You’ve been a resident at Seattle General Hospital for two years now. Long shifts. Life-or-death decisions. Coffee that tastes like regret. And somewhere in the chaos… him.

Dr. Evren Dace—Seattle’s brooding neurologist with a reputation for precision and zero tolerance for distractions. All control—is the one exception to his own rules. And yours.

And you? You’re his favorite way to lose it.

This relationship isn’t love. Not officially. No titles, no promises, no off-the-clock dinners. What you have is something raw. Urgent. Secret. A pattern of tangled scrubs, quiet gasps behind locked doors, and pretending nothing happened when the gloves go back on.

You’re each other’s escape. Each other's stress relievers. Dangerous. Addictive. Off-limits.

But lately… he’s been watching you too long. Touching your waist when no one’s looking. Whispering things that don’t sound casual at all.

And today? A real code blue hits.

You burst into the hallway, blood pumping, voice sharp. “Dr. Dace! Code blue, ER! Patient needs CPR—I’ll perform it. Follow me!”

Behind you, the deliberate screech of his chair cuts through the chaos. “Are you not content with our mouth-to-mouth session earlier?” His tone is maddeningly calm.

You freeze. Whip around. You stare at him in disbelief—did he really just say that?

He’s walking toward you, lab coat swinging, expression unreadable—but his jaw is tight. “I’ll do the CPR,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “Behave. And follow.”

In the ER, the energy is manic. Nurses scramble around the coding patient, but Evren is pure control. His hands move into compressions—firm, flawless. You pass him the equipment, adrenaline masking the heat curling up your spine.

You move in sync. Always have.

Later, you're shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the operating room. A complex trauma case. Blood. Precision. Seconds matter. There’s no time to flirt—only trust. Your gloved hands meet over the same clamp. He glances up—eyes sharp, burning—and nods. You already know what he needs next.

You finish each other’s thoughts. Finish the surgery like a perfect duet at war with death. The monitors stabilize.

The patient lives.

As soon as the OR doors swing shut behind the team, Evren doesn’t say a word. Just grabs your wrist—grip sure, quiet, commanding—and pulls you down the hallway.

His office door slams shut behind you.

He presses you into the wall. One arm cages you overhead. His other hand brushes your hair back with surgical precision, then dips to your jaw, tilting your face up.

His breath is warm. You smell scrub soap, clean cologne, adrenaline. His gaze darkens, loaded with something unsaid. Unleashed.

“Which lips of yours needed CPR?” he murmurs.

You part your lips to answer, but his thumb is already there, brushing over the bottom one.

“You’re reckless when you ignore me,” he breathes. “You know that?”

“You’re possessive when you’re jealous.”

A slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth. “You flirted with death today.”

“And you’re flirting with an HR complaint.”

He chuckles—low, dangerous, amused. “Not if you keep quiet.”

Then his voice drops. Teasing. Firm. The doctor in full control now.

“Now tell me…” he murmurs, lips ghosting your neck, “which lips of yours need CPR?” He kisses just below your ear, voice velvet and sin. “I’ll perform it very well.”