8. My character walking in on yours in a revealing costume.
He needed a drink and by the way things went the last few hours of his shift at the hospital, he needed more than one drink. He heaved a heavy sigh when he finally left the premises of the hospital, not even bothering to change from his navy blue surgeon scrubs to his street clothes. Instead, the clothes he had worn into work lay strewn across the lazy boy in his office, forgotten like the patients he had encountered today. Heart attacks weren’t uncommon, but heart transplants were. And to have multiple heart transplants in one day, to have more than one trauma case come in with a heart defect, to have a number of aortic valves burst in on the table—he felt like he had hit the jackpot in the entire field of cardiothoracic surgery. But Dylan still needed a good amount of alcohol to swallow down his day.
Thursday nights were when college kids decide to come crawling out of their dormitory rooms and toss away the stresses of papers, exams, and professors. It marked the start of the weekend, and it almost made Dylan fondly reminisce about his own college years—what he could remember of it, of course. There wasn’t much he could remember before The Incident (and that’s how he always referred to it in his mind, with capital letters and all), and the bustling bar that evening only made him want to shut out the memories even more. “Excuse me,” he muttered underneath his breath, his pale yellow hair contrasting with the dark bodies trying to feel each other up despite it just being half past midnight. “Excuse me.” He wanted to find a table secluded in the corner, where no one would bother him except for when the waitress would bring him refills of his gin & tonic.
The only empty spot he managed to find in the entire bar of raging hormones and college kids cause him to crash straight into a smaller, more seemingly gentle figure in the race for the empty booth in the corner. “Sorry,” he mumbled underneath his breath, rubbing his chest from their collision. His eyes were on the floor, but they trailed up the long legs of the female and as they traveled higher, his brows rose as well. He scoffed, his eyes trailing over the revealing nature of her choice of outfit that night—it was October and she seemed to have believed that it was still July. As soon as his gaze reached her plump breasts practically exploding out of the pieces of cloth (a sad excuse for a shirt, if anything), he immediately diverted his eyes out of respect for her and to not seem like some kind of pervert. “I was here first.” With his eyes still glancing away from her and her over-exposure of her skin, he slid into the booth, marking his territory.
