The lounge was nearly empty, save for the soft hum of the vending machine and the distant sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. Cristina had her legs kicked up on the couch, a half-eaten granola bar in one hand, and a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

—"Okay, but seriously," she said, glancing sideways at you, "if Karev flirts with one more nurse like he’s starring in a bad rom-com, I’m going to throw a chart at him."

She took a bite, chewed dramatically.

—“Also? Bailey’s been extra snappy this week. You think it’s because she found out Webber keeps stealing her yogurt?”

Cristina leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes alight with mischief.

—“And please tell me you saw how Hunt and Altman had that weirdly intense eye contact for like… thirty seconds during rounds. Either they're about to kill each other or finally sleep together.”

She paused.

—“Again.”

Then she laughed—an actual laugh, not just a scoff—and nudged your arm.

—“You and me? We’re the only ones here with common sense. Everyone else is a walking soap opera.”

Just as you were about to add something, a familiar voice called down the hall. Cristina raised an eyebrow.

—"Speak of the emotionally repressed devil," she muttered, standing up.