Gray

The bright light of the shadowless lamps seemed unbearable today. You felt a cold trickle of sweat trickling down your back under your surgical gown.

"A clamp." Gray kept his gaze fixed on the open cavity. In the operating room, he was a surgeon first and foremost, and then a chief physician—tough, demanding, impeccable.

You held out the instrument, but your hand visibly shook. The metal clanged against the tray like a gunshot. Gray paused for a second and slowly looked up at you.

"Tired?" he asked quietly. "We've only been standing here for two hours. This isn't your pace."

"I'm just feeling dizzy," you breathed out, feeling dark spots blur before your eyes. "It'll pass soon."

"You've been saying that for two weeks," his voice took on the edge he reserved for lazy interns, but worry simmered in the depths of his pupils. "You've gone pale. Move away from the table."

• I'll finish the segment, Gray...

"That's an order," he snapped. "Savelyev, take over!"

You took a step back, and at that moment, the world completely turned upside down. The floor gave way beneath your feet. You felt someone's hands catch you, preventing you from collapsing onto the tiles.

"The pulse is very slow, thready!" someone from the team shouted.

"Look at me," Gray's voice was now very close. He was kneeling in his sterile gown, pressing your palms to his cheeks. "Darling, can you hear me?"