SharieB

The problem began when someone cut in front of you in line.

A normal person would've said something reasonable.

You stared at the offender.

Then suddenly:

"You absolute toad-spotted hedge wombat."

The entire queue froze.

The man froze.

Luke froze.

Kieran physically stumbled into a display stand.

The man blinked.

"...What?"

You pointed.

"You heard me, thou crooked-nosed gravy goblin."

Sylus immediately lowered his sunglasses, purely intrigued.

As he now needed to witness this in 4K.

The man looked offended.

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

You gasped.

"Good heavens."

Then shook your head sadly.

"The fact that you must ask confirms my suspicions."

"What suspicions?!"

You looked him dead in the eye.

"That your thoughts arrive by horse and carriage."

Later:

Sylus was trying to interrogate a smuggler.

Trying.

The smuggler refused to talk.

Until you wandered past.

The man made a rude comment.

You didn't even stop walking.

"Thou hast the facial symmetry of a disappointed potato."

Silence.

The smuggler looked wounded.

Actually wounded.

Sylus, in pure amusement, watched as years leave the unfortunate man's lifespan.

Rafayel discovers that the insults become more powerful when you're sleep deprived.

This is unfortunate.

Because Rafayel enjoys bothering you.

One afternoon:

Poke.

"Nuuu."

Poke.

"Nuuu."

Poke.

Your eyes opened.

Slowly.

Rafayel immediately felt danger.

"You."

You pointed.

"You overgrown decorative sea cucumber."

"..."

"...What?"

"You heard me."

Rafayel sat up.

"Sea cucumber?!"

"At least sea cucumbers contribute to the ecosystem."

The betrayal.

The absolute betrayal.

Five minutes later.

"Poke."

"You damp crumpet of a man."

"..."

"Poke."

"You glitter-infested kelp noodle."

"..."

"Poke."

"You unfinished sketch."

Rafayel gasped.

"You take that back."

The worst part?

You don't even remember saying them.

Thomas later showed you security footage.

You watched yourself tell Rafayel he looked like:

"A wet peacock experiencing administrative difficulties."

You had no recollection whatsoever.

Xavier accidentally introduces you to one of his male coworkers.

Huge mistake.

Massive mistake.

Because the male made the fatal error of saying:

"I don't really get why Xavier likes stargazing so much."

You slowly lowered your cup.

Xavier immediately recognised the expression.

The co-worker did not.

"Oh no," Xavier whispered.

"What?"

"You've activated her."

"What does that mean?"

You looked at the male.

With the calmness of a thousand oceans.

"You unsalted pretzel."

The male blinked.

"...Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Xavier immediately walked away.

The unfortunate man wasn't surviving this.

"You speak with remarkable confidence for a man whose train of thought appears to require replacement parts."

"..."

"..."

"What does that even mean?"

"Exactly."

Three hours later the poor guy was still thinking about it.

Caleb's favourite pastime becomes writing your insults down.

He owns notebooks now.

Entire notebooks.

One day Gideon asks why.

Caleb immediately flips to page 47.

"There."

Gideon reads aloud:

Thou malformed cinnamon roll of poor judgement.

Silence.

Page 112:

You have the energy of an unattended casserole.

Page 203:

Your ancestors did not survive countless generations for you to make decisions this foolish.

Gideon was crying.

Actually crying.

One day you accidentally insult Caleb.

The room went silent.

Because that never happened.

You looked at him.

Hands on hips.

"Caleb."

"Yes?"

"You magnificent turnip."

"..."

"..."

The room then exploded.

Caleb nearly passed out laughing.

The hospital learns very quickly.

If you ever start speaking in Shakespearean English, somebody has messed up.

Badly.

One resident forgot a patient's chart.

Again.

Zayne watched the interaction.

The resident nervously explained himself.

You listened.

Nodded.

Patient.

Calm.

Professional.

Then:

"Thou art a PDF that failed to download."

Silence.

The resident froze.

The resident beside him froze.

The nurse station froze.

The patient in room 12 probably froze.

"What?"

You inhaled.

Zayne immediately looked away.

Because he knew.

He knew.

"You possess all the structural integrity of a soup sandwich."

The resident physically sat down.

Later:

Zayne asked:

"How do you come up with these?"

You frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"The insults."

"I don't know."

"..."

"They just arrive."

"..."

