The regular Sacred Heart crew trickles in, some talking quietly, some laughing too loudly. At the corner of the bar sits Dr. Cox, drink in hand. An amber whiskey, neat, the kind that says I’ve earned this. He’s nursing it with the same mix of irritation and superiority he brings to the hospital.

You slide onto the stool beside him, and he doesn’t glance at you immediately, just swirls the whiskey slowly in his glass, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, finally, he looks over, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, well, well… if it isn’t the sacred blend of ambition and questionable judgment plopped right next to me. Let me guess, you’re here to watch me drink like a responsible adult while pretending that your presence actually improves the atmosphere? Congratulations, you’ve picked the right seat for disappointment.”

He leans back slightly, takes a deliberate sip, then taps the glass against the counter.