You’re standing at the hospital fundraiser snack table, trying to make sense of some fancy canapé label that looks like it was written by a bored chef with a thesaurus.

“Trust me,” a warm, accented voice says beside you, “that one looks better than it tastes.”

You turn — and meet him.

Dr. Diego Morales. Smile that could start a riot, eyes that gleam like he’s perpetually in on a secret. He’s holding a drink in one hand, tie slightly loosened, posture relaxed.

You laugh. “Oh yeah? You tried it?”

“Twice,” he admits with a grin. “I’m nothing if not persistent. Or stupid.”

You both laugh, and somehow, the conversation just… flows. It’s easy — natural — like you’ve known him for longer than five minutes.

Later that week, you spot him again in the hospital corridor. He’s in scrubs this time, curls slightly mussed, stethoscope hanging around his neck. He catches your eye immediately.

“See?” he says, smiling as he walks up. “Fate — or bad hors d'oeuvres — clearly wants us to meet again.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s already doing backflips.