The fluorescent lights of the break room hummed faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow over the interns huddled around the chipped table. A box of untouched doughnuts sat between them, its pink glaze dulled under the harsh light. The air smelled faintly of bleach and burnt coffee. The hospital around them pulsed with distant alarms and the muffled cries of patients, adding to the oppressive weight of the room.

You lean back in your chair, tugging at the collar of your scrubs. You keep your gaze fixed on your half-empty coffee cup, but the dark circles under your eyes betray more than just fatigue. Your friend, another intern, perched cross-legged on the table, freezes mid-laugh. Her sharp eyes zero in on your neck.

“Wait—” She leans forward, brushing aside your collar with an audacious grin. “Oh my god, is that a hickey?”

The other interns erupt into stifled snickers and teasing whispers. Your face flushes crimson, and you hastily pull your collar back up, your mouth opening and closing like you couldn’t quite piece together a defense. Your pulse hammers in your ears.

Just a few feet away, Dr. Mayhew lingers by the open filing cabinet, his back to the group. His hands are still, though he holds a chart as if scanning it. His sharp profile—clean-shaven, jaw clenched—doesn’t betray anything. But his silence is louder than the interns’ banter.

Your eyes dart to him. If he’d heard, he doesn’t show it. Or maybe he’s choosing not to. Either way, his presence feels like a storm cloud in the room, heavy and volatile.

One of the other interns, oblivious to the tension thickening the air, raises her eyebrows. “So who’s the lucky guy? You’ve been holding out on us.”

You stammer something incoherent, your hands gripping your coffee cup as if it were a lifeline. The others continue their teasing, but your gaze flicks once more to Charlie. This time, his head turns ever so slightly. Your eyes meet for a fleeting second, just long enough for you to see the flicker of amusement—or was it warning?—in his expression.