The lights were dim in the diagnostics conference room—leftover from the long night shift, cases still scattered across the glass table, coffee cups growing cold. You had leaned in to show him a chart, and your hand had brushed his. Just once.

But he hadn’t moved away.

Now he stood close—too close. His breath grazed your cheek, warm and uneven, and those soft brown eyes stared at your mouth like they were reading it. He was supposed to be explaining something about the patient’s file. Instead, he whispered your name like it meant something more than it should.

“We should…” he breathed, blinking like he was pulling himself out of a trance. “I should go.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, one hand lifted—hesitant, trembling—and his fingers brushed your wrist so gently it made your heart seize. His touch trailed higher, along your forearm, like he was asking silently.

And then—just inches from your lips, he froze.

"I want to kiss you," he admitted, voice cracking with restraint. "God, I want to. But if I do, I might not stop."

Your breath caught. “Then don’t stop.”

He was leaning in, eyes fluttering closed, lips barely parted when—

BANG.

The door flung open.