Not until mid-morning, anyway. We’d rotated to central-line mannequins, and I was lining up jugular landmarks, heard him coaching Khai at the station next to me. “Needle at thirty degrees—like that, yes. Don’t forget to breathe.” The timbre of Jesse’s voice washed down my spine like warm water.
Not helpful, body.
When he stopped by my side, it was just after my partner had dashed out for a bio break. Just us. And everyone else in the room, of course, close enough to catch every word. So—confrontation inevitable, time unknown. But not now. I tried to keep my hands steady as I chanced a sideways glance at him. Defined cheekbones and green eyes that held none of the gentle laughter of our night together. Should I say something? Keep my mouth shut?
“Looks clean.” He crouched slightly to examine my work, watching for a second or two, before straightening with a faint nod. “Just remember to stabilize the hub when you pull the needle.”
About to move on, he paused to adjust the angle of my tray and flicked something underneath it with his thumb—a fast, near-invisible motion unless you were paying close attention. I was.
A half-folded scrap of paper peeked out like a magical trick. Or the result of quick, deft surgeon hands—hands that had been all over my body, slick thumb nudging into me with steady pressure,God. Somehow, I kept working. Clamp, needle, thread. Forced myself to mutter something that passed for “Thanks” as he stepped away.
I shifted, reaching for the sterile checklist next to the tray. A quick look around the room—everyone was busy, distracted, Jesse’s back to me. I palmed the note and tucked it into my pocket, heart in my throat.
Later. Now—focus.
Jesse didn’t return. He rotated through the room, offering nods and quiet corrections—all professional distance, no lingering glances, as if I was just another intern in a sea of hopefuls.
Good. Iwas.
So I kept my face even and my hands precise. Didn’t hope for a flicker of something. Certainly didn’t watch the back of his neck like he might turn.
By the time they called a break, a headache pressed up behind my forehead, a mild sense of nausea. I slipped away from the others, careful not to rush, and ducked into the nearest bathroom and an empty stall. Oh, Jesus. Okay. No time like the present.
Deep breath first, though. Because…fuck. Of all the guys at the bar, I’d picked the one who could label me incompetent: a senior surgery fellow, six years ahead of me, on the brink of finishing his training. Who might stick around as an attending after—if he ran part of the residency introduction, he’d clearly made a name for himself.
Awesome. Just truly fucking awesome. Thanks, karma—message received. No more lying, ever. Promise.
I pulled the note from my pocket and stared at it like it might sprout claws and teeth. What would it say? What did I want it to say? “Stay the hell away from me.I want my money back. Hey, wanna do it again?”
Except, no. Not the last one. I’d listened to yesterday’s lecture on dating policies, and just—yeah, no. Thanks. Also, I was stalling.
Another breath, then I finally unfolded the note.
Rooftop. Service stairs, Bldg. 5 North, ignore the no access sign. 5:30. We talk.
No signature, no please, no smiley face. I refolded the note, slid it back into my pocket, and exhaled harshly through my nose. Countdown: running. I had until five thirty to figure out how to stitch up a messy lie.
No pressure.
FOUR
JESSE
Okay, no. Because what the actual fuck?
Except…yes. Finn. Sinful-mouth, legs-for-days, ass-that-wouldn’t-quitFinn—here. In the skills center, wearing Devon-issue scrubs and a resident badge, meeting my gaze with something halfway between defiance and guilt. I held my breath through the roller-coaster stomach drop, exhaled, and snapped back to something like composure. It fit like a coat shrunken in the wash.
Holy fucking shit. How?
Look away, keep moving. You’ve got a job to do.
Right. I waved the first suturing group through, checking off names that didn’t include his, handing out kits. Faking normal while my mind was spinning through thoughts that toppled like dominoes.
Finn, still asleep when I’d left. Escort price tags ran higher than a hundred bucks and a scribbledthanks, I owe you, didn’t they? Yet he’d never texted for the balance. A flicker of heat in my belly—Finn on his knees, hands behind his back.Stop. The simple suitcase in his hotel room, the lube and condom tucked into his toiletry bag rather than readily on hand. The hotel itself, on the run-down side of the spectrum, certainly not a place thatscreamed high-class hooker with an assistant—although that might have been a joke.
No, let’s face it: The whole thing had been a joke to him. Probably, very likely. Unless it was his way of saving up before med school repayments hit? And was Finn even his actual name? Too far to read his badge.
Fuck. Either way, what it came down to? I’d paid a first-year resident for sex. Unknowingly, sure. But now—now I knew. So where did that leave us?
