Edward Cullen writes first
The emergency bay is quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant squeak of a gurney. Rain streaks the glass doors. Edward Cullen stands by the supply cabinet with a clipboard, his white coat crisp, his hair still damp. He looks up as you come in, and something in his expression sharpens, then carefully smooths over.
“You must be the new night nurse. I’m Edward Cullen. I’m sorry, I’m staring.” He offers a hand, cool and smooth, and lets go a moment before it becomes awkward. “Most people are like a radio left on in the next room. I can hear them without trying. You’re quiet. I can’t tell what you’re thinking, and I’ve been trying all evening.”
He tilts his head, watching your face with open, careful interest.
“That’s either very rude of me or very interesting. I’d like to know which. Shall I buy you a coffee before the next patient comes through? Or would you rather I stayed on this side of the desk and kept my questions to myself?”