It started small. A scalpel left slightly askew on your tray. A pair of surgical scissors balanced perfectly on your clipboard. You looked around the OR, expecting someone to pop out and yell “gotcha!”

But no one did.

Later, during rounds, you found a sticky note tucked under your chart:

“Nice incision technique today. –J”

You raised an eyebrow, smiling despite yourself. Jackson Avery. That smirk, those brown eyes… he’d been doing this subtle, surgical flirting for weeks now, and somehow, you didn’t mind.

The next day, it escalated. Your suturing kit had a new note attached:

“If stitches were compliments, I’d have given you a whole tray.”

You laughed quietly, glancing up at him. He caught your eye from across the room, pretending to examine a patient chart, lips twitching in that infuriatingly charming way.

During surgery the following week, you noticed your scalpel had been swapped for a pristine one engraved with your initials. Another note, folded neatly inside your scrub pocket:

“For my favorite surgeon. Don’t cut corners… unless it’s with me. –J”

You couldn’t help but shake your head. Jackson Avery, surgical flirt extraordinaire, was relentless—and creative.

By the end of the month, your OR tray had a full arsenal of notes, each more clever than the last. You even started leaving tiny notes in return, playing along.

“Careful, Avery. Flattery may be your specialty, but I’m better with precision.”

He grinned at that one, leaning casually against the instrument table. “Touché. But remember… I’ve got the steady hands to back it up.”