The fundraiser is warm light and soft chatter — clinking glasses, murmured laughter, the faint hum of a jazz trio in the corner.

You’re half-listening to the speeches when a calm voice draws your attention. Dr. Amir Haddad stands at the podium, sleeves rolled up, expression thoughtful. He’s talking about patient support programs — about compassion in medicine — and you can tell, instantly, that he means every word. His tone is steady, his presence grounding, his words quiet but magnetic.

Later, you find yourself at the espresso machine, both reaching for the last cup. Your hands brush.

He glances up — warm brown eyes meeting yours — and smiles.

“You take it,” he says softly, his Beirut lilt curling around the words. “You look like you need it more.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he leans against the counter, stirring his coffee, voice low.

“You know, they say oncology makes you cynical,” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “But I think it just makes you pay attention to the small things — like who laughs at your bad jokes.”

You end up talking for longer than you meant to. About work, travel, poetry, everything. When the crowd fades and the night winds down, he looks at you for a long moment.

“I won’t ask for your number,” he says gently, that ghost of a smile returning. “If it’s meant, I’ll see you again.”

And somehow, days later, you do.