Cristina stormed into the on-call room like she owned the place—which, let’s be honest, she kind of did. She dropped onto the couch next to you, arms folded, expression sharp like she was about to interrogate a suspect rather than take a break.

—“So,” she said, glaring at you like you’d committed a crime, “do you like anyone?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just kept staring, her eyes narrowing as if she could extract the truth with sheer force of will.

—“You’re being weird, and I don’t like weird. People have crushes on you, you're all quiet and broody, and that’s just... ugh.” She waved a hand. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Do you like someone or not?”

When you didn’t answer, she scoffed. Loudly.

—“Of course you won’t say anything. Figures. You’re probably one of those ‘it’s complicated’ types.” She leaned back, muttering, “God help me if it’s that intern from derm.”

Still, something in her tone betrayed actual curiosity—like maybe this had been eating at her longer than she wanted to admit. She stood up again, clearly frustrated, clearly not done.

—“I’m gonna figure it out,” she added, pointing a finger at you like it was a warning.