Me:Is this burger bribery?
REID HUTCHISON:Depends what you write with the ketchup.
My mouth quirks despite myself, and I drop into my chair, toe nudging the edge of my desk as I slide the burger box closer. The cardboard creaks as I open it again, and the smell alone makes my stomach ache. I stare at the two ketchup packets tucked next to it again.
Me:I’m considering just writing ‘sleep’ and calling it a day.
There’s a pause this time, long enough that I take a bite and chew slowly, feeling some of the peakiness bleed out of my body. The first real food I’ve had since… I honestly don’t know.
REID HUTCHISON:That bad, huh?
I hesitate, not because it isn’t true, but because admitting it feels like stepping over a line I’ve been carefully skirting.
Me:I’m wiped. 72hrs straight will do that
REID HUTCHISON:You off tomorrow?
The question feels casual on the surface, but something about it tightens in my chest. I decide not to examine it too closely, though.
Me:Miraculously, but don’t jinx it.
There’s another pause, longer this time, while I wait for a reply, but nothing comes. I stare at the screen for a beat longer than necessary before locking my phone and setting it face down on the desk, like that will quiet whatever’s started buzzing under my ribs.
I eat the rest of the burger, finishing my notes between bites. The clinic is nearly silent now—just the hum of the lights, the faint echo of a vacuum somewhere down the hall. The kind of quiet that usually calms me. Tonight, it doesn’t.
I don’t want to want him like this. I don’t want the ease of him, or the way he sees through me without making a production of it. I don’t want to replay the sound of his voice in my head when he tells me what to do in that deeply calm and certain voice, likethere’s nothing else in the world he needs from me except to let go.
But I do want it. All of it. So much. And the worst part is, I think he knows.
I don’t text again, and neither does he. But the space between messages feels charged now, stretched thin and humming, waiting for something to snap.
By the time I shut down my computer and gather my things, it’s a beautifully crisp early evening. The sky outside the clinic windows has dipped into that hazy blue-gray that always makes the day feel longer than it was. A soft rainbow smudges the horizon.
I step outside, my bag slung over one shoulder, exhaustion settling heavy in my limbs as I prepare to order a cab. My head is still full of patients, charts, and the stupid text thread I keep replaying even though I told myself I wouldn’t.
I’m halfway across the parking lot when I see his truck, and my heart kicks hard enough that I nearly stop walking.
He’s leaning against the driver’s door like he’s got all the time in the world, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, posture loose.
Like this isn’t a big deal, and he justhappenedto be here. Like he didn’t leave a burger on my desk after what was probably his final clearance appointment with Heidi—because he knew I was in the OR and probably hadn’t eaten for hours.
Reid straightens when he sees me, mouth tipping into something that isn’t quite a smile.
“Hey,” he says, acting normal. As though I’m not suddenly upside down.
I stop a few feet away, folding my arms more out of instinct than defensiveness.
“This a goalie thing? Loitering in clinic parking lots?”
His eyes flick over me quickly, then snap back to my face.
“You look like hell.”
I snort. “Thanks.”
“I meant in a tired way,” he explains. “Beautiful, but with a side of sleep deprivation.”
“Charming.”
