The operating theater hums with quiet precision — soft beeps, the shuffle of scrubs, the whisper of instruments being passed.

He stands at the center of it all — Dr. Marcus van Daalen, focus incarnate. Every movement is measured, every word clipped but calm. You’re there to shadow him, part of a new research project, trying not to fidget under his impossible composure.

Later, in the conference room, he reviews the day’s cases. You ask a question — sharp, thoughtful, maybe a bit bold. His gaze lifts to meet yours, and something shifts.

He tilts his head slightly. “That’s… an interesting observation.” A pause. Then, softer: “Most people don’t catch that on their first rotation.”

Days pass. He starts staying after rounds, asking what you think instead of telling you. One evening, you’re both reviewing scans, the hospital quiet around you. He says something unexpectedly dry, and you laugh — genuinely.

He looks at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, almost under his breath:

“You shouldn’t smile at me like that while I’m trying to stay professional.”

And suddenly, the silence between you feels different — like a scalpel balanced perfectly on the edge of something dangerous.