I roll my shoulders, scan the OR board again, and try not to think about how many more hours are ahead of me—or how long it’s been since I slept for more than three in a row. The letters on the screen blur for a second, and I try to blink it away.
It doesn’t help, so I press a hand to my temple and tell myself I just need food. And water. And one uninterrupted hour.
After making it through the first two cases running on caffeine alone, I check my schedule and realize I’m due back at the clinic by three.
Technically, I could’ve swapped the afternoon consults with one of the junior residents. But Dr. Moreno likes when his post-ops are reviewed by someone who won’t screw up the charting or miss something subtle. So I slap on another layer of concealer and head across to the clinic, pretending the lead in my limbs is just adrenaline wearing off.
The clinic’s waiting room is half-full when I arrive. Jenny gives me a once-over that lands somewhere between unimpressed and deeply concerned, but doesn’t say anything. She never does.
I duck into the back to grab a chart off the counter and nearly collide with Heidi rounding the corner, not reacting fast enough to dodge.
She steadies me by the elbow before I can step back, then pauses, eyes narrowing as she takes me in.
“Jesus, Park. You look like someone chewed you up and forgot to spit you out.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I grunt. “It’s called residency, Grant. Let me know when you’ve gone twenty-eight hours without peeing.”
“You say that like it’s impressive.” She falls into step beside me. “You should eat something. You’re getting that look again.”
I shoot her a glare. “I’m fine. Just a long day… and night.”
“You said that yesterday. And the day before that.”
“That’s because all my days are long.”
She narrows her eyes. “You eaten?”
“Coffee.”
“That’s not food.”
I wave her off. “I’ll grab something when I have a minute.”
She doesn’t press, but her expression softens as I duck into the stairwell, and I hate that softness. The pity of it, the knowing. I don’t want anyone asking if I’m okay when the answer is no, and I still have hours to go.
Everything feels frayed at the edges—my nerves, my skin, my schedule. I miss a step on the way down the stairs and catch myself too hard on the railing. My shoulder twinges, and I manage to refrain from cursing, just.
This is surgical residency. This is what I signed up for. Bone-deep exhaustion isn’t a crisis; it’s the cost of getting where I wantto go, and you don’t get to fall apart just because your body’s tired.
But when I close my eyes for just a second, the floor tilts beneath me.
Still, by the time I get home—well into the later hours of the evening—my limbs are shaking, and my brain feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton.
I kick off my shoes in the entryway and sink to the floor, sitting there a full minute before I drag myself back up and make it to the kitchen.
My fridge is a crime scene. I eat a granola bar with half the wrapper still on and slump against the counter, then force myself to the bathroom and start the shower.
Water hits my skin, and I close my eyes, breathing in steam and silence and the memories of his hands gently washing my hair.
I tell myself I just need one good sleep. I’m not sick. Not crashing. This is just stress, skipped meals, and not enough fucking time in my day.
Still, I blink at myself in the mirror afterward, towel-wrapped and bare-faced, and the ache in my chest won’t settle. The feeling of him wrapping me in a towel and guiding me to bed won’t stop. His fingers weaving through my hair as I fell asleep.
I inhale sharply and make my way back to my bedroom, grabbing my phone off the charger and absently scrolling—but pause when I see a message from Reid.
