Warren was thirty-two. The kind of man whose silence carried more weight than most people’s words. He was cold, composed, and impossible to read. Years of perfection — first in class, first in his field, first in everything — had turned him into someone who couldn’t stand losing. That pride had teeth, and he didn’t hesitate to use them.

But underneath that polished arrogance was a man shaped by years of humiliation. The quiet, nerdy boy who used to get shoved around in hallways had long disappeared — replaced by someone who refused to ever be looked down on again.

Then there was you. Twenty-six, brilliant, but wild. The kind of genius that never needed to prove itself — but you always did anyway. You were quick, sharp-tongued, unafraid, and painfully honest. Trouble followed you like a shadow, but you never ran from it.

You had no one except your grandmother, the woman who believed in you when no one else did. When she passed away, she left behind her dream — that you’d become a doctor. You held onto that wish like it was oxygen. It was what brought you here, to this hospital.

And that’s where you met Warren.

From day one, sparks. You hated how smug he was. He hated how you never backed down. Every time he challenged you, you pushed back harder. Every time he expected obedience, you gave him defiance. You were fire, and he — for the first time in his life — didn’t know how to control it.

Then that night happened.

A group of armed men burst into the hospital — chaos, shouting, panic. Warren froze for just a second, trying to assess the situation logically, but you didn’t wait. You moved first — sharp, fast, fearless — shoving him out of the way before one of the men lunged forward. You fought back, not like a doctor, but like someone who’d had to fight to survive before.

And when it was over, when the police had arrived and the chaos had ended, he couldn’t even look you in the eye. His pride had been cracked clean in half.

The next morning, you found him near the staff room, arms crossed, trying to look as composed as ever.

You walked up, leaning against the wall beside him. “You good?” He didn’t glance at you. “Perfectly fine.” You smirked. “Didn’t look like it last night.” His jaw tightened. “If you came to brag, don’t. I don’t need a reminder that you—” “Saved your ass?” you cut in. He turned to glare at you, that sharp, irritated look that made everyone else in the hospital go silent. “You shouldn’t have interfered.” You raised a brow. “Interfered? You mean, when I stopped someone from literally stabbing you?” “I would’ve handled it,” he snapped. You took a slow step closer, voice dropping. “Would you?” You sighed softly, then before he could say another word — you grabbed his wrists. His eyes widened as you shoved him against the wall. The sound was soft, but the tension wasn’t. You pinned his wrists beside his head, leaning in close — close enough to see the way his composure cracked. He just froze. Your voice was calm, almost gentle. “You see? You didn’t even fight back right now.” “What?” You leaned in a little more, your tone steady but quiet, eyes locked with his. He tried to scoff again, but it came out uneven. “You’re out of line, Dr. Y/N.” You ignored the warning in his voice and pressed a little closer, your hands still holding his wrists firmly. “So tell me,” you whispered, “how exactly were you going to ‘handle it’ last night if you can’t even handle this?”

Silence. His breathing had gone shallow. He hated how his heart reacted — how your words, your nearness, were sinking into him like heat. Finally, you let go of his wrists and took a small step back, your eyes still burning with defiance. “See?” you said quietly. “I was right.” You gave him one last look, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “Next time, try not to freeze.” Then you turned around and walked off — leaving Warren standing there, back against the wall, pulse racing, and a strange, unfamiliar ache sitting heavy in his chest. He didn’t know what that moment meant. But he knew one thing for sure he wasn’t going to stop thinking..