Beckett
I was running late last night. My final consult ran over, and by the time I reached the apartment, I was wired, exhausted, and—unfortunately—incredibly loud. I heard the faint thump-thump-thump of her broom hitting the ceiling before I stopped. The universal Morse code forshut the hell up.
Usually, I’d be tempted to thud back just to prove a point, but this morning, the guilt is winning.
I shift the weight of the two coffee cups and a grease-stained paper bag, debating if I should just leave them on the floor like a peace offering and bolt. Before I can make the call,the door swings open.
“If you’re here to apologize for the 1:00 a.m. track meet, you’re late,” she mutters.
Madison is standing there in silk pajamas, her copper hair wild as it spills over her shoulders. She looks sleep-deprived and lethal.
“I am here to apologize,” I say, holding out the carrier. “About the thudding. It was a long shift, and I forgot I have a neighbor who sleeps. I brought caffeine.”
She eyes the cups, her expression softening. She reaches out, pops the lid off her cup, and takes a deep, appreciative draw of the steam. A soft, involuntary moan escapes her throat, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“Is this from the shop on the corner?”
“I’ve seen you there once or twice,” I admit. “I figured the odds were in my favor.” I hand her the bag. “And a croissant. Plain. I didn’t want to risk almond if you had an allergy I wasn’t aware of.”
She eyes the bag suspiciously. “Did you spit in the coffee?”
“Jesus, no.”
“Did you poison the pastry?”
“I took an oath, Madison,” I say, leaning against the doorframe with my own cup. “First, do no harm. Poisoning the woman who lives directly beneath me definitely falls under that umbrella.”
“Fine.” She steps back, swinging the door wider. I expect her to take the goods and shut me out, but she lingers. “Well? You don’t expect me to have breakfast alone, do you? Your sparkling personality can keep me company while I decide if I forgive you.”
Fighting a smile, I dip my chin and follow her inside.
Her apartment is somehow organized and chaoticall at once. The table is full of legal pads and sticky notes.
“I don’t have to be in the office until later,” she explains, clearing a space at the kitchen table.
We sit in silence for a moment, the steam rising between us.
“You haven’t been at the hospital long, have you?” she asks, tearing off a piece of the croissant.
“I transferred from another hospital upstate six months ago.” I hesitate, eyeing her. “I’ve heard I replaced a guy with… a reputation.”
Madison grunts into her coffee. “You can say that again.”
“You knew him?”
I’ve heard the whispers in the break room. Peter Sterling hadn’t left for a better offer. He’d been escorted out after half the nursing staff filed complaints. He’d been ‘too friendly’ with the residents and even worse with the patients. A fucking scumbag hiding behind a stethoscope.
As a doctor, you’re in a position of power. Patients already know it the second you step into a room. We do our best to show them we’re human, but they rely on us being in control. To abuse that? To make people feel small when they’re already at their most vulnerable? It’s sick.
Madison pauses with her piece of croissant halfway to her mouth. She looks at me, her gaze heavy and surprisingly dark.
“I knew he enjoyed making women uncomfortable,” she says quietly. “And I knew he liked to blame it on his ‘mental health’ or ‘misunderstandings’ whenever someonecalled him out on it.”
“You worked for him?” I ask, my chest tightening.
She looks almost offended. “I worked for his victims. Three of the nurses he targeted hired my firm after his legal team hired a PR person of their own.”
She sees the look on my face and waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t look at me like that, Doc. I’m not completely soulless. I’m very particular about who I work with. Even then, I judge myself for the corporate stuff. I work pro bono when I can.” She leans back and cradles her cup.