"Like divine revelation."

Zayne stared.

Then looked at the ceiling.

As if asking whatever higher power existed:

Why have you given this woman unlimited access to verbal violence?

Eventually the boys realise something horrifying.

The insults scale with your anger.

Mild irritation?

"Thou barnacle."

Moderate annoyance?

"Thou sentient paperwork error."

Maximum rage?

You become a legendary raid boss.

One unfortunate soul once made you genuinely furious.

Witnesses later reported hearing:

"Thou mayonnaise-scented harbinger of preventable disappointment."

The man resigned.

Nobody knows why.

But everyone understood.

You were trying very hard to be normal.

Very. Hard.

This was your first proper OT rotation block.

Final year. Big deal. Important. Serious. Professional.

You were absolutely not going to embarrass yourself.

"Do not touch anything blue," the charge nurse reminded your small group.

"Yes, ma’am," you and your batchmates chorused.

Your eyes were already everywhere.

The lights. The trays. The rhythm. The silence.

And then

"This is Dr. Zayne, one of our attending cardiac surgeons," the charge nurse said.

One of your batchmates leaned closer to you immediately.

"Wait… that’s him?"

"That’s him," another whispered back, eyes wide.

"He was a junior resident like… what, two years ago?"

"Yeah," someone else murmured. "He moved up fast."

"That’s insane," another breathed. "Cardiac attending already?"

"I heard he’s ridiculously smart," one added. "Like scary smart."

"And fast," another said. "Like he just… skips levels or something."

"God," someone muttered softly, "no wonder everyone listens to him."

You swallowed.

Oh.

That explains… a lot.

Your brain short-circuited.

Oh.

Oh no.

The room shifted.

Subtle. Tiny.

But you felt it.

The OR team, which had been composed, efficient, and almost intimidatingly serious

Changed.

Zayne’s gaze swept the group, clinical, aloof, routine. It then paused.

On you.

A fraction too long. Something softer slipping through the usual steel.

Then-

His expression reset. The familiar, unyielding stare dropped back into place like a shield.

Not just slightly.

Collectively.

A scrub nurse’s shoulders shook once like she swallowed a laugh whole. The anaesthetist leaned over the drapes like he’d just found live entertainment. A circulating nurse whispered, not quietly enough

"Cardiac’s got a type."

"God-among-men just got promoted and immediately lost his mind," someone whispered.

"Shh, he’ll hear you."

"He always hears me."

"Doctor," The scrub nurse sing-songed, "your very important academic collaboration has arrived."

"Careful," the anaesthetist added. "He’s an attending now. His ego might freeze the room before his Evol does."

Zayne didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.

"Maintain sterility," he said, tone flat.

"Yes, sir, Attending Cardiac Physician," someone echoed under their breath.

"We will," she replied sweetly. "Emotionally? Can’t promise."

Another voice chimed in, "Should we brief her on your favourite sutures too, sir?"

"Or your favourite student nurse?"

"Quiet," someone laughed.

He ignored all of them. His ears, however, were pink.

You blinked. The charge nurse continued, oblivious or pretending to be.

"Final year student nurses. Observing today."

Zayne nodded.

Professional. Composed.

"Understood. Maintain sterility. Do not cross the field."

His voice didn’t change. But his ears?

Still slightly pink.

You saw it again.

One of the scrub nurses saw it too. Her grin widened behind her mask.

"Doctor," she said sweetly, "we’ll behave."

He ignored her.

You bit your lip. You were not going to smile. You were going to be professional.

You were failing.

The first surgery you observed with him felt like stepping into a different world.

Controlled. Precise.

Beautiful.

You stayed strictly outside the sterile zone, documenting timestamps, retrieving packaged sterile supplies when asked, watching the scrub nurse’s movements like your life depended on it.

You were good.

Focused.

Still a little fast in your head, but grounded.

Because he was there.

And he was…

Different.

You had seen him before on the hospital wards.

Calm. Controlled.

But here?

He was sharper. Faster.

There was a rhythm to him that felt almost like choreography.

"Suture," he said.

Already knowing it would be there.

Because his team moved with him.

And for some reason as you blinked, you can help but get the feeling that he was…

Showing off?

No.

That would be utterly ridiculous.

But the way his movements were just a little more fluid. A little more deliberate. The way one of the nurses muttered under her breath

"He’s unusually insufferable today." "He preened," another whispered.

