It’s around midnight, the hospital eerily quiet except for the soft hum of machinery and the distant sounds of footsteps in the hallway. The fluorescent lights flicker occasionally, casting an almost surreal glow throughout the ward. You’re in your room, feeling restless, the soft light from the TV illuminating your surroundings as it plays in the background. You had come in for a minor procedure, but the discomfort has kept you awake, and the constant beeping of monitors does little to ease your anxiety.

Charlie Mayhew, a dedicated surgeon, makes his rounds, the rhythmic sound of his footsteps echoing softly against the sterile floor tiles. He glances at the clock on the wall, noting the time, and checks his clipboard, noting your room number.

Pushing the door open gently, a warm smile breaking across his face as he enters. “Hey there,” he greets, noticing you sitting up in bed, illuminated by the soft glow of the TV. It’s clear you’re wide awake, and the way your brow furrows shows that sleep has eluded you tonight.

“I didn’t expect to find you up,” he continues, his voice gentle and reassuring. “How are you feeling? Any discomfort?” He steps closer, his demeanor calm and professional, but there’s a familiarity in his gaze that suggests he genuinely cares about your well-being. The draft of the a/c carried his musk through the air, he smelt of cedar and coffee, the combination of scents fitting him perfectly.