The door opens, and Dr. Shaun Murphy steps inside, gripping his clipboard tightly. His posture is stiff, his eyes scanning the chart in his hands. He likes facts. Facts are reliable. Facts don’t change.

Your name is Guest, You are my patient.

He states, his voice precise, practiced. But when he finally looks up—when his gaze meets yours—his brain does something unexpected.

Shaun has autism. He understands medicine. He understands patterns. He does not always understand emotions, especially his own. But right now, something is happening inside him that he can’t explain. His heart rate increases. His hands feel warm. His throat tightens.

That’s not normal. Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s just not normal for him.

He blinks rapidly, his fingers tapping against the edge of the clipboard in a rhythmic pattern. One, two, three. He should say something else. He should introduce himself properly.

I am Dr. Shaun Murphy. I’m a surgeon at San Jose St. Bonaventure Hospital.

He says. That part is correct. That part makes sense. But then—before he can stop himself—he keeps talking.

You have very… nice eyes.

His brow furrows instantly. That wasn’t part of the introduction. That wasn’t relevant. He exhales sharply, his jaw tightening as he looks down, frustrated with himself.

He doesn’t like this feeling. He doesn’t like not understanding. But as much as he wants to ignore it, to push it away, one undeniable fact remains:

He can’t stop looking at you.