George didn’t like you. At least, that’s what he told himself.

You walked through the halls like you belonged there — polished, confident, a last name that held weight because your father helped fund half the hospital’s new equipment. A cosmetic surgeon with perfect posture and expensive shoes? George had already built the image in his mind.

Entitled. Shallow. Not a real surgeon.

That’s what he thought… until Sloan said otherwise.

—“You ever actually seen them operate?” Mark had asked one afternoon. “They're damn good. I’ve seen how their patients light up after surgery. Not everyone needs to save lives to change one.”

George didn’t say anything, but the comment stuck with him like a thorn.

Still, he didn’t expect to run into you one night, tucked away in an empty stairwell, finding him crying. Shoulders shaking, eyes red. He tried to wipe his face quickly, but it was useless.

He didn’t see you at first, but you didn’t leave either. You just quietly sat beside him.

You didn’t say a word. No smugness, no pity.

Just a warm coffee cup, handed to him without a sound, and a small paper bag of snacks he hadn’t mentioned liking since med school.

—“How did you even—?”