DOGFISH, miyuki kazuya

rough as a thousand sharpened nails

"After a week of observation, most likely."

"A week? Is that a joke?"

He opens his mouth to respond, a slightly irked expression on his face, before a knock on the door interrupts him.

"Your sister," he sighs, going over to open the door.

Well, you suppose if your sister was a six-foot-something baseball player, then yes.

As it currently is, the awkward-looking man standing in your doorway is not your sister. Neither is the slightly shorter woman next to him, tapping away at her phone.

Sure, your sister is pretty, but this guy is something else. Even knowing that he and his team were probably up until the sunset celebrating their new championship, he looks good.

Dressed in grey joggers, a maroon hoodie, with a cream-colored cap tucked over windswept brown hair, he makes you both a little envious and a little insecure. Your sister had cleaned off most of your makeup while you were asleep, saving you the mess, but the bruise on your head doesn't do you much favors.

It does kind of go with your nails, though. So. You have that going for you.

Dr. Peña gives them the stink eye. "Can I help you?"

Miyuki Kazuya says your name in a questioning tone, eyes darting between you and your doctor.

"That's me!" you say cheerfully before Peña can reply. "What can I do for you?"

Reluctantly, Peña lets them in.

Miyuki looks incredibly uncertain of himself as he shuffles in. Needlessly, he introduces himself — "I know who you are, dude. Everyone does." — then his companion, his manager, Wendy. Dressed smartly in a cream-colored pantsuit that blends prettily with her brown skin, black hair pulled into a high ponytail, you are also a little bit envious and a little bit attracted to her equally heartbreakingly gorgeous looks.

It's both really nice and really sucky that you are currently, save for Peña, surrounded by ridiculously attractive people.

Ah, well. Such is life.

"I just wanted to apologize," he finally says, stepping closer to the bed, looking uncomfortable. "And make sure you were okay."

"Totally! I'm fine. No worries. You didn't have to come out like this."

He probably had way better things to be doing. Like recovering from his night of celebration. Or continuing it. Either one. He deserved it. You saw a replay of the walk-off home-run on the TV (again, before Peña killed your fun). You were far out in the stands, near left field and the bullpen, so you didn't get much of a close-up look at him but it was pretty cool. Professional athletes of any kind are impressive, you think. But for a guy like him who probably had to prove himself repeatedly to American fans and those on his team — it is admirable.

So, you really do mean it.

But the way he blinks, the way Peña sighs, and the way Wendy lifts her eyes from her phone, eyebrow raising, makes you think they don't see it your way.

"Fine?" Peña asks sullenly, glowering a little at you. "The reason you're staying a week for observation is because not only do you have a linear skull fracture at the point of impact, but you also have a cerebral contusion."

"And that... is not good."

"Brain bruise. Minimal swelling, no bleeding," he says sourly. "Not an issue, at the moment, not as far as we can see but it can become an issue."