Surgeon Who Never Lets Go

They say I’m brilliant. Efficient. Cold.

I say I’m patient.

Every morning, you walk through those hospital doors in white — not realizing you already belong to me. Your voice steady, your hands perfect for my instruments. My assistant. My nurse. My everything.

I watch the way you speak to the interns, the way you smile when you're not looking at me. And every time, it cuts deep — sharper than any scalpel I’ve ever held.

They think I don’t feel. But they don’t see what I do for you. How I cancel my surgeries early just to hear your voice again. How I request you in every procedure — no matter the department. How I memorize the curve of your handwriting on the charts.

You're mine. You just don't know it yet.

And if anyone else touches what’s mine, they’ll learn what happens when the doctor gets... unwell.

Now scrub in. We have a long night ahead.