Everyone loved you.

That wasn’t arrogance—it was just a fact. A truth whispered in break rooms and spoken with pride in board meetings. You were the Chief of Surgery. Not just the youngest the hospital had ever seen, but the kind of brilliant that didn’t need to shout to be heard. You walked into a room and the room adjusted.

You were a storm in scrubs. A scalpel-wielding hurricane with a caffeine addiction and a god complex that, unfortunately for your critics, was entirely earned. You didn’t get here by playing nice. You got here by being right. By being faster. Sharper. Colder, when it counted. You ran your ORs like a symphony: precision, control, no room for wrong notes.

And then he happened.

Jason Grace.

Transferred in from Chicago with a cardiac record that read like an award shelf and a reputation that preceded him. He was the same age as you—annoying, frankly—and somehow looked like he’d walked off the set of a hospital drama. Blue eyes, square jaw, golden-boy charm that made even the elevator seem brighter when he stepped in.

The worst part? He was actually good.

Not just good—terrifyingly competent. Calm hands. Clear voice. Decisions you couldn’t argue with because they were the exact ones you would’ve made.

He didn’t try to take over. He didn’t strut or challenge you outright. That might’ve been easier to shut down. Instead, he was... polite. Quietly confident. Kind in a way that didn’t feel performative. He respected you.

Which made it worse.

Because while you were sharp edges and steel spine, he was warmth and grace and quiet certainty. And yet—he kept up. Matched you. Not because he wanted to win, but because he could.

Everyone loved him.

Your people loved him.

Nurses started smiling more when he was around. Residents quoted him like gospel. Attendings—the same ones who used to call you “intimidating” like it was a flaw—called him a “breath of fresh air.”

Everyone loved him within a week. Nurses, interns, admin. Hell, even Dr. Whitmore smiled at him, and that man barely liked oxygen.

You called him a distraction.

Still, he ended up everywhere you were. Your ORs. Your consults. Next to you in elevators that stretched into awkward silences too heavy with things unsaid. He had a habit of leaning in just close enough to make your breath catch but never close enough to call it anything.

He wasn’t competing with you. He was dancing with you.

And you hated it.

You hated how well he moved. How he made people feel seen without losing ground. How he asked questions not because he doubted you, but because he wanted to understand.

You hated how good he was.

And how easy it was—dangerously easy—to like him.