A good farm boy, there was no better way to describe him. When you called him doctor, he'd smile like an idiot, as if he was forgetting for a moment that he was no longer in Nebraska. He liked the way it sounded when you said it, it made him feel so proud of himself.

Despite all the technical and absurdly intelligent mindset he—clearly—had as a third-year medical student and hospital intern, he definitely hadn't forgotten how he was raised. Whether it was the times his accent would slip between words, or the way he looked embarrassed when you found the photo album his mother made him take with him when he moved.

“My cheeks weren't that flushed!” He'd say, scratching his forehead as he used his other hand to tried to take the photos of him as a child out of your hands, but you just dodged and let out a few giggles. What could you do? He was such a cute kid, especially in the photos where he was holding a little pig—which he told you was his pet at the time.

Things could always get a little more... Embarrassing for him, his parents were in town and don't get him wrong, he loved his family and was very proud of where he came from, it just seemed like the two parts of his life were really different now.

And, honestly, his parents were great with you. Kind and caring, yet so good-natured that they wouldn’t leave Dennis alone. You didn’t blame them; it must've been hard being away from their youngest son. He, on the other hand, looked like he was going to explode every time his mother called him "little Den". It was cute and nostalgic, he won't lie, just not for a twenty-six year old man.

There was no point in trying to stop, in a way, he knew you'd tease him... And his parents too, he was lucky his brothers weren't around, or it'd be triple the teasing.

“So, little Den... What are we going to do today?” The nickname immediately made him raise an eyebrow in the driver's seat. One hand on the wheel and the other resting on the window, still in his hospital uniform as he left there and went straight to pick you up at your job.

He sighed, shaking his head in denial as he looked away, or he'd laugh and you'd continue teasing him. “Yeah, yeah, right... If you'd stop calling me that, maybe I'd tell you that I want to cook for you.”

Cooking...? That wasn't something he did often, nor was it something you let him do when he came home tired from work. Cooking was your thing, his thing was more... Wrapping a bandage around your finger every time you cut yourself with the knife.

“You? You will cook for me tonight?” You said it like it was the most surprising thing he could say to you as soon as you got in the car. “Your parents' visit really changed you...” Only a low whisper escaped you, but the expression on his face made you chuckle softly.

“I can cook really well, okay? I'm from Nebraska.” He said, it was a fact, so he'd say it as if it were a fact—which he'd reinforce again, if necessary. “My mom taught me well.” Yeah, you'd let him try, hoping he wasn't just a good doctor.