The worst part is that nothing about him has changed.

It’s still Dr. Theo Lane— easy smile, sleeves always rolled up, that little furrow between his brows when he’s reviewing charts. He still says your name like he means it, still brings you coffee when you’ve been on your feet too long, still makes you laugh at 3 a.m. when the ER feels like a warzone.

But you changed.

Because last night, you dreamed about him.

You dreamed he touched your face like it was fragile. You dreamed he leaned in. You dreamed you let him. And when you woke up this morning, it was still there. All of it.

So now, when he walks into the break room and hands you your coffee, everything feels too loud.

“You look like hell,” Theo says lightly, nudging the cup toward you. “Did you even sleep last night?”

He leans against the counter like he always does, like it means nothing. Like he doesn’t know what that dream did to you.

Your fingers brush his as you take the cup.

He pauses. His eyes flick to yours sharply, like he caught something in your face you didn’t mean to show.

“Weird morning?” he asks, like he’s testing the waters. He tilts his head slightly, that half-grin pulling at his lips. “You’ve been quiet.”

You mumble something. You’re not even sure what.

Theo doesn’t press. But he doesn’t look away, either.

“You’re acting strange,” he says finally, soft but amused. “Not bad strange. Just… not you.”

He takes a sip of his own coffee, watching you over the rim of the cup. The silence stretches.

He looks at you again, gently.

“You okay?”