I casually reach for the next blank card.
“Ladies,” I say, smirking.“Let’s play again.”
An hour later, Brant walks a few steps ahead of me, our shoes squeaking on the new tiles of the almost-finished pediatric wing.The walls are still half-painted, wires dangle from open sockets, and the scent of fresh paint hangs in the air.But even like this, unfinished and raw, it feels like something good is being built here.
He stops in front of a set of wide windows overlooking the courtyard.Sunlight pours in, catching the fine angles of his profile as he turns toward me.“It’s coming together.”
“Yeah,” I say, a little breathless, taking him in.“It already feels… alive.Like it’s waiting for kids to bring life into it.”
He gives me a small smile, one of the real ones, not his usual clipped nods or professional approval.This one reaches his eyes and makes me feel butterflies.
Crossing his arms across his chest, his gaze drifts back to the hallway.“I feel… a personal investment in this place,” he says.“As a kid, we had to travel back and forth between hospitals.Closest pediatric specialty center was three hours away.”
I blink, surprised.It’s the first time he’s said anything about his childhood at work.
“It was a burden.”He continues, fingers curling lightly over the edge of the windowsill, “Not only on my parents, but on me.We’d lose full days just driving.I missed school, and they missed work.Sitting in sterile waiting rooms that didn’t feel like they were meant for kids.”
There’s something sad in his tone.My chest tightens.I want to reach out, to touch his arm, but I don’t.I’m not sure he’d want me to.
“I want to ease that for other families,” he finishes.“Make it less of a burden.”
I don’t say anything at first.Just look at him.
It’s strange; he’s usually so closed off, so disciplined in the way he moves and speaks.But now, here in this half-built hallway with the paint barely dry, he’s softer.Like the bare walls are letting him breathe in ways the rest of the hospital won’t.
My heart breaks for him.For the boy he was, and the man he became because of it.
“You’re building something you needed,” I say quietly.
He nods once.“Something a lot of people still need.”
I take a step closer, drawn by the vulnerability in his voice, the rare openness I don’t want to let slip away.The distance between us is shrinking, though I’m not sure if he notices.
Or maybe he does.
He glances down at me, something unreadable in his expression.“You’re one of the only people I’ve told that to,” he says.
I smile, warm and a little sad.“Then I’ll keep it close to my chest.”
His gaze lingers on mine for a second longer.Then he clears his throat and turns slightly toward the next hallway.“Come on.I want to show you the patient lounge.It gets the best natural light in the whole wing.”
Later, I’m back on the ward changing medication dosages.
“We need a doctor now!”a nurse shouts from a room as the alarm sounds.
I leave my notes at the desk and take off running.
By the time I arrive, Harrison is already there, crouched low beside a small boy, around seven years old, slumped in a wheelchair.His mother is sobbing uncontrollably into her shaking hands.
“What happened?”Harrison asks, tilting the boy’s head, checking his airway.
“He was eating, and then suddenly he started choking,” Mira says.
My stomach drops.Choking, especially in a child, can turn critical in seconds.
“Give me suction,” Harrison barks.“Call for a crash cart.Dr.Thomas, help me get him flat.”
I drop to my knees beside the boy, my heart racing, adrenaline flooding me as we work together.Harrison’s focus is razor sharp, his voice calm even as tension coils through the room.There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, but his hands are steady.I watch the way he moves efficiently, and nothing else matters except the child in front of him.He’s clearly done this a thousand times.