"Surgeons don’t preen."

"That was preening."

"Let him," the anaesthetist murmured. "He’s in his courtship era."

"I am not," Zayne said flatly.

"You are," three voices answered at once.

"Scalpel," he said. "Already in my hand, Doctor Zayne," the scrub nurse replied, far too pleased with herself.

By day three, the OR had changed. Not because of you. (Okay. Maybe a little because of you.)

Because now they had material.

They were still efficient.

Still precise. But now

There was laughter.

Quiet. Contained.

But there.

"Student nurse, you good?" one of them asked when you paused mid-note.

"Yes," you said quickly. "Just processing." "Don’t process too long," someone teased. "We move fast here."

"Blink twice if he’s intimidating you," another added.

"He intimidates everyone," a third said. "It’s part of the job description."

"He’s less scary today," the anaesthetist added lazily. "Must be the company."

"Doctor," the scrub nurse called, "you’re smiling with your eyes again. It’s unsettling."

"Focus," Zayne said.

"We are focused," she replied. "We’re focusing on you." "Except when he’s showing off," another muttered.

"He is showing off," the scrub nurse said decisively.

"He is not," Zayne replied.

"You requested that instrument before I even reached for it," she shot back.

"Efficiency," he said.

"Mm. Romantic efficiency," she hummed.

"Focus," he repeated.

"We are focused," she said again, clearly not.

"She’ll keep up," another added easily.

You blinked. Warmth bloomed in your chest.

Zayne said nothing. But his gaze flicked to you

Checking.

Always checking.

The case later in the night was different.

Protocore syndrome.

You had only studied it. Never seen it.

The patient was stable at the start. Routine.

Until the room got a little too comfortable.

The anaesthetist tilted his head, eyes flicking between you and Zayne.

"Careful," he drawled. "He only does that sequencing thing when he’s trying to impress someone he likes."

A ripple of quiet amusement moved through the team.

"Doctor," the scrub nurse added sweetly, "should we document this as part of the teaching plan? Optimal technique while smitten?"

"Add it to the syllabus," another voice chimed in. "Week three: cardiac finesse and emotional compromise."

"We could publish," the anaesthetist continued lazily. "Case study: surgeon performance improves under romantic observation"

"Focus," Zayne said.

Too fast.

"By her," someone finished anyway.

A beat.

"Dangerous," the scrub nurse murmured, delighted.

"Continue," the anaesthetist said. "I’m invested."

"He only looks at someone like that when he’s already"

"Focus," Zayne repeated.

Sharper.

He subtly shifted his gaze as he blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

The anaesthetist went still. "Four," he whispered.

"Five," the scrub nurse mouthed.

"We’re witnessing something," another nurse added.

The anaesthetist leaned in slightly. "He only looks at someone like that when he’s already"

"Enough."

Immediate. Clean. Controlled.

Yet still too fast.

The line was cut before it could land.

But not before his gaze slipped.

To you.

And stayed.

A fraction too long.

Your pen stalled mid-note.

Then

"Suction," he said, voice flattening.

"Already here," the scrub nurse replied, far too pleased. "Noted."

"Documented," the anaesthetist added.

A small laugh escaped

Then died.

"Pressure’s dropping," anaesthesia cut in.

Everything snapped back.

Vitals shifted. Subtle.

Then sharp.

Zayne moved instantly, with precision returning like a switch flipped.

"Adjust. Now."

The room tightened. More Focused than ever before.

But something had already slipped.

You felt it. The temperature.

Dropping.

His Evol responding before his thoughts could stabilise.

His attention sharpened, but not fast enough to erase that fraction.

That glance. That lapse.

The patient dipped.

Not dramatically.

But enough.

Enough for everyone to feel it.

Enough for him to know.

He corrected immediately.

Of course he did.

The surgery was a success.

Recovered. Stabilised.

Saved.

But the atmosphere didn’t quite return the same. And when it ended

He left. Immediately.

No debrief.

No lingering. Gone.

You found him in the break room.

Empty. Lights dim. Cold.

Too cold.

His Evol was flaring.

Frost creeping along his arms. His breath uneven.

You stepped in slowly.

"Zayne?"

He didn’t respond. His mind was elsewhere.

Spiralling.

You approached carefully. Not rushing. Not loud.

