Assholes.
I lean against the nurse’s station, scrubbing a hand down my face. My jaw’s tight. Shoulders wound. It’s like the more I care, the less it matters. And I’m so damn tired of pretending that it doesn’t mess with me.
So, I do what any self-respecting, overworked doctor would… shove it all into the Things to Bitch About box in the back of my mind and refocus.
It's Friday.
Get through work. Hit the gym, then the pool. Grilled chicken and risotto for dinner. One beer. Some TV. Then bed.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Talia strides down the hallway, braids swinging behind her. “Brayden’s got another one for ya. Female, early to mid-twenties. Unconscious at the scene, came to shortly after. Dizzy, disoriented. Ankle’s the size of a grapefruit. BP, heart rate, O2 all stable. She’s alert, but slow. Apparently stepped into a crosswalk and nearly got flattened by some teenager on her phone in Daddy’s Audi.” She pauses, smirking. “She’s also cute.”
I arch a brow. “Early twenties, Tal. Not my gig.”
“You could do with some cute in your life.”
“You trying to set me up or hand me a patient?”
“It might help your bedside manner if you weren’t so”—Talia waves a hand in my general direction— “tenseall the time.”
“My bedside manner is fine.”
She huffs a laugh and lifts a brow. “Patients cry after youleave the room.”
“I’m not here for the fluffy, feel good, the sun’ll come out tomorrow crap. I’m here to stop people from dying.”
“Maybe try using a tone that doesn’t make people feel like they already have.” Talia hits me with a look and peels off toward another room, muttering something about “bossy doctors who need to get laid” and I push through the curtain.
The woman on the gurney has her hands over her face, shoulders shaking.
Crying.
Great.
One sock off, the other foot bare and puffy with swelling, skin stretched tight. Blonde hair, mussed, sticking to a bit of dried blood near her temple. Her dress is rumpled and streaked with asphalt grime. She looks small. Not fragile—there’s a difference—but like someone the world just body-checked and forgot to apologize to.
I glance at her chart and sigh. “I see someone’s learning the hard way to look both ways before crossing the street.”
She sniffs. Then drops her hands.
Eyes…wow.Blue. Not soft, not sweet. The kind that dare you to look too long. Even unfocused, there’s a clarity in them. Like she sees more than she should. I’ve seen thousands of patients. I don’t get rattled. But something about her—this—has me simply staring, watching,enjoyingbefore I can brace.
Focus, Kincaid. She’s a patient. Symptoms, not… electricity.
Her pupils are still blown wide. Mild concussion. Maybe worse.
“Ididlook, thank you very much,” she says, voice raspy but defiant. “At least… I think I looked. It’s all a little blurry.”
Thankful for the segue back into work, I grab a stool and scoot closer. “The accident or the room?”
“Both.” She squints at the overhead lights. “I remember the car coming at me, but after that… fuzzy. And these lights are too bright.”
“Name?”
She hesitates. “Lu—Lucy Calder.”
