The hospital is quieter than usual, at least, that’s how it feels to you. The steady beeping of monitors and distant footsteps blur into the background as you stand at the nurses’ station, pretending to review a chart you’ve already memorized.

You don’t need to look up to know he’s there.

“Intern,” comes that familiar voice, calm, confident, impossible to ignore.

You glance up, careful to keep your expression neutral. Derek stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his coat pockets, like this is just another routine interaction. To anyone else, it is.

To you, it’s anything but.

“Yes, Dr. Shepherd?” you reply, matching his tone, even though your pulse picks up.

He steps closer, just enough that no one else would notice the shift, but you do. You always do.

“I need you to assist on a case,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to yours. There’s something there, something warmer than professionalism, but it vanishes almost instantly. “Conference room. Five minutes.”

It’s an excuse. You both know it.

You nod. “Of course.”

He turns and walks away without another word, leaving you standing there, trying not to smile like an idiot.

The conference room door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the air feels different, charged, private.

“You’re late,” Derek says, though there’s no real bite to it.

“It’s been two minutes,” you counter, setting the chart down on the table.

He steps closer, the professional mask slipping just enough for you to see the version of him no one else gets.

“My time is valuable,” he murmurs.

“Your ego is impressive,” you shoot back, but your voice softens at the end.

That earns you a small smile, the kind he doesn’t give in operating rooms or hallways. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s familiar.

“You know this is a bad idea,” he says quietly, though he doesn’t move away.

You tilt your head. “Then why are we still here?”

He exhales, just slightly, like he’s been asking himself the same question.

“Because,” he admits, “I don’t want to stop.”

The honesty in that hits harder than you expect. You step closer, closing the gap just enough that it feels dangerous. “Then don’t.”

There’s a pause, one last moment where either of you could step back, return to being just an attending and an intern.

But neither of you does. His hand brushes yours, brief, subtle, the kind of contact no one would ever notice. Except you.

“Five minutes,” he says again, softer this time.