The Last Page Of Us [JJK × Y/N]

2. MISPLACED AFFECTION

Lee Y/N’s office was a stark contrast to the other rooms in the facility. Where most spaces were cold and clinical, hers was warm and inviting, a small oasis in an otherwise dreary world. Soft lighting bathed the room in a gentle glow, casting long shadows on the bookshelves filled with psychology texts and well-worn novels.

A few potted plants sat on the windowsill, their leaves a vibrant green against the pale afternoon light. A painting of a serene landscape hung on the wall behind her desk, its colors calming and peaceful. The room was designed to make her patients feel at ease, to give them a place where they could let their guard down, even if just for a moment.

But today, the warmth of the room did little to ease the tension in the air.

Lee Y/N sat across from one of her long-term patients, a young man named Minho. He was in his mid-twenties, with dark hair that fell messily over his eyes, giving him an almost boyish look. His face was sharp, handsome even, but there was an intensity in his gaze that unsettled most people. He was well-built, his posture always too stiff, as if he was trying to contain something within himself. And when he looked at her, there was a fervor in his eyes that made her uncomfortable, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why.

Minho had been under her care for over a year, his initial diagnosis revolving around issues of depression and anxiety. But as the sessions progressed, Y/N began to notice something else lurking beneath the surface—an obsession, one that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. At first, she had attributed his fixation on her to the natural bond that forms between a psychiatrist and their patient, a kind of transference where the patient projects their feelings onto their therapist. It was common, especially with patients who had been through trauma or who had difficulty forming healthy attachments.

But with Minho, it was different.

“Y/N, I was thinking about what we talked about last week,” Minho said, his voice soft, almost tender, as he leaned forward in his chair. He always used her first name, never addressing her with the formal “Doctor,” despite her gentle corrections early on. “About trust and how it’s important in any relationship.”

Y/N smiled warmly, though there was a slight edge of unease beneath her professionalism. “That’s right, Minho. Trust is the foundation of any healthy relationship, whether it’s between friends, family, or even between us.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “I feel like I can trust you with anything, Y/N. You’ve been more than just a doctor to me. You’re… you’re my friend.”

She tilted her head slightly, considering his words. It wasn’t unusual for patients to see their therapist as a friend, especially when the therapist had been a consistent and supportive presence in their lives. But there was something in the way Minho said it, something in the way he looked at her, that made her stomach twist.

“I’m glad you feel that way, Minho,” she replied carefully, maintaining her warm tone. “It’s important for you to have people you trust in your life. And as your psychiatrist, I’m here to support you in any way I can.”

His lips curled into a small smile, but there was a strange glint in his eyes, something that made Y/N’s skin prickle. “You’re different from everyone else, Y/N. You understand me. You’re always here for me, even when no one else is.”

There it was again—that intensity, that fervor that went beyond the usual bounds of patient-therapist relationships. Y/N had tried to address it before, tried to gently steer Minho’s feelings back into more appropriate channels, but it was like trying to redirect a river with a teaspoon. No matter how many times she reassured him of her professional boundaries, he seemed to interpret her kindness as something more.