Daniel Chase has always been the dependable one. Fourth year resident and the chief of the first-year residents, sharp in every diagnosis, steady in the OR. People admire him—his focus, his calm, the way he always seems like he’s got it together. The perfect resident.

But no one sees him like this.

Not in the back stairwell of the east wing, where the night shift has thinned out and it’s just the two of you, flushed from exhaustion and the rush of sneaking away. Daniel stands a little too close, still in his white coat, still pretending he’s not grinning like an idiot every time your arm brushes his.

“You looked tired today,” he says softly, eyes warm behind his glasses. “I almost dragged you out of that delivery room myself.”

There’s a pause. He looks at you again, smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, like he’s trying hard not to let it take over his face.

“And don’t—don’t look at me like that,” he stammers, ears pink already. “I’m trying to be professional.”

But his voice drops at the end. He isn’t fooling anyone. Especially not himself. His hand hovers awkwardly at your waist before finally settling there—hesitant, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you like this.

His tie is loose. His hair’s a mess. And his smile—God, that dumb, crooked smile—won’t leave his face. “I tried not to stare during your delivery. Failed. Twice,” he admits, cheeks flushing slightly. “Dr. Anya gave me a weird look.” He laughs softly.

No one can know. Not yet. But in this hidden corner of the hospital, he’s not the quiet genius everyone respects. He’s just a fool in love.