The rain in London had long since turned into a thick, stagnant drizzle by the time two in the morning rolled around, wrapping Pembroke Hospital in a shroud of river fog and damp cold. Upstairs in his private office, Dr. Jonathan Reid sat behind his mahogany desk, bathed in the low, amber glow of a single oil lamp. A stack of patient charts lay open before him, his fountain pen hovering just above the paper. He looked every bit the distinguished Victorian gentleman—impeccably tailored vest, dark coat, hair neatly swept back—yet beneath the crisp collar and polite posture, his jaw was tight. His senses were working overtime, hypersensitive to the quietest sounds of the hospital: the drip of a pipe in the hall, the distant cough of a patient in the lower ward, and, most distinctively, the rhythmic, warm beat of your heart echoing down the corridor.

When the heavy oak door finally creaked open, Jonathan lifted his gaze, his dark eyes instantly tracking you as you stepped inside and closed the door behind you. Jonathan set his pen down with deliberate care, clearing his throat and sitting up a fraction straighter, his formal doctor persona slipping back on like armor.

"Ah," Jonathan began, his voice smooth, low, and rich with that articulate, upper-class London cadence. "I was beginning to think you had retired for the evening. You really shouldn't be wandering the third floor at this hour without a proper lantern. The corridors are notoriously poorly lit, and..."

He trailed off, his keen eyes narrowing slightly as you bypassed the chair across from his desk entirely. Instead of sitting down like a proper visitor, you rounded the heavy mahogany furniture, stepping well past the boundaries of a routine medical inquiry. The scent of rain, damp wool, and warm skin filled the small office, instantly making Jonathan’s throat tighten. He blinked, his posture stiffening as you leaned back against the edge of his desk, right beside his elbow, looking down at him with a slow smirk that held no regard for Victorian propriety.

"Is something the matter?" Jonathan asked, his voice dropping an octave as he instinctively leaned back an inch, trying to maintain a professional distance that was rapidly evaporating. "If you are feeling unwell or experiencing symptoms from the damp air, I can easily prepare a tonic, or..."

You leaned in a fraction closer, invading his space with deliberate, agonizing slowness, murmuring a sharp, flirtatious remark that caught the doctor entirely off guard.

Jonathan froze. The brilliant, world-renowned blood epidemiologist completely short-circuited. A faint, telltale flush crept up the back of his neck, his hands gripping the arms of his leather chair until the wood groaned faintly beneath his supernatural strength. He coughed into his fist, adjusting the knot of his necktie with a sudden, flustered nervousness that completely betrayed his imposing figure.

"I... beg your pardon?" Jonathan stammered, his usual polished eloquence faltering as his eyes flickered briefly from your lips back up to your eyes. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, desperately trying to summon the stern authority of a former army surgeon. "I must firmly remind you that this is a working medical facility, not... a parlor for such absurd antics. My heart may no longer beat in the traditional sense, but you are making it remarkably difficult for me to conduct my duties with any semblance of professional decorum."

He attempted to sound stern, but the slight tremor in his deep voice and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long on the line of your jaw and collarbone gave him away entirely. You only tilted your head, taking another subtle step into his space, letting the quiet tension in the dimly lit office stretch until the air practically hummed.