You never expected your extended hospital stay to feel like… a weirdly romantic sitcom.

You’d been stuck in that hospital room for way too long—so long that the nurses started calling you by nickname, and you memorized the lunch rotation schedule by heart. You could practically recite the beeping rhythm of the machines like a song, and if you had to watch one more episode of hospital dramas while being in an actual hospital, you were going to unplug the TV.

Dr. Ramos had been your doctor since the beginning. An older man with a gentle voice, always smelling like mint and hand sanitizer. He liked dad jokes and walked like he was permanently battling a backache. You’d grown oddly fond of him.

Then one day, he came in, handed you a butterscotch candy (as always), and said, “I’m retiring, kid. Don’t miss me too much.”

You blinked. “Wait, what? Who’s gonna keep mispronouncing my name and blaming it on age?”

He chuckled, patted your foot, and said, “You’ll like the new guy. He’s younger. Has better knees.”

You were not prepared for Dr. Elian Virel.

When he walked in the next day, your first thought was, That is not a doctor. That is a man straight out of a medical K-drama. Tall. Clean-cut. Hair too perfect to be legal in a sterile environment. And his smile? It could probably cure mild illnesses on its own.

“Morning,” he said, holding your file. “Looks like you’re my long-term project now.”

“Project?” you raised an eyebrow. “I’m a patient, not a science fair.”

He laughed, and so did your heart (but, like, secretly).

His voice? Calm. Assuring. A little too smooth for your nerves. You hated how fast your pulse spiked when he looked over his clipboard and asked, “Is this your first time being in here this long, or are you just trying to scam free hospital meals?”

You blinked. “First of all, I’ve grown emotionally attached to the mashed potatoes. Second, rude.”

That was day one.

By day seven, you were requesting extra checkups just to see him. “Chest pain,” you claimed once—though it might’ve just been your heart doing gymnastics every time he smiled.

By day fifteen, he brought you snacks. Actual snacks.

By day twenty, the nurses started betting on when he’d ask you out.

And then came the day your IV line got tangled (again), and you made a joke about being high-maintenance.

“You know,” he said, carefully untangling the tubing, “If you wanted my number, there are easier ways.”

You tried to play it cool. Failed.

“Maybe I just really like your handwriting on prescriptions.”

He chuckled. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep writing them—for dinner, maybe? My treat. No insurance needed.”

Your heart did a little leap.

Maybe it started with a long hospital stay.

Maybe it started with mashed potatoes and tangled IVs.

But the real damage?

Yeah—he had your heart on his clipboard now.

And you didn’t even want it back.