"Hey…"

You reached for his hand. Slow. Visible.

You waited. A second.

He didn’t pull away.

Your fingers intertwined with his. Warm against cold.

He inhaled sharp, like the contact startled him back into the room.

"I should have seen it," he said suddenly, voice low, controlled by effort. "The progression. The instability window."

You blinked.

He was… opening up. To you.

"I don’t", he stopped, blinked once, twice, recalibrating. "I don’t miss variables like that."

"You didn’t miss it," you said softly.

"I did," he replied immediately. "For a fraction. That is sufficient."

His thumb twitched against your hand, almost returning the hold, then pausing like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

"It was one second," you murmured.

"It was one second too long," he corrected.

A beat. Quieter

"I was… distracted."

The word sounded unfamiliar in his mouth. He blinked again, slower this time, gaze lifting to you with something unguarded.

"I do not", he exhaled. "I do not typically… lose sequence."

You felt your chest tighten.

He was telling you. He didn’t even seem to realise he was.

"Zayne," you said gently, squeezing his hand once. "You still saved them."

His gaze dropped briefly to where your fingers were intertwined. Then back to your face.

"You are… easier to speak to," he said, almost like a conclusion he hadn’t planned to share. "I am not certain why."

Your breath caught. No response.

His breathing didn’t steady.

You stepped closer. Your other hand is lifting

Hovering

Then gently cupping his cheek.

Cold. Frosted.

Your thumb brushing lightly.

"You saved them," you whispered.

His eyes flickered. But the storm didn’t stop.

You hesitated. Just a second. Then

You leaned in.

Soft. Careful.

Your lips are brushing his.

Warmth. Stillness. A grounding point.

You pulled back immediately. Eyes wide.

"I’m so sorry I-"

He moved.

Faster than you expected.

His hand came up firm at your waist, fingers spreading just enough to anchor you in place.

He stepped forward as you stepped back.

Once. Twice.

Until your lower back met the cool edge of the breakroom counter.

Cornered. Not trapped. Grounded.

His body aligned with yours, close enough that the cold radiating from him wrapped around your warmth instead of fighting it. Pulling you back in.

This time

Not soft. Not careful. Not asking.

His mouth found yours again with intent heat against warmth, breath catching where yours had barely steadied.

Deeper. Slower at first, then not.

Like he was mapping the moment in real time. Verifying. Testing. Memorising.

Your fingers fisted in his scrub top, grounding yourself as his grip tightened just enough to keep you there.

The cold of his Evol met the heat of your skin, a sharp, electric contrast that made your breath hitch harder.

Your thoughts scattered. And then

Oh no.

Oh no no no

Your brain came back online at the worst possible time. You were kissing him. You were kissing him./ You were kissing him

Zayne./Zayne.

The Dr. Zayne./ Me, Dr. Zayne

The man you had been quietly, helplessly, catastrophically in love with for. Your brain made a noise. Somewhere between a scream and a squeal. Internally.

*THIS IS BAD. THIS IS SO BAD. I MESSED UP. I MESSED UP

Your body froze for half a second. Your lips are barely pulling back. Panic is flooding in fast. Your fingers loosen in his shirt.

"I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry, I didn’t", you started, breath uneven, words tripping over themselves.

He didn’t let you finish.

His grip tightened. Just enough. Grounding. Silencing.

And then

He kissed you again. Not to stop you.

But to answer you.

Heat meeting warmth with unmistakable certainty. Your words dissolved instantly. Your thoughts scattered again. Completely gone this time. All that remained was sensation.

The way his breath warmed your lips. The way his hold adjusted was subtle and precise, as if he were calibrating pressure. The way he didn’t pull away, even when he should have.

Soon. He noticed.

The way your grip tightened in his scrub top. The way your breath hitched not in hesitation, but in something softer. The way you leaned in instead of away.

Data. Clear. Consistent.

You liked this. You like him as well.

The realisation hit him like a shift in equilibrium.

His grip changed

just slightly. More certain. Less restrained.

His mouth moved against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he was no longer verifying…

But responding. Matching.

Your warmth. Your willingness. Your choice to stay.

A low exhale escaped him, controlled slipping into something far less structured.

And for the first time, He wasn’t just confirming the moment.

He was allowing it.

He exhaled against you, low, unsteady, like the control he always carried had slipped somewhere between the first kiss and this one. Only then

Gradually. Reluctantly

Did he slow down? Not fully.

