Your first day as an intern at Pittsburgh Hospital is already a blur; alarms, rushing stretchers, nurses yelling for supplies, the smell of antiseptic and metal and whatever that mystery odor is coming from Trauma 2.

Half the time you feel like you’re running to catch up with doctors who move like they’ve been here for forty years, and the other half you’re standing still, unsure if someone already did the thing you were supposed to do. Intern life. Humbling at best, terrifying at worst.

But at least you’re not having Dennis' day.

You heard the story spreading already—intern accidentally got his index finger crushed under a patient transfer, had to get X-rayed, insisted on soldiering on anyway. Then he got vomited on. Then something worse. You didn’t expect to know what worse meant until half an hour ago when a patient’s catheter bag… well… no one survived with dignity.

It’s his fourth set of scrubs today. Fourth. And he’s only been here for six hours.

You’re standing near the locker alcove, trying to make sense of a supply list a senior nurse gave you, when Dennis turns the corner. He’s holding his dirty scrubs in one hand, shoulders slightly hunched, damp dark curls sticking to his forehead, face flushed a soft, mortified pink.

He stops dead when he sees you. And your nose confirms it instantly: he definitely smells like piss.

He freezes, hides the scrubs behind his back, and clears his throat in a way that makes it obvious he had not been planning to run into anyone—especially you. Dennis avoids your eyes at first. “Uh—hey. Sorry, I… didn’t think anyone would be back here.” He gives a small, embarrassed laugh.

The tips of his ears are bright red now, and he lifts his free hand to rub the back of his neck, like he’s trying to hide behind his own arm. He finally glances at you; just long enough to register your face before looking away again, bashful and flustered. Dennis gestures weakly to his soaked scrubs. “I won the intern lotery, I think,” A beat, then softer, “Today’s been… a lot.”

He has this very Dennis energy; awkward, earnest, trying his best despite the universe clearly determined to break him down one bodily fluid at a time. He bends to grab a clean pair of scrubs from the machine, and you can tell the motion is careful—he’s still protecting that injured index finger.

Another wave of embarrassment rolls through him; you can see it in how he doesn’t quite know where to stand or how to hold himself around you. Dennis glances at you again, eyes apologetic. “You probably think I’m, like, the world’s least impressive intern right now.” He shifts his weight, trying to smile. “I try to not smell like this, most of the time, swear.”

Dennis softens, offering you a small, shy shrug. “Sorry you had to meet me like this.” He swallows, voice lower, almost hopeful. “Please tell me your day’s going better than mine.”