched Seulgi dissect the synthetic model.
Seulgi didn’t look up. “At least I have the passion. You hold it like you’re giving it a manicure.”
“Precision matters.”
“So does pressure.”
Professor Min cleared his throat as he passed their table. “Seulgi. Jaeyi. Less commentary, more coordination.”
They said nothing until he was gone, then both muttered under their breath: “Coordination implies equal skill.”
Their first lab session together was a disaster. They argued over incision lengths, which tissues to prioritise, even the label colours. At one point, Jaeyi snatched a vial from Seulgi’s hand and the entire table jolted. A tray of tools clattered to the floor.
Everyone stared.
Seulgi crouched to pick them up, refusing to look Jaeyi in the eye. “Next time, just say please.”
“Next time, don’t delay over labelling like it’s a kindergarten project.”
The air between them crackled with static. And something else. By the end of the week, their classmates had started betting on how long they’d last before one of them filed a formal complaint. But there was something about the chaos of them—like fire on ice, both dangerous and dazzling—that made them impossible to look away from. Even when they hated each other, it was magnetic.
Then came the night shift.
A weekend shadowing at the ER meant they had to work a full twelve hours side by side. They were assigned to triage patients—checking vitals, logging symptoms, prepping for physician intake. Halfway through the shift, Seulgi noticed Jaeyi’s hands trembling.
She didn’t comment. She could’ve. Would’ve.
But instead, she grabbed an energy bar from her coat pocket and slid it toward her.
“Low blood sugar?” she asked casually.
Jaeyi didn’t answer. But she took the bar. For ten whole minutes, they worked in silence. Real silence. The kind that wasn’t weaponised. And for the first time, their movements fell into sync. They spoke less. Observed more. Their rhythm clicked like a switch.
It didn’t last.
But it was the first moment Seulgi realised she didn’t hate Jaeyi.
Not really.
Not when she bit her lip while concentrating. Not when she murmured patient names softly, like trying them on her tongue. Not when she sat down at 3 a.m. with her forehead pressed to her palm, eyes rimmed red from fatigue.
Something was shifting.
And Seulgi didn’t know whether to fight it—or fall into it.
Jaeyi’s POV:
“You hold a scalpel like you’re trying to stab your ex,” Jaeyi said coolly, observing the awkward angle of Seulgi’s incision. It was too forceful. Too erratic. Like always.
“At least I have the passion,” Seulgi muttered without looking up. “You hold it like you’re giving it a manicure.”
Jaeyi didn’t flinch. “Precision matters.”
“So does pressure.”
Of course, Professor Min chose that exact moment to stroll by. “Seulgi. Jaeyi. Less commentary, more coordination.”
They both muttered, almost in sync: “Coordination implies equal skill.”
Their first lab together was a disaster. Chaotic. Messy. Perfect. They fought about everything. Incision length. Tissue order. Label colours. It was like trying to perform surgery with a mirror and a bomb. Jaeyi had thought she would hate it. Hate her. But secretly, she thrived in it. The friction kept her sharp. The constant battle? Addictive. At one point, she snatched a vial from Seulgi’s hand just to prove a point, and the entire table shook. Tools scattered across the floor with a metallic crash.
Gasps. Stares.
Jaeyi didn’t blink. Seulgi crouched down, refusing to meet her gaze.
“Next time, just say please,” Seulgi muttered.
Jaeyi didn’t let her voice waver. “Next time, don’t label like it’s kindergarten arts and crafts.”
But her pulse was ridiculous.
She watched Seulgi’s hands as she cleaned up—slim, steady, angry. She memorised the way her brow furrowed, the line of her jaw, the way her ponytail always came undone by hour three of any lab session. She told herself she was cataloging weaknesses.
She was not.
Then came the night shift.
Twelve hours of mandatory ER shadowing. Just the two of them. Vitals, notes, patient prep. The work was mindless. The tension? Not. Halfway through, Jaeyi’s hands trembled. She didn’t think Seulgi would notice. She was always too busy being right. But then something slid across the counter. An energy bar. Torn at the corner, like it had been prepped for quick access.
“Low blood sugar?” Seulgi said, almost bored.
Jaeyi didn’t answer. Just took it. Ate it slowly. They worked in silence. Real silence. Not the competitive, seething kind. Just stillness. Like they’d run out of armour. Their movements began to sync. Efficient. Quiet. Their breathing evened out. No barbs. No digs. Just two tired med students in a room full of beeping monitors and broken bones.
It didn’t last.
But something inside Jaeyi cracked, too.
Because when Seulgi reached for a patient chart and their fingers brushed, Jaeyi didn’t recoil. She didn’t speak. She just looked at her.
Really looked.
And she didn’t hate her.
Not even a little.