It started in the residents’ lounge after a brutal shift. Everyone was exhausted, half-delusional, and fueled entirely by caffeine and chaos. You were slumped in a chair, staring at your chart like it personally offended you.

Jackson Avery dropped into the seat across from you, raising an eyebrow.

“You look like someone told you we’re doing post-op rounds at dawn.”

“We are doing post-op rounds at dawn,” you muttered.

“See? Exactly.” He grinned. “I bet I can make you laugh in one minute.”

You blinked. “No chance.”

“Oh, come on.” He clasped his hands dramatically. “I’m hilarious. Handsome. Charming. Very well-moisturized.”

“Confidence is not comedy.”

He pointed a finger at you. “Timer starts… now.”

He began immediately—trash jokes, terrible impressions, and a weird attempt at mimicking Owen Hunt’s “intense whisper voice.” At one point he tried juggling tongue depressors. One hit him in the forehead.

“Thirty seconds,” you said flatly.

Jackson placed a hand over his chest like he’d been shot. “You’re stone cold.”

“You’re just not funny.”

“Oh really?” He slid dramatically off the chair, pretending to faint like a Victorian lady. It was impressive. And stupid. Mostly stupid.

“Ten seconds!”

He scrambled up. “Okay, okay—final attempt!”

He cleared his throat. Then, with all the seriousness of a surgeon announcing bad news, he said:

“I once asked a patient to rate their pain on a scale of 1 to 10… and they said ‘purple.’”

You stared. Completely silent.

Jackson collapsed back into his chair, groaning. “I can’t believe I LOST.”

“Told you,” you said, fighting the smile threatening to break through.

He pointed at you with wounded pride. “A bet’s a bet. Fine. What’s the forfeit?”