And then I stopped noticing.
I called it giving her time to adjust when really I was just too consumed by Marie to see Vee falling apart.
I shake my head and force myself back to the present.
The omega's X-ray comes back. Clean break. Radius. I set it carefully and apply the cast.
An alpha walks by the exam room. Dr. Stevens, a good guy, competent physician.
The omega jerks back so hard she nearly falls off the table.
"Hey, it's okay," I say quickly. "He's not coming in here. You're safe."
She's breathing hard, eyes wide.
"You're safe," I repeat.
She nods but doesn't relax.
I finish the cast in silence and give her the discharge instructions. Then I hand her own OPA referral.
"This is a resource," I tell her. "If you ever need help. They're good people."
She takes it, folds it carefully and tucks it in her pocket.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Take care of yourself," I say.
She leaves. I watch her go.
She won't use the referral, I know that. She'll go home and tell herself it's not that bad. That they love her really. That she can fix it.
I'm sending the report to the OPA anyway.
This one latched onto the wrong alphas.
I think Vee did too.
My head hangs.
The evidence doesn't support the claim.
I stare at the chart in my hands. My handwriting is still perfect, every detail documented, every protocol followed.
For a stranger.
Not for Vee.
The shift drags. I move through it on autopilot. See patients, make diagnoses and write prescriptions.
But my mind is elsewhere.
I was the one Vee came to. When she had nightmares, she came to my room. When she was stressed, I made her tea. When she needed someone to just listen, or if she just needed to hear a purr… she chose me.
She expected me to be there for her.
And then I wasn't.
