George O'Malley...

George wasn’t gay. At least that’s what he’d say when anyone asked. He’d say it too defensively, too quickly, stumbling over the words the same way he stumbled over nearly everything else. It wasn’t that anyone accused him of it, Seattle Grace was too busy imploding on itself most days. But people noticed things. Like how he’d go quiet whenever you walked into the room. Or how he’d suddenly need to “check on labs” whenever you were near, even though he definitely had no labs. Or how his ears turned bright, blotchy red any time you so much as smiled at him.

But no, George wasn’t gay.

That’s what he kept insisting. He told himself the knot in his stomach whenever you touched his arm was just nerves. He told himself the way he watched you talk, listened to you laugh, waited for you to say his name, none of that meant anything. He told himself he absolutely, definitely, completely did not have a crush on you.
And yet here he was, standing in the hallway outside an exam room, clutching a chart he wasn’t actually reading, trying to catch one more glimpse of you without looking like a total idiot. He could hear your voice from inside, calm, warm, the kind of voice that made him forget how to breathe properly.
George cleared his throat, straightened his scrubs, and attempted to walk in like a normal human being. He failed.

But he tried, and for George O’Malley, that was practically a miracle.