"Richard Lang. City council." Park's voice was carefully neutral. "Just pledged two million to the new cardiac wing. The administration is very grateful."
"You don't sound grateful."
"I don’t trust men who need everyone to know they’re generous." He shrugged. "But that's above my pay grade. Get some rest, Rothwell."
He disappeared back into the chaos. I watched Lang shake hands with the hospital CEO, all teeth and practiced warmth.
Something about him made my skin prickle. The way people deferred to him. The way his eyes scanned the room even while he smiled, cataloging, calculating.
I shook it off. I was tired. I was reading too much into it.
I finished my cold coffee and went back to work.
Twelve hours. Three codes. Two deaths. One miracle—a kid who'd been hit by a car and should have died but somehow didn't. I'd take the win. Some days, one win was all you got.
I changed out of my scrubs in the locker room, caught my reflection in the mirror, and immediately wished I hadn't. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair escaping my ponytail in limp strands. The pallor of someone who worked nights and forgot sunlight.
I looked like hell. I felt worse.
The walk to the subway was automatic. I'd been doing this route for years, ever since I started at Queens General. The city moved around me. People heading to work as I headed home, the disorientation of living on a schedule that didn't match the rest of the world.
I thought about the mother who died. The two kids who were waking up right now to a world that was completely different from the one it was yesterday. The husband would probably never sleep well again.
I was thirty-two years old and had no one waiting for me at home except a cat named Doctor Watson.
Watson. I'd found him at a shelter three years ago, drawn to the gray British Shorthair with sharp yellow eyes who looked like he was plotting world domination. The shelter volunteer warned me, "That one looks intimidating. People pass him over because of the face."
I'd adopted him on the spot.
I named him Doctor Watson because I'd been rereading the Sherlock Holmes stories, and because the idea of having my own Watson appealed to something in me I didn't want to examine too closely. Loyal. Steady. Always there.
Brian says Watson takes after me. Looks threatening. Secretly loves everyone.
I refuse to acknowledge the comparison. Mostly because Brian might be right.
The subway car was crowded during the morning rush. I stood near the door, swaying with the motion of the train, and thought about Brian.
Brian Torres had been living in the apartment next door when I moved in. I'd been carrying a box of textbooks up the stairs, too stubborn to make two trips, when he appeared on the landing and offered to help.
I'd almost said no. I didn't need help. I didn't need anyone.
But he had this smile. Easy, warm, the kind that made you feel like he was genuinely happy to see you, even though he'd never met you before. And I was exhausted, and the box was heavy, and for once in my life, I let someone do something for me.
He carried my books. Made a joke about medical students and their reading habits. Told me he was a firefighter at Engine 295 and that if I ever smelled smoke, I should bang on his door instead of calling 911 because he'd get there faster.
I laughed. I don't know why. I never laughed.
That should have been the end of it. Neighbors who nod at each other in the hallway, nothing more.
But that night, I couldn't sleep. I'd lost my first patient. I ended up on my balcony at 3 AM, staring at nothing, trying to remember how to breathe.
Brian was there too. He'd come off a bad call, he said. The kind that follows you home.
We talked until the sun came up. About the weight of holding lives in your hands. About the exhaustion that comes from caring too much. About how sometimes you just need someone who understands without needing it explained.
We'd been showing up on that balcony ever since.
Four years. He was the longest relationship I'd allowed myself since cutting off my family. And we weren't even in a relationship. We were just friends. He was the only person who'd gotten past my walls without me noticing until it was too late to push him back out.
