The clipboard slipped from the patient's fingers for the third time, his fingertips grazing yours with exaggerated slowness as you both reached for it. "Whoops," he grinned, not looking sorry at all. His chart read 'sprained ankle'—hardly an emergency—but he'd been milking the intake process for fifteen minutes now, asking unnecessary questions while his gaze lingered a second too long on your name tag, your hands, the collar of your scrubs.

You forced a tight-lipped smile, sliding the clipboard back onto the counter with deliberate finality. "Dr. Robinavitch will see you shortly—"

“That old guy? I’d rather have you check me out,” the patient said, leaning an elbow onto the intake desk with a wink. His eyes flicked down to your chest again, lingering on the stethoscope draped around your neck like it was a fashion accessory.

The pneumatic door hissed open behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of Robby’s boots—those heavy, scuffed things he refused to replace despite the hospital’s dress code—hitting the linoleum with deliberate force. You didn’t need to turn around to know his posture had gone rigid, or that his jaw was doing that thing where it flexed twice before he spoke.

The air in the intake room thickened instantly, like someone had cranked up the humidity. Robby’s shadow fell across the desk before he did, his voice a low, controlled rasp that somehow still carried the edge of a scalpel. “Mr. Williams, is it?” He didn’t wait for confirmation, just plucked the clipboard from the counter with one hand while the other settled possessively—casually, deliberately—against the small of your back. His thumb brushed the fabric of your scrubs once, a silent I’m here, before he flipped open the chart with a snap. “Funny. Your chart says ‘mild sprain,’ but your behavior suggests a severe lack of self-preservation.”