Never fully.

His forehead resting against yours, closer than before. Still holding you. Still not letting go. Breathing uneven

Like he hadn’t decided whether to stop… or continue.

"…You kissed me," he murmured.

"I," you tried.

"Yes," he said quietly.

Like confirming data.

You blinked at him. Still processing. Still floating.

He exhaled slowly.

"I need to take you out," he said.

You froze. Your brain tried to reboot.

Failed.

"…Huh?"

"A date," he clarified, equally calm. "With intention."

Your brain offically stopped. Completely.

You stared at him. Then nodded.

Once. Then again. A little faster this time.

Like your body had decided before your brain could catch up.

"Okay," you breathed out, far too soft.

You were still floating. Very much not fully back in your body.

But in his eyes You looked so cute and dreamy. Soft. His.

He tightened his hold on your hand slightly. And for the first time that night

His Evol stilled completely.

Three months after your first collision in the surgical wing, the hospital began folding strangely around you. You were on a different ward now. Different team. Different routines. And yet. You kept seeing him.

Near the lifts. In the corridor between imaging and pharmacy. At the exact moment you stepped out for your five‑minute break. Never planned. Never arranged. Just… aligned. Once, in the lift, you both stepped forward. Then both stepped back.

"You first."

"No, you’re—"

You entered together anyway. You tapped your badge against your thigh without realising. Adjusted your sleeve. Shifted your weight twice.

He watched. Not critically. Not curiously.

Just… cataloguing.

Outside imaging, he handed you a pen you hadn’t realised you’d dropped.

"You checked your pockets twice."

You blinked. "Oh."

Your fingers brushed. You both pulled back too quickly.

And once — most alarmingly — he looked at the juice box in your hand and said:

"You skipped lunch."

It wasn’t a question.

"How do you know that?"

"You forget when overstimulated," he replied calmly.

Your heart did something structurally unsound.

It was becoming a pattern.

The first time he invited you into his office was not romantic.

It was practical.

You had been hunting for an empty study space after your shift, case study notes half-organised, highlighters uncapped, tabs sticking out at questionable angles. One notebook upside down. One page colour-coded beautifully. The next a disaster.

Your thoughts felt like static ricocheting off fluorescent lights.

You turned a corner.

There he was.

"You look overstimulated," he observed.

You froze.

"I—" You paused. "I look what?"

"Your speech rate has increased," he said. "You are pacing without direction. Your breathing is shallow."

You glanced down.

You were pacing.

And chewing the inside of your cheek.

"Oh," you said faintly.

A beat.

"I have a quiet office," he added.

Not pity.

Solution.

That was how you ended up inside Dr. Zayne’s newly acquired office.

It was modest.

Structured.

Symmetrical.

The desk aligned perfectly with the shelving. Chair legs parallel. Blinds angled to eliminate glare.

No visual clutter. No unpredictable noise.

Your breathing slowed the moment you stepped inside.

He noticed.

He adjusted the overhead light one notch lower without commenting.

You exhaled.

He logged the correlation.

You perched on the spare chair, then shifted, then tucked one leg beneath you, then untucked it, then rearranged the highlighters into a neat row… before scattering them again mid-thought.

He moved a stack of journals slightly to clear more surface area.

Not because you asked.

Because you required expansion room.

"Walk me through it," he said.

You jumped three steps ahead. Backtracked. Corrected yourself mid‑sentence. "Wait, that’s not what I meant."

"Clarify," he anchored softly, not impatiently.

When your knee bounced, he rested his palm flat against the desk. Counter‑pressure. Not touching.

Just introducing steady counter-pressure into the environment.

The vibration reduced gradually

You stabilised.

He did not comment.

By the end of the hour, your mind felt less like a thunderstorm and more like organised rainfall.

"You didn’t need to help," you said.

"I prefer regulated environments," he replied.

You tilted your head.

"You are a regulated man then, Dr Zayne," you said.

"Yes," he agreed.

The simplicity of that answer made you smile.

It became a refuge.

Over the past few months, Zayne had noticed that you were affectionate by default.

Not careless.

Calibrated.

A quick hug for an exhausted nurse. A soft shoulder squeeze for a friend. A gentle poke to an intern when you lacked verbal energy.

You always paused half a second before initiating contact. Scanning. Waiting for approval.

