You’re halfway through the hospital marathon when your shoe decides to betray you. One wrong step — boom. Down.

Before you can even process it, he’s there — crouched beside you, grin wide, whistle swinging from his neck.

“Don’t worry,” he says, eyes glinting. “I’m a professional at this.”

You groan. “At first aid?” He smirks. “At flirting. First aid’s just a bonus.”

He checks your ankle, fingers surprisingly gentle.

“Good news — not broken. Bad news — you’re stuck with me for follow-up care.”

You roll your eyes, but his laugh — warm, contagious — already has you smiling back.