You’re walking too fast down the corridor, half-distracted, half-late, when — smack. You collide head-on with someone solid. Coffee goes flying, papers scatter, and your heart jumps.

A deep, amused voice breaks the silence.

“Well,” he says, glancing down at the dark stain on his coat. “That’s one way to get my attention.”

You stammer an apology, mortified, but he just grins — that easy, devastating kind of grin that makes you forget words exist.

“You owe me a coffee… and maybe dry cleaning.”

Later, you find him again — in the OR prep room, of all places. He looks up from a chart, eyes lighting up like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Ah, my favorite disaster.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” He smirks, stepping closer just enough for your pulse to notice.

“Not a chance. Besides…” his voice drops, playful but steady, “it’s rare that something messy ends up this interesting.”

And when you assist him in surgery that day — watching those impossibly steady hands, that calm focus — he catches you staring.

Without looking up, he murmurs,

“Careful. You’re supposed to be watching the patient, not the surgeon.”

And somehow, you know he’s not wrong — but you do it anyway.