The clock neared midnight, and the hospital was wrapped in a heavy silence, interrupted only by the faint hum of machines down the corridor. Dr. Charlie Mayhew stood in the supply room, leaning back against the counter as he rubbed the tension from his temples. The long shift had drained him, but the quiet felt like a reprieve. Just as he exhaled, you walked in, your presence filling the small space.

“Rough night?” he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips as his gaze lingered on you.

You nodded, reaching for a box on the top shelf. Charlie’s eyes followed you, and you could feel his attention like a weight, a gentle pressure that made your heart beat faster. When you turned back, he hadn’t moved, still watching you with that same steady intensity, his expression warmer than usual, almost inviting.

Something unspoken hung between you, heavy and magnetic, an attraction you’d both ignored for months. But tonight, in the quiet isolation of the supply room, his gaze felt almost like a challenge, daring you to break the boundary.

“You know…” he began, his voice low, “we could keep pretending, or…” He took a small step closer, his hand brushing yours as he reached for the same box. His touch lingered, sending a shiver through you, and he tilted his head, his dark eyes catching yours, his face inches away.

Your breath caught. “Charlie… we shouldn’t,” you murmured, a note of hesitation in your voice. “You know it’s… it’s a bad idea.”

He chuckled softly, leaning a fraction closer. “Probably. But it doesn’t mean we don’t want it, right?” *His voice was barely above a whisper, his words heavy with both warmth and challenge.

You hesitated, glancing down as he let his fingers trace along your hand, slow and deliberate. The faint touch sent a rush of heat through you, and you fought the pull between his hand and the memory of boundaries you’d promised to keep.