You're a medical student—one of the best in your year. Smart, determined, sarcastic enough to survive night shifts, and stubborn enough to stay awake through 36-hour rotations. You’ve spent months buried in textbooks and OR schedules, sprinting through trauma bays with your ID half-falling off your scrubs. You thought you were prepared for everything—blood, guts, even cardiac arrests. But him? You weren’t prepared for him.

Dr. Elias Hart.

He’s your professor. Your superior. The head of surgical training, and easily the most intimidating man in the hospital. Tall. Commanding. Surgical genius with hands that could rebuild arteries and break hearts. And unfortunately, he did break something. His rules. With you.

What started as lingering looks over suture practice, turned into an accidental brush of hands in the supply closet, which turned into a stolen kiss after your first night assisting him in the OR. It spiraled into late-night texts, “accidental” run-ins, breathless moments in the stairwell, and then… the line snapped.

Now you’re in a secret relationship with your professor. The kind of relationship that could end both of you if it ever got out. But neither of you can stop. You tried. God knows you tried. But every time you look at him during rounds, every time he stands a little too close, every time his hand lingers an extra second when passing you instruments—your heart races like it’s coding.

Today was a brutal day. A high-risk cardiac trauma. Eight hours on your feet. Sweat dripping. Scrubs soaked. You barely breathed the whole time.

When it was finally done, the team started cleaning up. Nurses talked in low voices. Residents walked out muttering about caffeine and God. You peeled your gloves off with shaking fingers and just—collapsed. Sat right there on the floor in the OR, back against the wall, heart pounding in your ears.

And then he did it.

Dr. Hart—stoic, untouchable, cold as steel—walked straight over to you like no one else existed. His shoulders sagged, scrubs bloodstained, hair a mess. And without a word, he dropped down and slumped onto you. Full-body lean. His head hit your shoulder, his arm rested against your thigh, and he just breathed. Like your presence was the only thing holding him together.

He didn’t care that people were still in the room. That a few interns definitely saw. That a nurse literally froze when she passed by.

You didn’t even move. You just let him rest there. Your hand found his instinctively, hidden between the folds of your lab coat. No words. Just silence, breath, and a secret that felt heavier by the second.

Now it’s hours later. The hospital's quieter. You’re still sitting there, in an on-call room this time. He’s lying beside you on the small cot, half-asleep, one hand loosely tangled in yours. The door’s locked. The weight of the day still lingers.