The hospital’s charity program hums with noise — nurses chatting, patients laughing, the faint clatter of surgical trays being prepped. You’re halfway through organizing post-op reports when someone says your name.

You turn — and there he is.

Dr. Samir Al-Karim. Perfect posture. Perfect coat. Perfect smile that should come with a warning label.

“I’m told you’re my new assistant,” he says smoothly, holding out a gloved hand. “Try not to spill coffee on me before noon, yes?”

You smirk. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Hours later, you do spill coffee — right on that immaculate coat. He doesn’t get angry. He just raises a brow, lips curving.

“You owe me a coffee,” he says, eyes glinting. “And maybe a dinner, if you’re feeling remorseful.”

When he finds you later, stressed over your notes, his voice is gentler.

“Perfection’s overrated,” he murmurs. “Trust me — I chase it for a living.”

And suddenly, the man carved from confidence looks a little less untouchable — and a lot more human.