"What would you have said if you could be honest?"
"That I was angry. That I did everything right and still got blamed. That my own parents didn't defend me because I'd embarrassed the family name." I take a bite of salad, force myself to swallow. "But you can't say that in professional settings, so you smile and say you're fine."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It was." I meet his eyes. "Still is, sometimes."
My pager goes off, the shrill beep cutting through cafeteria noise. I check the display and my pulse jumps.
Trauma call. Incoming vehicle accident. Multiple casualties.
"I have to go."
He's already standing. "Lead the way."
The trauma bay is controlled chaos when we arrive. Multiple patients, varying severity. I assess quickly, prioritize basedon injuries. A young woman with internal bleeding gets my immediate attention. Thatcher stays back near the entrance, but I feel his gaze tracking my movements while I work.
In surgery, everything else falls away. My hands know exactly what to do and doubt doesn't exist.
The woman stabilizes after hours in the OR. Her spleen comes out clean, bleeding under control. Vitals stabilize by the time I close.
When I finally emerge, exhausted and running on adrenaline, Thatcher is waiting.
"Long day."
"They usually are." I strip off my gloves, toss them in the disposal bin. "But everyone survived, so that's a win."
"You're good at what you do."
I glance at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice. "How would you know? You've been standing in hallways."
"I've been watching you work. The way other doctors defer to you. How nurses trust your judgment without question. The confidence in your movements." He shifts closer. "You don't doubt yourself in surgery."
"Only place I don't." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
"Why?"
"Because in the OR, everything is evidence-based. Clear protocols, measurable outcomes. No room for politics or personalities or people questioning my competence because of my gender or my age or anything else." I lean against the wall. He's close enough now that I can feel his body heat. "Surgery is the one place where skill is all that matters."
"Should be that way everywhere."
"Should be, but it isn't." I push off the wall. "I need to check post-op orders. Then I can leave."
"I'll wait."
We head to the physician lounge where I use a computer to input orders. Thatcher stays near the windows this time, scanning the parking lot while I work. Typing medical codes and medication schedules should be routine, boring even. But the back of my neck prickles.
"You always stare at people like that?" I don't look up from the screen.
"Like what?"
"Like you're cataloging every detail."
"Situational awareness. Comes with the training." There's amusement in his voice. "Does it bother you?"
"I'm not sure yet." I finish the last order, log out of the system. "It's intense."
"So are you."
