“I’m not impressive.” I give her a tight smile. “I’m a disaster. I’m behind everywhere. Residents are annoyed, my inbox is a morgue, and I’m running on fumes.”
“I think you’re remarkable,” Tory says softly.
It lands like a warm blanket in the middle of a freezing night. And that’s the problem.
I shouldn’t want praise from anyone but my wife. I shouldn’t need it.
“I’m sure Jayne thinks so, too,” Tory adds quickly.
“She does,” I lie, or half-lie. I don’t even know.
Something flickers in her eyes—interest sharpened into something unmistakable.
She sighs, almost wistful. “Honestly? I have friends with wonderful partners and they still complain. I don’t get it.”
“I think it’s part of being married,” I say lightly.
“Honestly, Rhys, if you were with me, I’d be grateful.”
Every nerve fires at once.
Four-alarm fire.
Sirens.
Warning lights.
Christ.
How did I not see this earlier?
I never meant to lead Tory anywhere. I thought we were colleagues, friendly at most. I thought she was harmless. But this right here isn’t friendly. This is a line being crossed, and the worst part is that I let her close enough to try.
I sit up straighter, coffee forgotten, brain clearing instantly.
This ends now.
I push to my feet, desperate to get some distance. “I’d better get back. I’ve got rounds to finish.”
She stands too, closing the distance before I can take a step. Her hands land on my shoulders again, gentle, unwanted.
“Listen to me, Rhys,” she says softly, holding my gaze. “You’re doing everything right. You’re still there—being the best husband and father you can—when most men would’ve walked away. And if Jayne can’t see how hard you’re working, that’s on her, not you.”
The words might’ve sounded kind a few weeks ago. Now they scrape raw.
I step back, sharper this time. I don’t care if it is rude. I don’t like her touch. I don’t like any of this. She caught me at a weak moment. The fault is partly mine, and I need to fix it.
“Tory,” I say carefully, “don’t take this the wrong way, or maybe do. I don’t like your hands on me.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts. Color drains from her face. “I was just being—nice. We’re friends, and?—”
“We’re colleagues who are friendly,” I interrupt, my tone firm. “And it’s not appropriate for you to touch me like you do. A hand on my shoulder, my arm. If the roles were reversed, HR would already be in my office.”
She blinks, pale and stunned.
I hadn’t meant to throw HR into it, but the words came out before I could stop them. I don’t regret it. A line needed to be drawn
“So,” she snaps, her lips tightening into a brittle smile, “it’s okay for you to bitch about your wife to me, but when I say anything it’s?—”
