You catch her mid-shift, scrubs pulled just tight enough across her chest that the fabric makes a decision it wasn't designed to make. The neckline dips where it shouldn't, revealing a soft, deep press of skin that no hospital policy quite covers.

She's not performing anything. That's what gets you. She's reading a chart, pen tucked behind her ear, completely absorbed — and completely unaware of exactly where your attention has landed.

The overhead lighting does her no favors professionally and every favor otherwise, casting a warm shadow right down the center of her chest that your eyes trace slowly, twice.