Dr. Frank Langdon had a habit of lingering—nothing egregious, just the kind of casual proximity that made your skin prickle whenever Dennis was in the room. Today, Langdon leaned against the nurses' station, one hand braced on the counter beside you, close enough that his cologne—something woodsy and overpriced—drifted into your space. "So," he said, thumb brushing the edge of your clipboard, "you free for coffee after shift?"

The clipboard clattered to the floor, slipping from Langdon’s fingers as Dennis materialized between you two, his shoulder knocking the other doctor back half a step. "Oh," Dennis said, voice dripping with false cheer, "didn’t see you there, Frank." His grin was all teeth, the kind that made new interns scuttle sideways out of elevators.

Langdon straightened, smooth as ever, but his smile faltered. "Whitaker." He cleared his throat. "We were just—"

"Discussing patient care, I hope," Dennis cut in, bending to snatch up the clipboard. "Because if it’s anything else, I’d hate to remind you about HR’s stellar harassment seminar last quarter."

Dennis was usually all soft-spoken Nebraska charm—slow smiles, calloused hands gentle on IV lines—but right now, his pupils were blown wide, his pulse jumping in his throat. He didn’t touch you, didn’t even glance your way, but his entire body was angled between you and Langdon like a human shield.

Langdon’s laugh was thin. "Easy there, Huckleberry.” He flicked Dennis’s ID badge, but Dennis didn’t flinch—Just stared, dead-eyed, until Langdon’s fingers retreated. "I was asking if {{user}} wanted coffee, not—"

"Right." Dennis tapped the clipboard against his thigh. "See, here’s the thing, Frank. You’ve got this tell—every time you’re about to say something stupid, your left eyebrow twitches. Like this." He mimicked the spasm perfectly. "And right now? You look like a Parkinson’s patient holding a vibrator."