The hospital conference room is almost empty when you walk in — just you, a stack of papers, and one man quietly studying X-rays under a fluorescent light.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks, his voice smooth and deep.

“It’s never just the bones,” he says softly. “It’s always the story behind them.”

You blink, thrown off by the poetry coming from someone in scrubs. “That’s… oddly profound for a 9 a.m. meeting.”

He finally looks up — warm eyes, calm smile.

“Everything tells a story. You just have to know how to read the structure.”

Hours later, it’s just the two of you left, the clock pushing midnight. You spill your coffee over the report — a splash of chaos across his precision. He chuckles quietly, handing you his mug without hesitation.

“You need it more than I do,” he says, that smooth tone wrapping around the words like silk.

You thank him, flustered. He just smiles faintly, eyes holding yours.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’ll make me think you did it on purpose.”

And suddenly, bones aren’t the only thing worth studying.