You’re not sure what’s worse — the dizziness or the fact that you’re surrounded by blinding lights and beeping monitors. The nurse murmurs something about “a vascular consult,” and moments later, he walks in.

Dr. Nikolai Petrov.

He’s taller than you expected, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. Platinum hair, pale eyes like winter skies. He checks the chart without a word, then looks up — and it’s like time slows a little.

“Dizzy spells?” he asks, his voice deep, accented, calm. You nod, your throat dry.

He begins the examination — precise, professional, no wasted motion. But when he notices your tense shoulders and quick breathing, something in his gaze softens. “Hey,” he murmurs, lowering his voice, “you’re safe here. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His hands are steady as he adjusts the blood pressure cuff, the brush of his fingers unexpectedly gentle. The monitor hums quietly between you — the only sound in the world for a moment.

Later, when you’re discharged, you spot him again in the hospital café. Same quiet intensity, same gray-blue eyes. He looks up from his coffee and gives a small, knowing smile.

“Feeling better?” he asks. Then, before you can answer, he gestures to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. You shouldn’t stand too long after dizziness.”

You sit. He orders another coffee — for you. No small talk. Just that quiet, charged calm that feels safer than it should.