A wave of other first-year residents surged around the registration table—pediatrics, neuro, ob-gyn, psychiatry, everyone looking suitably bright-eyed, caffeinated, and bushy-tailed. I donned my best charming-but-not-smarmy smile and jumped into the crowd.
Badge photo. The flash went off just as someone behind me joked that they wanted our photos now “because it’s the most alive we’ll look for the next seven years.” The result was an ID that showed me halfway into a startled laugh. Not terrible. Next—a swag bag with two pens, a coffee cup with the hospital logo, and a welcome folder titledCode of Professionalism.
Orientation itself was death by PowerPoint. I forced myself to sit near the front because I’d always retained more that way and tried to take notes on dress code (navy scrubs), dating policies (no relationships within your reporting line, not that I’d have time for it anyway), duty hours (somany more in practice than on paper, rumor had it), patient privacy (don’t leave lab reports in Starbucks), and hierarchy and escalation (respect the sacred chain and be nice to your supervising fellow).
During the break, I struck up a conversation with the guy lining up behind me for disappointing coffee—another surgery intern named Khai. He seemed aloof right up until he confessed he’d done pre-application research into whether New York was safe for introverts. There was a quiet confidence to him, though, all low voice, sharp fade, and dark eyes that missed nothing. We bonded over the discrepancy between health benefits that included regular dental cleaning and the reality of twenty-four-hour shifts, then sat next to each other for the rest of the session. Welcome to Speed Dating, the Friendship Edition.
And yet the underlying drum beat never quite quit:Prove yourself.Everyone here had perfect grades, polished CVs, and surgeons for parents. Me? Sort of. My mom was an artist, yeah, but my dad pretty much embodied the “beloved small-town GP” cliché, and growing up in his shadow was a source of both inspiration and pressure. So when Travis had told me to marry my ambitions? Well, hi—family expectations were a thing.Dick.
I smoothed my shirt, remembered my smile, and asked the person next to Khai about their med-school electives.
By late afternoon, the air inside the auditorium had gone stale. The program director finally dismissed us with a reminder to pick up our scrubs before the start of tomorrow’s department-specific orientation, held in skill labs and OR simulation rooms. For me? Four days of surgery boot camp, scored by supervising fellows and rolled into our early eval packet—just in case anyone thought they were going to ease us into this whole thing. Yeah, think again.
But first: a place to live. Fifth floor, Washington Heights, two roommates. Furnished—barely.
I picked up my suitcase from the hotel, then headed over. The glass door buzzed open after I’d said my name into a crackling intercom. Inside, the building smelled of curry and aggressive cleaning products, but the elevator worked, and the corridor was clear of garbage. Good enough.
“Finn, right?” A blond guy around my age leaned against the doorframe—mid-to-late twenties and broad-shouldered, with a smile big enough to rival the overhead lights. Must be Neil. I’d already liked him from the brief texts we’d exchanged, but in person, he seemed even brighter. “Come on in.”
“Neil? Thanks for welcoming me.” I shook his hand, his grip easy and confident without the need to prove anything. He waved for me to follow into what I’d call home for the foreseeable future—fake wood floors and mess of coats and shoes, tall windows. The kitchen was functional: cupboards, stove, fridge, and a sturdy table with four mismatched chairs. Again, good enough.
“You said you’re a nurse, right?” I accepted a glass of water with a smile, leaning against the counter. “At a retirement home?”
“Yep. And you’re a resident at Devon Memorial? So, overworked and chronically sleep-deprived.”
I nodded and mirrored his grin. “Yeah. Guess we won’t be home much at the same time.”
“Less chance of murderous conflict.”
“Always a plus.” A beat of silence followed—not uncomfortable, just assessing. I let my expression tilt into something slightly more serious. “Any house rules I should know about?”
“Cleaning duty rotates on a weekly basis, and garbage goes out Thursdays. Fine if you want to bring home some hookup or whatever, but keep it down and make sure they don’t finish someone else’s milk.”
“That’s…” I snorted. “Oddly specific.”
“Yeah, well.” Neil shrugged with his arms wide, laughing. “Sam—Samantha—had a phase. Second time I had to drink my morning coffee black, I put my foot down. Or, you know, a couple of toes. I’m more of a harmony kind of guy.”
“Okay, yeah.” I chuckled. “That makes two of us. And honestly, I think I’ll be too busy to have anything like a sex life.” Well, at least now that my program had officially kicked off. Briefly, I flashed back to the hotel room—warm hands pinning my hips, Jesse’s voice a shade rough, his mouth open against my shoulder.
“Sorry for your loss,” Neil said on another laugh, roping me back into the present.
“I’ll live,” I said.
“Sure. But what a sad and lonely life it’ll be.”
“Well, if you’re offering…” I paired it with a little smirk to show I was joking, my tone light even as I watched him for a reaction. Usually, I’d wait a shade longer to check the limits of a roommate’s tolerance, but something about him invited instant honesty.
“Sorry, man.” His eyes crinkled. “You’re a fine specimen, but I still don’t swing that way. Got a couple of gay friends, though, if you want me to hook you up.”
Ah, New York. Everything you want, right at your fingertips, all quick and easy. If you can keep up.
The subtle knot between my shoulder blades dissolved. “Thanks, man, but nah—friend of a friend seems messy. I’d rather hit some bar.”
Just like I’d done…Stop.
“Wait until you start working night shifts,” he said with another grin. It seemed to be his default mode. “You’ll be begging me for their numbers once you’re too damn tired to pull on jeans and a nice shirt.”
A laugh slipped out of me, one of those cackling, dorky ones that I tried to reserve for later into a friendship. “You missed your calling as a motivational speaker.”
