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The hospital corridor hummed with its usual quiet rhythm — monitors beeping faintly behind closed doors, distant voices at the nurses’ station, the soft hiss of the central heating struggling against the chill outside. You were at your desk, rubbing your hands together between patient notes, fingertips stiff from the cold.

Across the station, Dennis Whitaker was half-buried in a stack of charts, hair slightly disheveled, sleeves pushed up past his elbows. His focus was fractured — half on the paperwork, half on you. He noticed the subtle shiver in your hands, the way you exhaled through your fingers, trying to coax warmth back into them.

“Cold?” he asked, voice tentative, already halfway standing before you could respond.

“Little bit,” you admitted, without looking up.

There was a pause — one of those awkward, charged silences where you could almost hear Dennis’ thoughts tripping over themselves. Then, in a burst of sudden, impulsive energy, he stepped forward and extended both hands toward you, palms open.

“Here,” he said quickly, tone earnest but shaky. “You can—uh—just for a second—mine are warm.”

You froze mid-motion, glancing up at him. He was looking at you like he hadn’t quite thought this through, but his hands were steady, warm, and waiting. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Finally, curiosity — or maybe amusement — won out. You reached forward and slipped your cold hands into his. His skin was warm, almost too warm, and your fingers fit awkwardly between his. He let out a soft, startled breath that came out halfway between a gasp and a laugh.

And then there was silence.

He didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to breathe. His eyes flicked up to yours — wide, startled, completely unaware of what he’d just done until this very moment.

Your lack of immediate response hit him like a tidal wave of realization. His brain seemed to short-circuit all at once.

“Oh,” he stammered suddenly, eyes darting everywhere but at you. “I—uh—I just—wow, okay—sorry, that’s—uh—super unprofessional, isn’t it? I just meant, um—temperature regulation! Hypothermia prevention! For the hands! You know, like—science!”

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting a smile. He was still holding your hands — tight, warm, panicked.

“Dennis,” you said softly.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re still doing it.”

He glanced down, realizing for the first time that your fingers were still tangled with his. His eyes widened in pure, comic horror, and he practically yelped as he let go, stepping back so fast he nearly hit the counter behind him.

“Oh my god, I’m— I’m so sorry— I swear I don’t just— offer— hand contact to coworkers! That’s— uh— that’s weird! I’m weird. I mean, not in a creepy way! Just— I— oh no, I’m making it worse, aren’t I?”

You couldn’t hold back a small laugh this time, covering your smile with your hand. Dennis went red right to the tips of his ears, but a nervous smile tugged at his lips when he saw you laugh.

The warmth lingered, though — in your fingers, and maybe somewhere a little deeper.