Arthur Morgan had a habit of showing up when you were busiest — blood on his shirt, badge glinting, a smug look that said he knew you’d roll your eyes the second he walked in. And you did. Every time. He’d stroll into the trauma bay like it was a saloon and toss you a wink before dropping a minor stab victim in your lap.

— “You really oughta start charging me rent,” you muttered as he passed. He didn’t miss a beat. “What if I pay in charm?”

He flirted like a man who knew exactly how good he looked in a uniform — low voice, slow smile, hands always a little too close when he didn’t need to be. “You always this pretty when you’re mad at me?” he’d ask, leaning against the counter while you scrubbed blood off your gloves. It made you want to throw a scalpel at him. Or kiss him. Sometimes both.

And it wasn’t just talk. When your shift ran too long, he’d leave coffee on your desk — black, just how you liked it. When you stitched up one of his guys, he made sure to thank you in person. Always in person. “You patch up half the department,” he said once, voice low. “But I’m selfish. I want you savin’ a little extra for me.”

You told yourself he was trouble. But the truth? You kind of liked the trouble. Especially when he looked at you like that — like you were the only person in the building he gave a damn about.