3
Polina
I’ve been lying to everyone I work with for seven days, and the worst part is how good I’ve gotten at it.
“Luka Sorokin” is progressing well. I update his chart every morning with clinical language boring enough to put anyone to sleep. Vitals stable. Incisions healing. Patient responding well to treatment. No complications. That last part isn’t entirely true.
The complication is me.
I’ve taken over his care. Changed his dressings myself, monitored his blood work, and adjusted his medication. All things I could hand off to residents or nursing staff, and all things I refuse to do because the fewer people who get close to that room, the fewer questions I have to answer.
The “brother” who brought him in has been back every day. He shows up at the start of visiting hours wearing the same ill-fitting suit and sits in the chair beside the bed like a boulder, scowling the entire time and not saying a word to anyone but “Luka”.
The nurses have started avoiding that end of the hallway. One of them, Karina, told me over coffee that he looked at her like he was trying to figure out the fastest way to snap her neck when she came in to check a monitor. I laughed it off and told her some patients’ families are just overprotective.
She wasn’t convinced.
I’m halfway through morning rounds when Dr. Savin catches up to me outside the supply closet. He’s a good surgeon. Steady hands, decent instincts, and an unfortunate habit of noticing things that aren’t his business.
“Dr. Kozlov, can I have a word?”
“What’s up?” I keep it casual as I reach for a fresh set of sterile wrappings.
“The patient in 412. Sorokin.” He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. “You’ve been managing him personally all week.”
“I have.”
“Any particular reason? It’s a fairly standard case. Granted, the injuries are severe for a workplace accident, but it’s nothing a fourth-year resident couldn’t handle with supervision.”
“Delayed hemorrhage happens more often than the textbooks suggest, and I’d rather catch it myself than find out a resident missed something at three in the morning.”
Savin squints at me. “You look tired, Polina.”
“I’m always tired. I work at a hospital.”
“I’m serious. You’ve been pulling doubles all month, and now you’re babysitting a guy who should have been moved to a step-down unit two days ago. If you need help?—”
“I don’t need help.” I take a breath and soften my tone because Savin doesn’t deserve the edge creeping in. “Appreciate the concern. Really. But I’ve got it under control.”
He holds up both hands. “All right. Just making sure.”
He walks away, and I stand still for ten seconds, reminding myself to breathe. Savin isn’t suspicious; he’s concerned. There’s a difference, and I need to stop treating every question like an interrogation before I give myself away.
The rest of my rounds are uneventful. I check on a post-op knee replacement, consult on an incoming transfer from a regional hospital, and review lab results for a patient with a stubborn infection that won’t respond to antibiotics. Normal work, autopilot stuff, which is both a blessing and a problem because autopilot gives my brain room to wander.
It wanders to room 412.
It wanders to pale blue eyes and the rough voice that called me “Doctor” like it was a private joke. To the smirk he wore, and the low pull I felt in my belly when I realized he had the audacity to flirt with me in his condition. I can still feel the scorching heat climbing my neck while he watched with a satisfaction that made me want to slap him and climb onto his lap in equal measure.
Every time I get within arm’s reach of that man, my body forgets which side of this war I’m supposed to be on.
It doesn’t help that I can still feel his abdominal muscles twitching under my fingertips. Good God, that man is sculpted.I keep catching myself looking for excuses to check his bandages just to feel him again, which is the furthest thing from professional. Every time, I tell myself the warmth that spreads between my thighs is just exhaustion playing tricks on me. The lie gets harder to sell with each repetition.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see Daria’s name on the screen.
Guilt hits before I can brace for it. My sister has called me three times this week, and I’ve dodged each one. She’s used to me being difficult to reach. Between the time I had to dedicate to studies while I was in college and now my schedule at the hospital, I’ve been tough to reach for years now. Daria will just think it’s par for the course. She has no idea I’m harboring the enemy in my hospital.
I stare at her name until the buzzing stops, then I slide the phone back into my pocket and keep walking.
