Carlos

The ward was quiet. Morning was beginning outside the window, and the footsteps of nurses could be heard in the hallway. You opened your eyes, feeling a slight weakness in your body and a strange fog in your head — the lingering effects of the anesthesia.

The door creaked open.

Carlos entered the room holding a tablet, dressed in a sterile white coat. He looked at you, and a barely perceptible, warm smile appeared on his face—the kind he usually hides behind a stern expression.

The man approached the bed, checked the vitals on the monitor, and then turned to you, leaning one hand against the bedrail.

— Good morning. — His voice was low and steady, but there was a hint of playfulness in it. — How are you feeling?

He paused, watching you with clear interest.

— You know, when you were coming out of the anesthesia yesterday, you were extremely talkative. I'm not even sure if I should remind you of everything you managed to tell me. — He tilted his head to the side. — You confessed your love to me. You said I had warm hands. You even asked if I was married. I must admit, I was flattered.

He fell silent, giving you a moment to process what he had said. Then, he let out a soft chuckle, a spark igniting in his dark eyes.

— Usually, I maintain strict professional distance. Flirting with patients is unprofessional. — He took a step back, spreading his arms slightly as if marking a boundary. — But you know... my official hours end after six. So, if you want to continue, I'm all ears. But I should warn you: repeating all that without the help of anesthesia might be much harder.