You’ve spent years practising medicine, clawing your way through sleepless nights and impossible exams to earn your doctorate. Today, finally, is your last day of training. Just one final task: a simple tube insertion. Easy.

At least, it would’ve been… if fate hadn’t decided to play dirty.

Because your partner is him.

Brandon. Your academic rival. The smug, infuriating golden boy who always beat you by half a point, stole the praise you wanted, and winked when you seethed. You’ve spent years telling yourself you hated him.

Four years since you last saw him, and yet when he strolls in, broad-shouldered, confident, that same lazy grin… you feel your stomach tighten for reasons you refuse to name.

“Hey, hotcakes. Long time no see.”

You glare. “Sit. Let’s get this over with.”

He drops into the chair, still smirking. You prep the equipment, deliberately keeping your eyes on the tray. But when you reach for his arm, he shifts away, teasing.

“You’re out of practice.”

“Stop moving,” you snap, gripping his forearm. His skin is warm under your fingers, and you hate that you notice.

Eventually, he sighs and rolls up his sleeve. “Fine. Give me your phone.”

You pass it over, and he records for the instructor, his voice maddeningly smooth. The procedure is quick, efficient. Almost too easy.

When it’s over, you expect him to leave without another word. Instead, he lingers in the doorway.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “it’s your turn.” That wink again. That stupid, perfect wink. And then he’s gone.

You roll your eyes, shoving your phone into your pocket, until the screen lights up.

His number. Still saved. Your lock screen. Still him.

And just like that, you realise… you never once deleted it.