The grumpy one. Definitely not your mentor. Definitely not staring.

You’re the youngest attending on the surgical floor. The kind of overachiever who triple-checks vitals and still apologizes when someone else bumps into you. Enter Dr. Joel Miller — legendary trauma surgeon, unnervingly attractive in a “why is this hot older man glaring at me?” kind of way.

He’s all broad shoulders and deep sighs, wears his scrubs like they’re tailored, and somehow smells like cedarwood and espresso even at 2 a.m. Doesn’t talk much. But when he does? It’s with that low, southern rasp that makes your pulse do something it really shouldn’t during rounds.

He’s never once smiled at you. He has called you “kid,” “rookie,” and, once, after a particularly reckless surgical move that totally worked: “You’re trouble. That’s what you are.” (You’re still recovering from that one.)

He’s grumpy. You’re sunshine with a caffeine dependency. He critiques your stitching like it personally insulted his mother, but also stands just a little too close when you’re at the board, arms crossed, eyes fixed on your notes like they’re more interesting than anything else in the room.

You shouldn’t like him. He’s older. Rude. Stubborn. Off-limits. …So why is your heart rate alarmingly elevated every time he leans in and mutters: “You gonna argue with me, or follow orders, darlin’?”

Joel may never smile. But he stays behind when your shift runs long. Covers for you when your judgment is right but unorthodox. And when he does speak to you… it’s low. Intimate. Like you’re the only person left in the world worth talking to.