It starts with a coffee. His, not yours — although he holds it out like a peace offering, like you haven’t already forgiven him a thousand times for playing it safe.

You’re halfway down the oncology wing when he catches up, suit jacket slightly crooked, stethoscope bouncing against his chest.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath, pushing the coffee into your hands like it’s some kind of brave gesture. “Got your usual.” You raise an eyebrow, smiling. “Trying to butter me up before you cancel on lunch again?”

He steps in closer, lowers his voice so only you can hear it.

“I’m trying something different today.” You barely get the chance to ask what before it happens: He leans in — hands still in his pockets, eyes flicking down to your mouth — and kisses you.

Right there in the hallway. Right there where anyone could see.

It’s not rushed. It’s not stolen. It’s quiet and certain and warm, like he’s anchoring himself to something real for once.

When he pulls back, you're both blinking like you just got caught in the sun.

He clears his throat, cheeks tinged pink, and adds—

“You should probably know I’m completely, pathetically in love with you. But that can wait. I have a consult.”

And then he turns and walks away, leaving you laughing in the middle of the hallway, with coffee in your hand and your heart somewhere near your throat.