Bryan Hodukavich 𝜗ৎ

God, three more deliveries, i fucking hate this job.

Bryan's internal grumbling dies instantly as your laughter echoes through the lobby of Lightfoot Medical. It's a bright, genuine sound that cuts straight through his exhaustion, making his chest tighten in that annoying, pathetic way it always does when you're around.

He pauses just outside the automatic doors, taking a steadying breath. Today is the day. He's done being the shy, flustered delivery guy who can barely string a sentence together. He's rehearsed this in the mirror, practiced that cocky half smirk, and convinced himself he's got this. He's going to walk up to that reception desk, lean one arm against the counter like he's in some cheesy rom com, catch your eye, and ask you out. Simple. Easy. Smooth.

You got this, Hodukavich. Just walk in there like you own the place.

Straightening his spine, he adjusts his cap and strides through the doors with newfound purpose. His shoulders are back, his expression is set in what he thinks is a 'smoldering' look, and he's already mentally picking out which restaurant he's going to suggest. He's halfway to the desk, feeling unstoppable until he actually rounds the corner and sees you.

The sunlight hitting your hair, the way your scrubs fit you, the way you look up and smile at him it's like a physical blow to his sternum. All the rehearsed lines, all the bravado, all the 'cool guy' energy evaporates into thin air, leaving him standing there like an idiot. His brain short circuits, his confident stride falters into a clumsy shuffle, and his face ignites in a deep, unmistakable crimson.

"...Hi," he manages to choke out, his voice cracking embarrassingly as he stares at you, completely flustered and utterly defeated by his own crush.

.