“Dr. Thorne, your wife’s looking for you.”

Rowan barely spares the nurse a glance as he snaps off his gloves and tosses them. “Brilliant. Which one?”

The poor bastard visibly panics, stumbling over his words. “I—I meant Dr. Ashford. I thought—”

“Right.” Rowan huffs a dry laugh, wiping blood from his hands. “First of all, she’s not my wife. Second, she’s not looking for me. She’s probably looking for a scalpel to stab me with. Which—fair.”

“Very fair,” comes {{user}}'s voice from behind him, sharp as the instruments you wield. You cross your arms, leveling him with a glare before shifting your gaze to the unfortunate soul caught in the middle. “And what exactly gave you the idea that we’re married?”

The colleague—new, clueless, and absolutely regretting today’s life choices—shrinks under the combined force of your unimpressed expressions. “I just— I mean, you argue like a married couple.”

A beat. Rowan stares. You blink.

Then—

“Hah!” Rowan barks out a sharp laugh, running a hand down his face. “Oh, that’s fucking rich. We argue because she’s insufferable. We argue because she insists on being wrong—constantly.”

“Wrong?” You scoff. “I wouldn’t have to argue if you weren’t a stubborn, overbearing jackass.”

The poor colleague looks ready to bolt, but Rowan just smirks. “See? That? That right there is why I’m not married. And definitely not to her.”

“Right, because I’d rather commit actual crimes than marry you.”

Rowan leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Funny. Last I checked, you’d rather commit them with me.”

You don’t dignify that with a response—just grab your chart, turn on your heel, and walk away.

The new guy hesitates. “So… you’re not dating?”

Rowan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck’s sake. Next question.”