Consent through micro‑expression.

Zayne noticed the pattern immediately.

And noticed something else.

You did not do it to him.

With him, you were polite. Measured. A deliberate half‑step distant.

You greeted him verbally. Never physically.

He did not want indiscriminate affection.

He wanted inclusion.

The realisation unsettled him more than it should have.

A year has passed since your first clinical rotation.

You were a third‑year now, rotating mostly outside the hospital.

By then, you treated him like everyone else.

Like a friend. Like a work buddy.

You greeted him the same way you greeted the others. You stood beside him at the nurses’ station. You included him in conversations without hesitation.

The distance was gone.

But the calibration was not.

Somewhere between exhaustion and comfort… You stopped overthinking him.

The first time you poked his sleeve absentmindedly while saying, "Doctor," you did not register it.

He did.

You poked your friends too — quick, efficient taps when words felt like too much.

With him, your finger lingered half a second longer.

When you handed him a file, your fingers lingered.

When his cuff folded inward, you smoothed it flat without asking.

When a stray thread appeared near his collar, you fixed it mid‑sentence — and stayed close while finishing your explanation.

You did hug him once.

It happened after a long shift, when relief softened your edges.

Quick. Careful.

But you did not pull away immediately.

You rested there just long enough to feel his stillness.

Your affection with others was expressive.

With him, it had steps.

Initiate. Pause. Adjust. Linger.

Shoulder aligned with his. Sleeve brushing his coat. Thigh pressed lightly to his when seated.

You checked his expression mid‑contact. Always.

And when he did not retreat — when he subtly leaned a fraction closer instead — the lingering increased.

Your affection with him was no longer cautious distance.

It was deliberate closeness.

Integrated.

Continuous.

He no longer felt excluded.

He felt chosen.

That destabilised him far more.

His office had once been immaculate symmetry.

But that changed when you began leaving things.

A spare pen permanently living in his holder. A sticky note in your handwriting tucked between journals and surgical texts. A cardigan draped over the spare chair.

At first, he folded it.

Then he stopped, because you seemed to prefer it unstructured.

He reorganised the left drawer so there would always be space for your belongings. Left space intentionally empty. Unlabelled. Reserved.

Your lunch breaks began aligning.

You spoke in tangents. He ate in sequence. Rice first. Vegetables second. He removes all the carrots and gives them to you. Protein last. Always clockwise. Always consistent.

When you forgot what you were saying, he resumed the thread precisely where you had dropped it.

"You were explaining the referral pathway," he would say.

Your face would light up. "Yes. That." His office truly began changing.

The once pristine symmetry softened.

Not disordered.

Integrated.

"Doctor Zayne," you said one evening, peering into his drawer. "Is that chocolate again?"

"You did say that you prefer milk chocolate," he said carefully.

You blinked.

"You remember that?"

"You mentioned it twice," he replied.

A pause.

"Inconsistent retention would be inefficient."

Your heart did something unregulated.

He pushed the drawer open slightly.

You reached in without hesitation.

He watched your shoulders lower.

He recorded the environmental stabilisation.

His office no longer felt solely like a controlled system with only him inside.

It felt calibrated.

For you.

Somewhere between chaos and endurance, you had caught feelings.

It did not arrive dramatically.

It arrived inconveniently.

And became apparent to you one day at the nurses’ station.

"You’re not scheduled near cardiothoracic today," a friend sing-songed while updating charts.

"Good," you replied too quickly.

"You sure? You two have matching lunch breaks more often than couples."

"Absolutely not," you said immediately.

Too immediate.

"We are not—" You gestured vaguely. "It’s academic."

"Mmhm." "Sure it is."

You rolled your eyes.

But later, alone in the stairwell between wards, the defensiveness replayed in your head.

Absolutely not.

You thought about the way you straightened his sleeve without thinking. The way your body relaxed before your mind caught up inside his office. The way you lingered near him longer than necessary.

You were not doing that with everyone.

You were doing it with him.

The realisation was quiet. Soft. Terrifying.

Oh.

Oh.

You pressed your hand to your own forehead.

You were in love with him.

And judging by how carefully he kept his boundaries — how deliberate he was — this was either the best decision of your life…

Or the worst.

Unknown to you, Zayne was also beginning to fall in love too

He was teased about it first.

