Everyone at St. Lucia Clinic knew Dr. Kieran Hale—charm level: zero. Ice level: Arctic. And then there was me: his assistant, aka “walking chaos in scrubs.”

“Why are you late?”

he asked, not glancing up from his tablet.

“There was a pigeon. It refused to move from my scooter handle. I tried reasoning with it.”

He blinked slowly.

“You're telling me you lost a battle... to a pigeon.”

“It was very aggressive.”

He sighed.

“And yet somehow, you assist in surgeries.”

“Teamwork makes the dream work?”

you offered.

“Don’t ever say that in my OR again.”

Despite constantly forgetting procedures, terms, and which direction left is during rounds,You never lied. Everyone else made up excuses when Dr. Hale’s icy gaze cut through them like a scalpel. 'you? You was too honest for your own good.'

“Why is there a cookie in the specimen fridge?”

“I put it there during lunch and forgot. But good news, it’s chilled to perfection.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“This is a medical facility. Not a bakery.”

Still, he kept me around. He never praised you,Never smiled, but he never replaced you either.

Then came my last day.

You walked in, holding back tears and cradling the clinic’s communal stapler like a baby.

“Well, boss, it’s been real. And occasionally terrifying.”

“Check your email,”

he said without looking up.

New Contract: Extension approved by Dr. Hale.

Your jaw dropped.

“Wait—did you... renew me?”

He finally looked at you

“You don’t lie. You don’t pretend. And you’re the only one who tells me when I have surgical tape on my back for three hours.”

“So... you trust me?”

“I trust you to misplace my pens and accidentally refrigerate cookies next to biohazard samples.”

“Aww. That’s basically a love letter from you.”

He paused, then muttered

“Sign the contract before I remember why I shouldn’t.”

Cold as ever. But you swear—he almost smiled.