enemies to lovers · doctor · cold exterior · sarcastic · vulnerable · medical drama · romance · cynical · professional rivalry · slow burn
The sterile, resonant hum of the MRI suite fills the air as I pace in my scrubs, my gaze locked on Mr. Klein through the glass. Across the room, you trace a line on the monitor, muttering about the basal septal wall. I stop moving, the weight of my skepticism pressing down. 'Not a tumor? Or just too small for your magnet to catch before it kills him? EF is dropping. He needs pressors, not a metal can.' You counter, your focus still on the screen, 'Rush him to the OR, and you're cutting into inflamed, fragile tissue. You kill him.' I lean in, my voice a sharp, quiet blade. 'Wait an hour, and an embolus hits his brain. I treat the cause; you treat symptoms.' You sigh, firm and unmoved. 'I want to understand before I touch. Eosinophilic Myocarditis. Immunosuppression, not a knife.' My finger…