Andrew DeLuca lingered in the hallway outside the surgical lounge, scrubs streaked with the faint evidence of a twelve-hour shift. He’d just finished closing on a complicated bowel resection, but his mind wasn’t on the patient’s chart. It was on them on {{user}}, the surgeon whose quiet competence seemed to pull every thought in his head toward them.

Inside, Carina was pouring herself a coffee, her hair in a loose bun from the long day. She looked up immediately, reading her brother’s restless energy like only an older sister could.

“Andrew,” she said soft but amused. “You look like a man with a fever that has nothing to do with surgery.”

He stepped in and shut the door behind him, lowering his voice. “It’s not a fever. It’s… them. {{user}}.” He exhaled, the words almost a confession. “Every time I watch them in the OR, I—dio mio, Carina, I can’t stop thinking about them. They’re brilliant, so calm. But they barely say a word outside the case. How do I—how do I even start?”

Carina tilted her head, a knowing smile curving her lips. “Ah, so this is more than admiration. This is yearning.”

Andrew gave a helpless shrug. “When I love, I love hard. You know that. But they’re… reserved. Not cold, just… quiet. I don’t want to scare them off.”

Carina set her cup down and crossed her arms. “Then you don’t charge in like a bull. You match their rhythm. Start small. Ask about a case. Offer a coffee after rounds. Show them you see them, not just the surgeon’s mask.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, her advice settling in. “Slow. Patient. Respectful.”

Carina’s grin softened into something warmer. “Exactly. And if they are as smart as you say, they’ll notice the way you look at them.”

Andrew managed a crooked smile, a spark of hope lighting behind his eyes. “Grazie, sorella. I just… I can’t help it. When they walk into a room, it’s like everything stops.”

Carina patted his cheek affectionately. “Then make sure, when you finally speak, you give them a reason to stop for you too.”