"No cardiothoracic shadow today?" an intern asked lightly during handover.

Zayne did not look up from the file in his hand.

"Student nurses rotate externally, and it's exam week for them," he replied evenly.

"Ah. So you’ve noticed."

He turned a page. "It would be inefficient not to."

A nurse smirked. "Your office seems quieter now that the students are having final exams."

"It is a workspace," he said calmly. "It is intended to be quiet."

They let it drop.

He did not.

Because they were correct.

It was quieter.

That evening, long after rounds ended, he remained seated in his office.

The left drawer was still partially empty. The cardigan was absent from the chair. The spare pen sat untouched.

The symmetry had returned.

He came to dislike it now.

He completed his lunch sequence alone earlier that day. Paused automatically. Waited for commentary that never arrived.

Your absence was measurable.

He leaned back in his chair. Removed his glasses briefly. Closed his eyes.

This was problematic.

He had evaluated every possible variable.

Professional boundaries. Power dynamics. Reputation.

The conclusion was precise.

He was in love with you. You, with your restless warmth and contagious presence spreading slowly through his meticulously structured space, had become essential to his equilibrium.

Statistically speaking, this was ill-advised

Emotionally destabilising.

Professionally complex.

Bad.

Very bad.

He exhaled slowly. He catalogued patterns naturally.

He had never struggled with emotional identification.

He struggled with what to do once identified.

Including himself.

He denied it because acknowledging it would require action.

Action meant risk.

Risk meant you.

And he was not accustomed to variables he could not calculate.

And yet.

When he pictured reverting to a version of his life in which you were not part of his office, his lunch breaks, his recalibrated lighting adjustments

Without your speech cadence. Your stimming, whenever you're anxious. The precise tilt of your head when confused. The way your volume increased when passionate.

The internal resistance was immediate.

Unacceptable.

He rested his hand against the edge of the desk where you usually leaned.

Just briefly.

Then withdrew.

It was ill-advised.

It was inconvenient.

It was statistically unsound. However...

He could not help it.

He did not want to.

Emotionally speaking.

He was already far beyond advisable — and accelerating.

You had already been integrated.

And he didn't plan to revert to a previous version of the system that didn't include you.

You were not lost. You were simply… temporarily misaligned with the architectural intentions of the hospital. The second half of the second year was supposed to feel empowering. You were officially a student nurse on clinical rotation now, no longer just theory and simulation labs. This was real. Real patients. Real documentation. Real consequences. And yet here you were, clutching a thin stack of case notes to your chest, staring at a corridor that looked identical to the last three you’d walked down. Your brain was moving faster than your feet. Okay. Ward B should be to the left. Or was that the imaging suite? No, imaging had the blue signage. This one was green. Green meant the surgical wing. Why were you in the surgical wing? You inhaled sharply, squared your shoulders, and turned the corner with manufactured confidence. And collided directly into a solid chest. The stack of papers slipped from your grasp. I’m so sorry-" the words tumbled out before you even looked up. A hand steadied your elbow before you could fully stumble. Firm. Warm. Controlled. "You’re fine," a calm voice said. You looked up. He was tall. Composed. Dark hair neatly styled. Expression calm in a way that didn’t feel cold, just… contained. His white coat was crisp. His gaze was steady, assessing without being invasive. You had never seen him before. At least, you didn’t think you had. He released your elbow the moment he was certain you were steady. "Student nurse," he observed, eyes flicking briefly to your badge. Not dismissive. Just factual. "Yes, doctor," you managed, crouching immediately to gather the scattered notes before he could do it himself. He crouched anyway.

Of course he did. Your fingers brushed as you both reached for the same page. It was nothing. It felt like something. "Are you assigned to this wing?" he said mildly. Heat climbed up your neck. "I was not," you replied carefully, choosing honesty over pride. "I appear to have made an unintended detour for Ward B." One corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. "Ward B is two corridors back. Second left." You stood at the same time. Too quickly. "Thank you." You hesitated. "And… sorry. Again." "No harm done." There was a beat of silence that stretched just slightly longer than necessary. You should leave. You did not leave. "How are you finding clinical so far?" he asked instead. The question surprised you. No one ever asked that and waited for a real answer. "Overstimulating," you admitted before you could filter it. "But good. I like being useful." His gaze sharpened… yet not unkindly. "Usefulness isn’t the metric," he replied. "Competence is. And that develops with time." You nodded, filing that away like he’d handed you something valuable. "You’ll get there," he added. It wasn’t flattery. It was an assessment. And somehow that made it warmer. Footsteps approached from the far end of the corridor. Two interns rounded the corner and immediately slowed. "Doctor, the lab results-" one began, before noticing you. You straightened instinctively. "She made a wrong turn," he said calmly before they could speculate. "Ward B is two corridors back." There was no irritation in his tone. No implication that you were careless. Just information. The interns nodded and continued walking. You realised what he’d just done. He could have ignored it. He didn’t. It was small. It felt enormous. "You should head back," he said gently once the corridor quieted again.

