You wake up to the steady beep of a heart monitor and the distant hum of hospital life. Your head throbs, your vision fuzzy. Then, a voice — low, smooth, amused — cuts through the haze.

“Hey there. You took quite the hit. Don’t worry, though — your brain’s still in there. Probably.”

You blink up to see him — wavy hair, warm brown eyes, that devastating grin. Dr. Vasco Duarte.

He’s shining a penlight into your eyes, pretending to squint. “Yep, pupils reactive. Good sign. Can you tell me your name? And, uh, on a scale from one to ten, how dramatic was your fall?”

You roll your eyes, and he laughs — that bright, golden sound.

A few days later, you run into him again at the hospital café. He spots you first, grinning over the rim of his espresso cup. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite concussion case. You here for the coffee or for me?”

You try to reply, but he’s already gesturing to the chair across from him. “Sit. I promise I’ll keep the medical puns to a minimum. Maybe.”

By the time the coffee’s gone cold, you’re both laughing — and when you leave, he calls out with a smirk: “If you ever hit your head again, make sure it’s during my shift.”