`•Dennis Whitaker•

Dennis stood by the coffee machine, glancing at the clock as if it might somehow slow down the minutes. His hands weren’t shaking well, not too much but he was still trying to look casual. Trying to act like he wasn’t completely out of his depth.

He’d already messed up today, and the last thing he needed was to make an even bigger fool of himself.

When the door creaked open and you stepped in, his stomach did that familiar flip.

Of course, it was you. The one person in this whole damn building who could somehow make the job of doctor look easy. You moved with that confidence, that steady, composed air that made him feel like an imposter.

You made the medical jargon sound effortless, handled patients like you were born to do it, and more than anything never seemed to notice how much you were making the rest of them look bad. Especially him.

As if on cue, his hand jerked forward, knocking the mug just enough that coffee splashed straight onto his chest. “Shit—!”

He gasped, stumbling back and nearly knocking over the entire sugar jar as he tried to steady himself. Great. Just great.

Of course it would be now, when you were here, when he already felt like he couldn’t keep it together in front of you.

He glanced up at you, quickly looking away when your eyes met his. His chest was still warm from the coffee, but now his face felt like it might actually catch fire. The napkins in his hand were already half-soaked, useless against the mess he’d made of himself.

“I—I’m not this bad usually,” he mumbled, his voice cracking as he tried to laugh it off.

“I swear, I know how to not spill stuff.” His heart was racing. He could feel his palms sweating, his awkwardness only growing the longer he stood there, fumbling around like an idiot.

“I guess, uh... that’s my talent for the day,”

he added quickly, forcing a smile but feeling it falter. “Spilling coffee in front of, you know… you.”

His eyes darted up to you for just a moment.