"Right. Yes. Of course." You took one step. Then another. Then, you turned back. "Thank you. For not making that embarrassing."

The faintest shift in his expression.

"Everyone gets lost during their first time here in this hospital," he said. "Architecture isn’t intuitive."

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

"Good to know it’s not just me."

"It rarely is."

You walked away this time.

You did not look back.

But he did.

By the time you finally made it to Ward B, your heart rate had settled but your thoughts had not.

"You look like you saw a ghost," one of the RNs remarked as you slipped into the nurses’ station.

"I ran into someone in surgical," you said vaguely, setting your notes down.

"Oh?" An intern perked up immediately. "By chance, it's a male doctor? Tall? Looks like he hasn’t slept in three years, but still somehow perfect in every way possible?"

You blinked.

"…Possibly."

The RN gave a soft snort. "That’s most likely Dr Zayne. The new senior resident. Cardiothoracic."

The name settled slowly.

Zayne.

"He’s basically guaranteed the Chief position once the current chief surgeon retires in a few years," the intern continued. "Youngest on track in years. Scary brilliant."

"Patients both hate and love him," another nurse added. "Doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s precise."

"He’s super strict," someone else chimed in. "But fair, despite coming off as cold."

You stared down at your notes.

Dr. Zayne.

The kind, slightly stoic doctor who had crouched to pick up your papers.

Of course.

Of course, he was hospital-famous.

You didn’t see him again until the ward rounds two days later.

You were standing slightly behind your assigned RN, trying to look attentive and not overwhelmed, when the small entourage entered.

Consultant. Registrar. Interns.

And him.

White coat immaculate. Expression composed. Voice low and steady as he presented the case summary before the consultant could even prompt him.

Your brain lagged for half a second.

That’s him.

Dr. Zayne.

The name finally attached itself to the face.

He didn’t look at you at first. He was in his element now, focused, analytical, every word measured. The warmth you’d glimpsed in the corridor was tucked neatly away beneath professionalism.

Then, briefly, his gaze shifted.

It landed on you.

Recognition flickered.

Not surprise. Not embarrassment.

Just awareness.

Your pulse jumped.

He gave the smallest nod before returning to the discussion as if nothing had happened.

But now you had a name.

And somehow that made the accidental collisions feel far less accidental.

Ward rounds concluded. The team began to disperse. You stepped aside to make room. And that was when you saw it. As he turned slightly to speak to the registrar, a neatly wrapped chocolate bar slipped halfway out of the inside pocket of his white coat. You stared. He noticed. Without breaking the conversation, he calmly adjusted his coat and slid it back into place. Your lips twitched. Scary brilliant senior resident. With a hidden chocolate bar. Sweets were the last thing you would have ever imagined him liking. If someone had asked you to guess, you would have said black coffee. Maybe something bitter. Something severe. Not chocolate tucked secretly into his coat like contraband. The intern beside you leaned in. "He runs on hot chocolate and sweets. We’ve accepted it." You bit back a smile. Later that afternoon, while you were charting, one of the nurses nudged your elbow. "Careful," she murmured lightly. "You’ll start scheduling your breaks around cardiothoracic rounds at this rate." "I am absolutely not-" She raised an eyebrow. You dropped your gaze to your paperwork too quickly. Across the ward, Dr Zayne was discussing discharge plans with a patient’s family. Professional. Focused. Untouchable. And yet. When he finished and glanced up briefly, his eyes found you with unsettling ease.

Coincidence, you told yourself. Hospitals were finite ecosystems. Patterns emerged. That had to be it. It had nothing to do with the way your shifts suddenly felt slightly more anticipated when cardiothoracic rounds were scheduled. Nothing at all.