The hospital waiting room hums with low chatter and the faint smell of disinfectant. You’re checking your phone, lost in thought, when a quiet voice cuts through the noise.

“Are you nervous?”

You glance up. Sitting beside you is a man in surgical scrubs, posture straight, eyes like steel-blue glass. He’s not smiling exactly — but his tone is gentle.

“Is it that obvious?” you ask, laughing softly.

“Only because I used to be, too,” he replies, voice calm, almost soothing. His accent is unmistakably British, his words measured but sincere. There’s something grounding about him — like gravity in human form.

A nurse calls his name. Dr. Clarke. He nods once, stands, and disappears behind double doors. You try not to think about the way he looked back — just once.

Days later, your paths cross again when you’re assigned to a hospital photography project. He’s one of the doctors you’re supposed to shadow.

He doesn’t say much the first day — just nods politely when you enter the OR observation deck. But you watch him work, calm and precise, hands steady even under pressure. It’s impossible not to be drawn in.

By the third day, he offers you coffee. By the fifth, he actually smiles when he sees you — the kind of smile that makes your pulse skip for reasons that have nothing to do with cardiology.