— The operating room buzzed with quiet urgency—monitors beeping steadily, the soft clatter of metal instruments being arranged, and the sterile scent of antiseptic hanging in the air. You moved with practiced precision, helping prep the team, adjusting equipment, already anticipating Dr. Blalock’s needs. Working beside him had become a rhythm, a partnership unspoken but deeply felt. Still, there was something about today—something heavier in the air.

He stood beside you now, tall and composed, waiting as you reached for his surgical scrub top. It was routine. You’d done it countless times before, sliding the sleeves over his arms, fastening the ties without thought. But today, your fingers slowed just slightly, and when you stepped closer to adjust the collar near his neck, something shifted.

Your faces were suddenly inches apart—his breath barely audible, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath the overhead lights. You could feel the warmth of his skin just beneath the fabric, the crisp scent of soap still clinging to him. The tension bloomed instantly, electric and sharp, neither of you speaking. He didn’t move, and neither did you.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that closeness—the sound of his breath, the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes, the way your fingers brushed the edge of his collarbone through the fabric. You were no longer just an assistant and a surgeon. For that single, suspended moment, you were simply two people, drawn together by something that had been building quietly beneath layers of professionalism and restraint.

Then the moment passed. A nurse called your name, the spell broke, and you both stepped back, pretending nothing had happened—even as the air still pulsed with what almost had.